Charles Brandon—a staunch supporter of Queen Katherine—could be trusted, but he has spent more time at his residences than with the king because he despises Lady Anne. Any way you look at it, once the letter is out of my hands, I lose control. There’d be no telling when—or even if— the letter might make its way to the king. Better to bide my time and figure out a way to plant the letter myself.
Waiting to deliver this damn letter is hard enough, but the prospect of sitting through one more sewing circle with these simpletons the pretender queen calls her royal ladies-in-waiting is maddening. If I’m forced to take part in that charade much longer, the only escape from the agony will be wrapping my fingers around each of their puny necks, squeezing until their eyes bulge, and the last of their pathetic, worthless breaths escapes their lips and—
Jesus. Where did that come from?
In the back of my mind, there’s an uncomfortable twinge; a moment’s tortuous hesitation as I let the warning bell in my brain stall the race toward the line I plan to cross. My patience, though thin as a silkworm’s cache, must coalesce into stone-cold resolve to get this job done.
The war between my better and darker angels is in full swing:
You’ll be on the run forever if you do this. What about Nico? And Fagin?
They killed your parents and sold you into servitude. Just plant the damn letter and be done with it. You’ll be doing history a favor.
I run a finger back and forth around the outline of the folded page that’s been tucked into my pocket for weeks. There’s a sharp twinge on my index finger; I’ve run against the paper’s edge at the perfect angle for a paper cut. When I withdraw my hand from my pocket, there’s a tiny pearl of blood on my fingertip. I suck it clean and let the pain—insignificant compared with the pain in my gut—feed the revenge-rage like a wellspring.
Setting the scenario where Henry thinks she’s in love with Wyatt should result in banishment to a nunnery. Even sending her home to Hever Castle, never to lay eyes on her again, would be enough to keep her from conceiving the queen who destroys my world.
I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t at war with the world. This act could soothe the Valkyrie riding me. If I’m lucky, peace will follow.
What if it doesn’t? What if it costs you everything?
I can do this. I could save Papa and Maman and bring them into the future with Fagin, Nico, and me. The thought of my family restored and safe, as though their deaths never occurred, pulls a lump of emotion into my throat.
No time for sentimentality. I shake my head to clear the fog; there will be time for tears later, when I have them all together.
Resigned to the fate of yet another exhausting needlework circle, the ladies-in-waiting entourage—strutting through the corridors like peacocks—follow Lady Anne to her apartments. Fagin’s skirts swish with the rhythm of her walk as she follows me. The rest of the ladies are close behind us.
Anne and her sister, Mary, lead the pack, chattering away like a couple of hens in a barnyard. They enter the staircase first. Coming down the staircase, carrying a tray of wine goblets, is Becca Trevor—again, dressed as a servant boy. Our eyes meet and she give me a smarmy smile.
Lady Anne pauses on the stair, one foot on the next tread, and tosses a bright smile over her shoulder at me as she massages her flat belly.
What an odd thing for her to do.
“I have such a furious hankering for apples,” she says, laughing. “The king says—”
Like a lightning strike from a cloudless sky, a masked figure in a black cloak tears down the stairs. It moves so fast it’s hard to imagine its feet are touching the ground at all. Lady Anne doesn’t have time to look up.
Even for those of us who manipulate its fabric, time is a quirky, unsettled thing. It has a funny way of speeding up or slowing down when traumatic events snatch the rug out from under you. I’m not sure how much time passed. What felt like forever was probably only seconds.
The assailant tucks chin to chest as he drives a black-cloaked shoulder into Mary Boleyn’s right side with enough force to make her teeter on the stair’s edge before she spills backward, arms wind milling in a useless attempt to keep herself upright.
Mary crashes into Madge and there’s a sickening crunch of bones as momentum and gravity tumble them down the stairs like a pair or dominoes. I push Grace Parker and Anne Saville, both rigid with shock, out of my way, trying to get to Fagin. Screams erupt as people realize what’s was happening.
Fagin pushes Jane Seymour to the bannister and lunges forward, grabbing fistfuls of Anne’s kirtle to keep her from taking a disastrous backwards nosedive over sprawled bodies. Lady Jane Rochford backpedals away from the scene. When she realizes I’m standing between her and safety, she shoves me with both hands.
I fall into the path of the would-be assassin, who vaults over me, and the last two stairs.
Scrambling to my feet, I look up at Fagin.
“I have her!” She cradles a whimpering Anne in her arms. “Go!”
Hiking my skirt to my knees, I bolt through the gallery after the retreating figure, who slams through several older women, knocking them to the ground. The attacker doesn’t slow, but keeps on at full sprint, even in heavy black boots.
The figure deftly maneuvers around the next corner without sliding and bursts through the terrace doors leading to the gardens.
The slick checkerboard stone floors of the palace are the polar opposite of the cinder racetrack that Nico and I use for our training: no traction at all. I’d give anything to be wearing track shoes instead of these lame satin slippers that send me skidding past the corner
