Emilia

1582

is 13

The first thing saw were the feet. Boots peeped out from the heavy brocade curtains in the library, where she had ostensibly come to practice her recorder part before the masque. She tucked her instrument under her arm, tiptoed to the lead-paned window, and tried to yank back the fabric—but instead wound up tangling herself in the long silk butterfly wings that trailed behind her as part of her costume, and dropped the recorder.

On one of the feet.

"Ow," a voice said.

tugged back the curtain to find a boy sitting with his back to the wall. He was younger than she was, with a shock of auburn hair. He was holding her recorder and he had tears in his bright blue eyes. "If that hurt," she said, "then you are weak indeed."

"I'm not weak," the boy said. "I'm hiding."

She settled down beside him in a balloon of painted silk. "Have you room for company?"

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Who are you hiding from?"

"Not who… what, " said. "I do not like playing for an audience." Unlike the rest of her family, she was not a performer. But Queen Elizabeth had commissioned this masque about famous warrior queens, and she was to play at the finale, when they all danced. Why she was dressed as a butterfly was baffling.

"You don't wish to be a butterfly," the boy said. "I don't wish to be an earl."

folded her legs beneath her skirts. "Perhaps we could trade roles."

He looked up, hopeful.

She had heard the gossip at court; this must be young Henry Wriothesley, the newly minted Earl of Southampton. He was only eight years old, so he had been given into the care of Lord Burghley, who would manage his upbringing and arrange his marriage.

Like 's, the track of his life was being decided for him. The difference was that at some point, he would be able to take hold of the reins.

But right now, he was just a sad child.

"If I'm to be the earl and you're to be the butterfly, you must learn to play the recorder," said. "Take a deep breath and blow it out like so." She demonstrated, a long, steady stream of air.

The boy followed suit, and then she raised the recorder. "Now close your lips around the mouthpiece and do the same."

A long, high note curled into the space between them. The Earl broke into a smile. "Brilliant!" he said.

positioned his thumb and finger, and he blew again. "That note is a B," she told him. "And that's G."

His expression brightened. "Do they spell a secret message?"

She took the recorder and held it to her mouth, pushing her tongue against the mouthpiece to shape the notes as she blew, while her fingers danced over the wood. The music was impish, a cascade of notes that made her think of raindrops chasing one another down a pane of glass. had been playing since she was three, so it was effortless. Now, as her hands held the recorder, she thought of her lessons with Isabella. She imagined a staff of a different kind, her fingers playing a man's cock like an instrument, her breath hot around him. Although it had all been mere practice so far, one day soon it would be real, and that was enough to make her drop the recorder as if it had burned her.

The young earl, however, didn't see her existential crisis…he saw only her musical skill. " Zounds, " he swore, awed. "You're a bloody nightingale."

smiled faintly. "Butterfly, more like."

There was a rush of activity as the door to the library opened and one of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting entered. Lady Leighton gave a long-suffering glance and stopped directly in front of her. " Bassano. Where have you been ?"

scrambled to her feet. "Right here," she said.

Southampton stood, her unlikely savior. "Apologies, my lady. She was giving me a music lesson, you see."

Lady Leighton frowned, suspicious, but even she could not ignore an earl, no matter his age. She dropped a curtsy to the boy and then slipped her arm through 's, tugging her forward.

"Practice makes perfect, my lord," said, her lips twitching.

Southampton's unholy eyes lit up, and he winked. When he was grown, he would be beautiful…and dangerous. "Perhaps one day I shall return the favor and teach you something."

"I look forward to it," said, and she let herself be dragged from the library.

She did not really blame Lady Leighton for panicking at her absence. She was a lady of the privy chamber for the Queen, as her older sister Lettice had been. But Lettice had secretly married Her Majesty's favorite object of flirtation, the Earl of Leicester, and Lady Leighton likely assumed she was one misstep away from being banished from court, too.

More important, though—Lady Leighton's uncle was Lord Hunsdon, the man to whom had been bartered.

She had tried to learn as much as she could about the man who would become her protector. Henry Carey—Lord Hunsdon—was the Queen's cousin, the son of Mary Boleyn and William Carey, although that had been the subject of much speculation, since at the time his mother had also been the mistress of King Henry VIII. He had been knighted by the Queen and served as Lord Chamberlain, in charge of all entertainment—from the plays that were performed in town at the Theatre and the Curtain and the Rose, to the masque that would be presented that night, to retaining her relatives as court musicians. He was forty-three years older than .

He was also estranged from his wife, who lived in the country.

Which was where entered the story.

"Your uncle?" asked. "Will he be here tonight?"

"Of course," Lady Leighton said. "It is his duty."

had tried to learn from the Baron when she was to be conveyed to Lord Hunsdon's residence, Somerset House, but he had been in the country for the birth of his child and had only just returned for tonight's festivities. The Queen had requested 's participation because the masque was about virtuous warrior women, and it wouldn't do to have a man playing the musical accompaniment.

It seemed to that Her Majesty spent a good deal of time trying to convince everyone that a woman could be as skilled at running a country as a man. Once, the Countess had shown her a poem written by the Queen when she was under house arrest during the reign of her half sister, Mary. It had been scratched into the window with a diamond:

Much suspected by me,

Nothing proved can be.

Quoth Elizabeth prisoner.

wondered if the best revenge against those trying to erase you was, simply, existing. No matter what, Queen Elizabeth was still the monarch, and performances like this one were meant to remind everyone of that fact.

Two guards opened a doorway, admitting them into an antechamber where other ladies-in-waiting were lining up. The anticipation of the performance was like a charge in the air that lets you know lightning was coming.

An abundance of candles cast shadows over the painted faces of the women, including Queen Elizabeth, who would, of course, play herself.

"Ah," the Queen said, her lips curving faintly as she regarded . "Our little butterfly, emerging from her cocoon."

The Queen sat on a heavy carved chair. She was dressed in golden armor, with jewels studding the fine metalwork. Her face was as pale as snow, as different from 's complexion as possible. Her hair wound around a helm with a spiked crown welded to its top. She looked like an avenging angel—fierce, imposing, unassailable. immediately sank into her deepest curtsy, eyes lowered. "I am a butterfly, Your Majesty, yet I shall never be a Monarch," she quipped.

Her pun delighted the Queen, who replied, "No, just a well-made maid who shall soon be made." The two ladies attending her laughed behind their hands.

's face burned. It seemed even the Queen knew of her imminent change in position.

The Queen stood, and the room fell silent. "Come," she said. "We wait no longer."

did not know which playwright had written the masque, but it began in an unorthodox way—a troupe of male actors dressed as witches snaked through the crowd, bumping up against lords and making ladies shriek. One actor dropped a flash pot and red smoke rose in the center of the great hall. The witches curved their hands to the ceiling, calling forth a firedrake with wings as wide as the horizon, come to incinerate the impious for their sins. " Awake, thou spirits foul, come manifest…No man shall have the power to you repress… "

At that, a flare of trumpets sounded, and the costumed ladies-in-waiting glided one by one into the room. Here was Boudicca, leading the uprising against the Romans. Judith, carrying the severed head of Holofernes. Zenobia, conquering the Egyptians. The women warriors turned in unison to the firedrake, whose fiery breath plumed from some theatrical device that had been rigged above the great hall.

That was 's cue. She entered, playing her recorder, preceding the Queen—whose arrival was greeted with a thunderous cheer. Her Majesty brandished a sword to slay the monster and save the country.

No man shall have the power to you repress … but a woman would.

began to play a pavane, and her notes fell like snowflakes, spiraling, thickening, blanketing the room. The ladies-in-waiting and the Queen performed a stately dance, vanquishing the firedrake at last.

At the end of the performance, 's composition morphed into a fast galliard. The other musicians—her cousins—joined in, and the crowd swelled toward the performers, becoming part of the act. They began to dance la volta, the Queen standing to the side and accepting the praise of her courtiers.

lowered the recorder. The court musicians would continue late into the night, but her own role in the entertainment was officially at an end. When she lifted her gaze, someone familiar was staring at her: the older gentleman who had saved her from Lord Archley last time she had been at court. She remembered him standing beside the Baron, across the room, watching her.

And suddenly she knew.

As he approached, 's heart pounded so hard she was certain everyone could hear it. She tried to imagine the risqué illustrations that Isabella had shown her, but superimposed with his face. She wondered what his body looked like beneath that doublet, and if his legs were pale and skinny under his hose.

"," a voice said sharply, and she blinked to find the Baron standing beside her. He grabbed her elbow to keep her upright, not looking directly at her but instead gesturing in the general direction of the Lord Chamberlain. "Lord Hunsdon," he said, "might I present Bassano."

Hunsdon took her hand and brought her knuckles to his lips. "My dear," he said. "Would you honor me with a dance?"

He took the recorder from her hands, passing it to a footman. She stood frozen until the Baron put his hand between her shoulder blades and shoved her toward this stranger with whom she would share a bed. He is old, she thought.

She stumbled forward, and Hunsdon caught her. "The flagstones can be slippery," he said.

He is kind.

He led her to the throng of dancers, and they joined in la volta. These steps, too, had been part of Isabella's lessons. 's work as a courtesan would occur not just in the bedroom but over the breakfast table or at court or wherever her keeper chose to bring her. Her conversation would ring like crystal. She would be fluent in every social grace and would know the steps to every new dance. She was polish, meant to make him shine.

"Do you enjoy performing?" Hunsdon asked her.

What a question. The answer was no, and yet wasn't her life, now, to be a performance? "I prefer to be the one dreaming up the stories," said.

"And what else do you enjoy?"

She did not meet his eye. Contracts had been signed; arrangements had been made. This was not a wooing; it was a fait accompli. "What does that matter?"

"It matters," he said. "And it is not so difficult a question. Let me go first: I find pleasure in gardening. And music."

And you will find pleasure in me.

"What of your desires?" he tried again.

"I desire we be better strangers," she blurted out, and immediately clapped her hand over her mouth.

But instead of getting angry, Hunsdon grinned. He plucked at the silk wing of her costume. "Perhaps you are no butterfly, but a wasp."

Despite herself, felt a smile tug at her lips. "Best beware my sting."

"My remedy would be to pluck it out."

She thought of Isabella, who had trained her in the art of bedroom talk.

lowered her lashes, slipping seamlessly into her role. "If love be rough with you, be rough with love. Prick love for pricking."

"You"—Hunsdon laughed—"are a delightful surprise."

"You do not know me."

"But I shall." He squeezed her hand, pulling her away from the other dancers. As crowded as the room was, felt the space contract around the two of them. Isabella called this freedom, yet to , it felt like being locked away.

She felt his finger under her chin, urging her to meet his gaze. "Speak your mind, ."

It surprised her, for it was her body he wanted, presumably. "Why me?" she asked.

His eyes softened. "I am not unaware that you must be apprehensive. I know that even as I count the days we are apart, you cherish them." He reached for a curl that rested over her shoulder, wrapping it around his finger. "Yet I would that one day you come to enjoy my presence, instead of resenting it."

swallowed. He had given her truth; he deserved the same. "The course of true love ne'er did run smooth," she admitted.

Lord Hunsdon smiled. "Why you?" he said, finally answering her earlier question. "Because you shall keep me young."

—

The two ghostly globes of the man's arse pistoned up and down, making the bed knock against the wall. His hands were full of the breasts of the whore servicing him, her legs wrapped around his back. She hadn't even taken off her shoes.

pressed her face to the peephole in the wall. Isabella was crammed into the little antechamber, too. She wasn't watching, but then, she'd seen it all before.

She'd done it.

understood the logistics—what went where—and at this point even could have suggested some tricks to the woman on her back in the adjoining room, should she have wanted her partner to last longer. But from what could see, the prostitute only wanted this to be over as quickly as possible.

Isabella had arranged for this… tutorial with the madam of a brothel who was an acquaintance. It was the closest could get to sex without being spoiled goods for Lord Hunsdon. Innocence was a commodity, Isabella had explained. could relinquish it only once. "Isn't it wrong," whispered to Isabella, "that we're watching him, when he wasn't told?"

"Darling, there are men who'd pay extra for this."

blinked. Just when she thought she was learning, she realized she knew absolutely nothing.

With an arpeggio of exultation, the man finished, climbing off the woman and pulling up his slops. He yanked down the tails of his leather jerkin and withdrew a small pouch, tossing a coin onto the straw ticking beside the woman. "Ta, luv," she said, and she yawned.

Isabella slid home the slat that would close the peephole. She crawled out of their cramped quarters, and followed. "Well?" Isabella said, as another light-skirt passed, pulling a man up the stairs.

"It's…messy. And undignified."

"It's about keeping your head," Isabella said. "You retain yours, and the lord loses his."

frowned. "Well, they looked like a beast with two backs," she said after a moment.

Isabella considered this and shrugged. "You're not wrong."

On the way out of the brothel, Isabella thanked the madam and then led into the brightness of a rare bluebird day in London. That was another surprise—the fact that coupling happened at all times of the day and night, not just before sleep. As she walked beside Isabella, she saw a bricklayer turn his head, and then a drayman. Two well-dressed women in this part of town were an anomaly, but that wasn't why the men were staring. It was Isabella's lush figure and low-cut dress, 's striking eyes and dark hair. To these men, they were sweets on a shelf just out of reach.

These days as passed strangers in the street, she found herself wondering if they had sex, and how often, and with whom. She felt as if she had been given a password to a secret society but had not yet used it. She stared at the bricklayer, who was sweaty and broad and not much older than herself. He pulled off his cap and held it to his chest.

Cheeks heating, hurried to catch up to Isabella, who held a kerchief to her mouth. "This dust," she muttered. "I don't know what's worse, this or the mud."

"Where are we going?"

"To the herbwoman," Isabella said. "So you can bring down the flowers."

's brow furrowed. "What flowers?"

Isabella paused in front of a small shopfront. Inside, could see broad beams strung with clusters of chamomile, Saint-John's-wort, and lavender. Ropes of garlic were braided and draped on the walls. At a scarred wooden table, a woman in a stained apron was grinding diligently with a brass mortar and pestle.

"You do recall," Isabella said, "how babes are created."

rolled her eyes.

"There is duty, and then there is pleasure. Creating an heir is a duty. Intimacy without issue is pleasure."

Isabella entered the shop, a bell jangling overhead. The woman smiled, toothless. "Dearie," she said, setting down her pestle. "I wondered when ye'd come. You're late, this month."

"Only in my visit," Isabella replied, dimpling. "Yet not where it would count." She lifted her kirtle to reveal her red petticoat, worn during the week she bled, to hide any stains.

The herbwoman wiped her hands on her apron. "I've saved ye what ye need," she said and bustled to the rear of the shop, behind a curtain.

wandered, her fingers brushing the brittle leaves of drying herbs and flowers. "Rosemary, pansies, fennel…columbine," she murmured, and she turned to Isabella. "You are a regular customer here…. Do people not accuse you of being a witch?"

Isabella laughed. "Are not all women? The mistake lies with the men who think we cast spells with eye of newt and skin of toad, when all we need is our bodies and our wit."

The herbwoman reappeared, holding two small bunches tied with string and crowned with delicate yellow flowers. "Herb o' grace," she said. "For divine intervention."

Isabella took them from her, trading a coin. She handed one bunch to . "There's rue for you, and some for me."

"It's pretty," said.

Isabella playfully tugged one stalk from the batch and tucked it behind 's ear. "You may wear yours with a difference," she said. "But I'll mix mine with myrtle and laurel and wine."

As they left the shop, Isabella threaded her arm through 's. They skirted a fishmonger arguing with a servant over the price of carp, and sidestepped the debris tossed down from a roof by a tiler. "I fail to see why it is the work of the woman to provide the pleasure and prevent the consequence," said. "What do we get out of it?"

Isabella stopped in the middle of the road, letting foot traffic eddy around them. "Security," she said, her face suddenly serious. "Companionship. Protection." She leaned closer, her words low and harsh. "And you may voice such thoughts to me, but mind you silence them starting tomorrow. This is not a banquet where you get to choose your courses. You get what you've been served, or you go hungry. Best relish your good fortune, lest you find yourself on your back like the whore we just watched."

A shiver ran down 's spine. "Tomorrow?" she whispered, the only word she'd heard.

Isabella's gaze softened. With a gloved hand, she cupped 's cheek. "Tomorrow," she confirmed.

—

's first impression of her new home was that it was a bloody castle. No doubt she would get lost in its halls, and someone would find her desiccated skeleton years later in a privy closet or a wine cellar. Somerset House sported a two-story stone fa?ade on the Strand, and a walled courtyard behind backed up to the river. It looked like a palace because it had been one: the home of Queen Elizabeth, until she gifted it to Lord Hunsdon a few years earlier.

The coach that had come to collect her was the fanciest transport she had ever been in, so well sprung that she barely felt the jarring of the cobblestones beneath the wooden wheels. Painted on the door was Hunsdon's coat of arms—a silver shield with a black bar, three roses slicing through it.

When the conveyance stopped, she smoothed her skirts with her gloved hands and waited for the door to be opened and a servant to hand her down. She lifted her chin, thinking of Isabella, who had hugged her tight before she left and whispered: Carry yourself as if you own the place.

She was dressed in her finest court clothing, but her hair had not been pulled back as she had worn it at Whitehall. It fell loose down her back like the river Styx, curling to her bottom. Long flowing hair was the sign of an untried maiden.

And, mused, madwomen.

At the massive door of the house, she glanced up. Again the coat of arms was displayed, but the Hunsdon crest was here, too—a swan—as well as his motto: Comme je trouve.

As I find it.

considered that. Hunsdon had found her, and now he would take her.

The heavy door swung open, revealing a servant in livery. He did not make eye contact with as she entered a cavernous room with a stone staircase and more servants, some cleaning, some setting out vases of flowers, some replacing candles in sconces. It reminded her of the beehives at Grimsthorpe, all the inhabitants far too industrious to bother with the likes of her.

She had been schooled in the best way to remove her clothing to entice a man; she could recite erotic poetry in Italian; she could compose a soothing melody on a lute to wash away the residue of a trying day. But she did not know what to do next.

watched the afternoon light slide through the arched windows. Perhaps if she stayed still enough, she could be mistaken for a statue.

"Ah! Mistress!" A woman as round as she was tall hurried toward . She wore a heavy ring of keys at her waist, marking her as the head housemaid. "You must wish to freshen up after your journey," she said, although the distance from Isabella's home to Somerset House was negligible. Maybe this was the way of telling she should stay in her room until told otherwise.

The head housemaid began to waddle up the wide staircase, looking over her shoulder to ensure that was following. "You're a wee thing, ain't ye," she murmured. barely heard her. She was too busy looking at the paintings that lined the walls—men and women who all had Hunsdon's long, narrow face and high forehead. Their eyes seemed to follow her.

"His Lordship had this chamber readied," the housemaid said, unlocking a door. "The footmen will bring up your trunks, and Bess—she'll be your lady's maid. I can send her up if you please."

's eyes moved from the vaulted ceiling to the pale raw silk wallpaper to the bed—a massive canopied square with a velvet counterpane the color of fresh cream. There was a silver-handled brush on a dressing table and bottles of perfume and a filigreed hand mirror. There was so much air and light in the room that felt as if she were flying.

If this was a cage, it was a beautiful one.

She realized that the housemaid was waiting for her response, so she smiled and shook her head. "Thank you, but I'd like a moment to myself."

Bobbing, the woman started from the room.

"Wait—what are you called?"

The woman's jaw dropped, revealing a wide gap between her two front teeth. "Mary, mistress."

"Mary, I'm ," she said. She might be the one sleeping in this stunning room, but like Mary, she was here to serve Hunsdon. The distinction between them was a fine one.

As soon as the door closed behind Mary, stripped off her gloves and looked out the window. Her view was of a prayer labyrinth and other gardens, which were being clipped and shaped into submission by servants. Beyond them was the Thames, dark and sluggish. She turned, eyes gleaming, and ran toward the bed, taking a flying leap to land sprawled on the mattress. It was stuffed with something soft and sweet smelling, and she flipped from her belly to her back to stare up at the pleated silk canopy.

She was in a chamber literally fit for a queen. Suddenly, understood what Isabella had tried to explain: that what she got from this bargain was equal to what Hunsdon would get. She would be another pretty object in his home; he would give her a home without objection.

There was a soft knock, and a moment later the door opened. Hunsdon stood with his hand curved around the wood. "May I come in?" he asked.

She sat up, flustered, and slid from the mattress to her feet—a moment of grace marred by the fact that she'd kicked off her slippers and now stood in her stocking feet on the thick carpet. She curled her toes, leaning forward a little so her skirts belled over them. "My lord," she said, curtsying. "It's your home. I should think you may go anywhere."

He took three steps, which still put him a body's distance from . She bit her lip. Would it happen now ? Right now?

She knew what to expect, but that didn't mean she wasn't afraid.

"You are pleased with the chamber?" he asked.

"Very, my lord."

"If there is anything you need, you have but to ask for it."

nodded.

She could hear Isabella's voice ringing in her mind. These men do not want you to be passive, to make them do all the work. That's how it is with a wife.

Steeling herself, she raised her chin and looked directly at him. He was wearing a doublet of blue damask, with silver buttons and pickadils at the waist. A stiff linen ruff covered his neck and wrists. His trunk hose were gray, and he held leather gloves in one hand, as if he'd just come inside. On his left hand was a large ruby ring.

His hair was silver, but she could tell that it used to be red. His beard was gray and cropped close. His eyes, she decided, were the best part of him. They were the soft blue of your most comfortable dress—faded, but full of your best memories.

reached to the laces that crisscrossed her bodies. She took a deep breath and pulled, unraveling the knot.

Hunsdon stepped toward her so quickly that her breath snagged in her throat. He covered her hands with his own. Then with slow, careful movements, he retied the knot. The corner of his mouth lifted. "We have time, do we not?"

swallowed.

"I wonder," he said, the tips of his ears going red, "if you might like to see my orangery."

"Your…orangery?"

"Yes." He smiled. "For my plants."

"I would like that very much, my lord," said.

Hunsdon waited for her to toe on her slippers and then reached for her hand. She went still for a beat of her heart, and then, deliberately, laced her fingers with his. He looked down at the spot where her palm was pressed to his, and he squeezed gently.

He led her down the stairs and past the great hall to the rear of the house, into the gardens. There were cabbage roses and crowflowers, pansies and long purples, manicured hedges of hawthorn and juniper. A structure of wood and windows had been erected in such a way that sunlight—when it was available in rainy London—would strike it from every side. When Hunsdon opened the door and ushered her through, a blast of heat struck her face, like the breath of a dragon.

Inside were the orange trees and lemon trees with bright pops of ripe fruit dangling from leafy branches. The smell was fresh and sweet. tugged at her clothing, which clung against her skin in the damp heat, as Hunsdon picked up a watering pot and tipped it into the earthenware base of a lime tree. "I spend much time in here," he admitted. "I find myself most at peace when my hands are buried in the dirt."

"And I warrant that the plants don't require witty conversation," added. Being at court all the time had to be exhausting.

His lips twitched. "Indeed, many of the seedlings are very good listeners."

She walked through the neat aisle, past the workbench with its sack of potting soil and spades. Hunsdon came up behind her as she paused before a row of medicinal plants—rosemary, parsley, sage, mint. "I grow those for the maids, for healing," he explained.

nodded. "Comfrey," she said, touching her hands to leaf. "And foxglove…and henbane." She turned to him. "Are these not poisons?"

He smiled faintly. "Plotting my demise already, are you?"

She caught sight of what seemed to be a sun floating on a tall stalk and hurried down the aisle to take a closer look. "I've never seen the like!"

Hunsdon clasped his hands behind his back. "It comes from the New World."

"How fitting," said, as the thick, damp heat of the glasshouse beaded on her skin. "As I feel I have washed up on the shore of a tropical island." She stepped up to a lattice of wood with a vine woven through it. Small red globes beat from the vine, their skin shiny and warm to the touch. "And do you also grow hearts, my lord?"

"Needs must," he said. "As the very instant that I saw you did my own heart fly to your service." He cupped the weight of one sphere in his palm. "This is called a tomato. I brought it back from a journey to Italy. Quite pretty, but poisonous." As if a thought had just occurred to him, he walked back to the worktable and picked up a dagger, then used it to saw through the strangest flower had ever seen. Nestled at the center of a bed of spiked leaves was a yellowish shape, scaled like a basilisk, and topped with a small crown of spikes. The spines and the sharp points of the entire plant seemed to warn off anyone who might try to get close.

But Hunsdon sliced the oval off at its base, carrying it back to the table. He deftly cut the spikes and scales away, speaking as he worked. "This pineapple is far from inviting," he said, splitting the fruit in half. "But what does the outside signify, when it is the inside that matters?"

The flesh of the fruit was vivid and juicy. Hunsdon cut it into smaller pieces. "A good leg will fall. A straight back will stoop. A black beard will turn white. A curled pate will grow bald." He held out a small triangle of fruit toward . "But a good heart, my dear…well, a good heart is the sun and the moon."

Hunsdon placed the wedge on her tongue. It burst with sweetness—wine, sugar, and flowers mixed together—almost too much to bear.

—

That night, washed and braided her hair and dabbed perfume at all the spots Isabella had instructed her. She dismissed the maid and regarded the massive bed, plagued by questions: Should she be on top of the counterpane? Beneath it? Would he want her nude, or would he prefer to unwrap her like a gift? Should she leave a candle burning, or snuff it?

She decided to sit at the head of the bed in her night rail, and draped herself with the covers. She left the light to spill from the bedside table into her lap, where her tightly clutched hands left fingernail marks on her skin.

knew what to expect of the mechanics. Isabella had pinched her thigh, hard. "Like that," she had said, "and then no more pain." She only wondered if, after, she would feel different. Older.

She thought, too, of what might happen when Hunsdon appeared before her unclothed. This must be the performance of her life, Isabella had said. He must be made to feel like the most virile male the world had ever known. Flattery, Isabella told her, would get her everywhere.

She lay down, and then sat back up and pulled the ribbon binding her braid, loosening her hair.

He didn't knock this time before opening the door. He was dressed in a brocade robe, with a cap on his head and slippers on his feet. His calves were bare and the skin was translucent, stretched over blue-veined tributaries like a faded map. He was carrying a candle that exaggerated the hollows and shadows of his face, turning it gruesome.

tried to relax, she really did, but her hands clung tight to the counterpane. "My lord," she murmured.

Hunsdon looked around the room. "You are well? You have all you need?"

She nodded, one quick jerk of her chin. He approached the bed, set his candle down on the nightstand, and leaned toward her.

She closed her eyes, heart cartwheeling, and felt his hands on her face. Dry, cool, like leaves in autumn.

He kissed her forehead and drew back, picking up his candlestick. The flame swayed, dizzy.

bit her lip. "Do you not wish to…?"

Hunsdon smiled down at her. "It is but your first night here," he said, as if that mattered.

As if she mattered.

—

"What shall you do today?" Hunsdon asked on the morrow, when they were seated in his dining room eating the midday meal. The first course of marchpanes and dried suckets and baked apples had been cleared, and the serving maids brought out a grand salad, a shield of brawn with mustard, a roasted goose, and an olive pie. She had eaten well with the Countess and the Baron, but not like this. Every meal was a feast.

looked up at him over her trencher. She had not thought of her own agency in the household; of what she would do when she was not summoned to entertain Hunsdon. "I…don't know."

He frowned. "How did you pass the time at Grimsthorpe?"

"In lessons," said. "Reading. Dancing. Playing the recorder or the lute."

Making up stories, she thought, but surely that would be regarded as the pastime of a child.

"All those things, you may do here," Hunsdon said. "I would also ask that you choose fabrics for new clothing."

"I have gowns, my lord."

He smiled. "Indeed. And now you will have more."

wouldn't risk his displeasure by turning aside his gift, but she was uneasy. It felt…imbalanced. He hadn't touched her, hadn't taken her, hadn't even shown interest in it. Was it because he found her lacking? Was she doing something wrong, despite Isabella's lessons?

Still, a reprieve.

She watched him set aside his knife and take a sip of beer. Perhaps he genuinely wanted a companion. That, she did not mind. "And you, sir? How shall you spend your day?"

He looked surprised, as if he were not used to being accountable—or interesting—to anyone. "I shall peruse the plays that have been sent to me," Hunsdon said, "and decide which is to be performed for the Queen."

"It must be challenging to find entertainment for Her Majesty, when everyone is already acting a part at court." She stood, puffing out her chest. "?'Tis I, your sweet Robin, your favorite," murmured, pitching her voice low like the Earl of Leicester. "We shall ride to the ends of the earth together on our swift-footed mounts…." Then she smirked. "Until I secretly marry your cousin and you banish me."

For a moment, Hunsdon froze—and thought she may have gone too far. It was one thing to jest privately with Isabella about court politics, but the Lord Chamberlain was part of the fabric from which they were woven.

Then, a smile curved his lips. "Do another," he demanded. "Walsingham?"

She stretched her neck so that her chin was tipped to the ceiling, snooty, mimicking the Queen's principal secretary. "You know, Majesty, that the higher the ruff, the closer to God."

Hunsdon let out a bark of laughter and stood. "Remind me, ," he said, "to stay on your good side."

—

Each night, Hunsdon kissed her forehead, and nothing more. Each day, wandered through the palatial home with little to do. Sometimes he locked himself in his study, reading. Sometimes he was in his orangery. Sometimes he was at court.

Of all the things the life of a courtesan might be, she had never imagined it would be lonely.

After a month's time, had befriended the maids in the kitchen and the grooms who cared for the horses. She had asked so many questions of the gardeners that they had to beg her to let them finish their tasks, lest they be sacked.

One morning, she wandered to the mews to find the Baron's falconer taking one of his birds of prey out for a hunt. She had never watched a falcon seeking its quarry, because only certain ranks of nobles were allowed to keep them. "Milady," said the falconer, pulling off his hat when she approached.

John was older than she was, but younger than Hunsdon, with a shock of fuzzy yellow hair that resembled the head of a dandelion. A young bird was perched on his gloved fist, a silk hood covering its head, cropped with a little spray of feathers. "Isn't he beautiful," said.

"She, beggin' yer pardon, mistress." John blushed furiously. "Falcons be ladies."

She drew closer. "Why must she be kept in the dark?"

"It's what we do, till the game comes."

"So she will hunt today?"

"Aye, I hope," John said. "She been injured and healin'. Broke her wing."

"Poor thing," murmured, and the falcon tipped her head. "It's all better now?"

"Aye, I imped her. Mended it with a feather from another bird."

looked at him. "How?"

"You put an iron needle in the new quill, like, and stick the other end into the broken quill, and you bind it up an' hope for the best. Today we'll see how she took to it."

"May I watch her hunt?"

He grinned at . "Aye. Mayhap she'll want to show off." He shifted position so that could see silken jesses threaded through John's fingers and fastened to the leather straps wound around his wrist. On one of the falcon's legs was a tiny bell. "You have to loose a hawk agin' the wind, or she won't come back to you," John said, turning in to the breeze. "All right, my beauty," he crooned to the bird, as a small bevy of woodcocks passed overhead. He pulled off the hood.

One black, bright eye focused on a moment before the falcon was whistled off in the direction of the woodcocks. For a moment, time stopped as the bird raised her wings and bated them before taking to the sky.

One moment the falcon was there, the next, she was a silhouette against a cloud. She reached the pitch, the zenith of her path, and then dove at a blistering speed toward a woodcock, snatching the prey in her talons.

John jogged to the spot where the falcon had dipped, freeing the dead bird from her clutches. "Good girl," he praised, settling her on his gloved wrist and replacing the hood.

"Doesn't she get anything for her hard work?" asked.

"She be given the head of her quarry," John promised.

gingerly touched the falcon's wing. "Well done, you," she whispered, and then she looked up at the falconer. "What would have happened if the imping didn't work? If she couldn't hunt anymore?"

John frowned. "Well, no use keepin' a girl that can't serve her purpose, is there?" he asked.

That night, lay on her bed, staring up at the silk rosette, and saw instead a breathtakingly crafted hood.

Reaching for the writing box that Countess Bertie had given her, she slipped a piece of paper free and cut a fresh nib in her quill. She took out the small pot of oak gall ink. Then she touched the quill to the paper, words bleeding from her hand.

My falcon now is sharp and passing empty

And till she stoop she must not be full-gorged,

For then she never looks upon her lure.

Another way I have to man my haggard…

To make her come and know her keeper's call,

That is, to watch her, as we watch these kites

That bate and beat and will not be obedient.

Was it true? wondered. Was the falcon content simply to be allowed to hunt? Had she been in captivity for so long that she could no longer remember the feel of freedom?

"Such concentration," Hunsdon said, and 's head jerked up. Instinctively, she took the page, still damp, and slipped it behind her.

"I did not hear you enter, my lord," she said.

"You were lost in your words. Writing a letter, perhaps?"

"A poem."

He tilted his head. "I did not know you wrote."

She opened the lid to her writing box and set the quill and ink inside. "?'Tis but a silly distraction."

"Will you share your verse with me?"

Heat crept up her neck. "Not today," she said.

"Ah." Hunsdon nodded. "Then I have something to look forward to." He executed a tiny bow. "Good night, ."

He started for the door, and found herself pushing off the bed, halfway across the room. "Wait."

He turned, his hand on the doorknob.

"I am grateful for this room, my lord. And this house. And the dresses and the feasts and everything else you have provided for me."

Hunsdon tensed. "But…?"

"But I wonder if you might take me out somewhere? Anywhere. "

His eyes lit up. "I did not know how…public you wished to be," he replied. "What I mean to say is: It would be my pleasure."

thought of the falcon, devouring the head of its catch without knowing that, in another life, she might have had the entire meal. She closed the few feet between her and Hunsdon, popped up on her toes, and kissed his cheek.

He clapped a hand over the spot where her lips had been, rolling his eyes and staggering, a pretend swoon. felt a giggle bubble up inside her, and for a long while after he closed the door behind himself, she stared at the spot where he had been.

—

The Queen loved a tournament, and in spite of the fact that the knights jousted with lances that were blunted, the combat was still risky enough that physicians would need to stay on the tiltyard. sat in a grand pavilion on the grounds of Whitehall beside Hunsdon, her arm tucked into his.

She felt so buoyant, released from Somerset House, that she hardly marked the sidelong glances and whispers from nobles who, with a single glance, had correctly judged the relationship between her and Hunsdon. You would have had to be a fool not to—the Lord Chamberlain had dressed in his finest pearl-encrusted black velvet doublet, and 's outfit was a perfect match to his. She was quite literally meant to compliment—and complement—him.

It was a glorious Sunday afternoon, the second day of the competition. The yard was an explosion of color—each challenger had his own brightly colored tent, some embroidered with silver thread, all flying pennants from their peaks with heralds that matched the caparisons draped over their steeds. It looked, to , like the storerooms of the mercers, bolts of fabric unfurling across workbenches like rainbows.

The two challengers this weekend were the Earl of Arundel—calling himself Callophisus—and Sir William Drury, the Red Knight. Seventeen defendants—some of whom recognized and many whom she didn't—were also in the competition. Four earls—Leicester, Northumberland, Pembroke, and Worcester—were the judges. The knight who had the highest score after today's exercises would be awarded a golden chain that had been donated by the Earl of Oxford.

was already imagining the verses she would write when she was home.

Oxford stepped out of a tent of orange taffeta, the sun glinting off his polished armor. He walked to a bay tree that had been gilded from tip to root, so that every leaf and inch of the trunk glittered. Beneath this, he knelt, held his gauntleted hand over his heart, and bowed his head toward Queen Elizabeth.

Then he stood and mounted his horse, bringing it close enough to the pavilion for him to raise his lance and hold it out, begging a favor.

It was a holdover from medieval tournaments, where knights would ask a lady for a token—a veil, a ribbon, a scarf—and tie it to their armor, publicly showing their loyalty.

The Queen looked at him for a long moment—he was still not in her good regard—then directed one of her ladies-in-waiting to give Oxford a silk scarf. The earl's page knotted it around his wrist, over the armor.

"Have a care, Oxford," the Queen said. "You wear my heart on your sleeve."

Oxford directed the stallion so that it faced a dozen golden staves buried one after another in a long row the length of the tiltyard. Then he lifted his lance and kicked his horse into motion. He whipped down the tiltyard in a blur of hooves and dust and glinting light, smashing all twelve of the staves. A roar went up in the pavilion, and leaped to her feet, clapping.

Hunsdon smiled at her. As the earl dismounted and another challenger readied himself, Queen Elizabeth's voice rang out. "Lord Chamberlain? A word."

watched Hunsdon make his way to the Queen's side. Two noblewomen sidled closer to , crows eyeing a feast. Without Hunsdon to shield her, she was suddenly fair game, in a court that was always looking for its next amusement.

There was a reason, realized, why he was called her protector.

One of the ladies was tall and lithe, her skin painted the same fashionable white as the Queen's. She looked down her long nose, cataloging 's light brown skin and her small frame. "Who thought the Lord Chamberlain might stoop so low?"

"Low?" shot back. "How low am I, you painted maypole? I am not yet so low that my nails cannot reach your eyes…."

Her words fell into the sudden silence, and realized the Queen, Sir Walsingham, Lord Hunsdon, and everyone else in the pavilion had overheard her comment.

She suddenly wished that the knight prancing onto the field could run her through with his lance.

The noblewoman raised her thin brows. "Though she be but little, she is fierce."

The laughter that rang out made 's cheeks flame.

Sir Thomas Perrot, the Frozen Knight, trotted toward the pavilion to honor the Queen. But before he could stand in front of the sovereign, pulled a ribbon from her hair and leaned over the railing, waving the strip of white silk. "A favor for you, sir!"

The Queen rose, vibrating with anger. "Does she wish to make a fool of me, Hunsdon?"

The Lord Chamberlain's face went pale, and immediately realized her mistake. To distract a knight about to pay court to the Queen was worse than foolish. It was treasonous.

"She is new to our world, Majesty," Hunsdon said. "She does not mock you."

"Then she mocks you, " Queen Elizabeth snapped. "You must school her. Indulge her as a child and she shall act as one."

's fingers tightened in her skirts. It was as if everyone knew her secret: she was meant to be a courtesan, but she was still a maid Hunsdon had not ever touched. She was still every bit the child they thought she was.

By the time she had the courage to lift her gaze, the knight was halfway down the tiltyard. The Queen was seated.

And Hunsdon was gone.

—

woke with a start, sitting up in her bed as the lone candle in the room gutted out. She had dozed off waiting for Hunsdon to return to Somerset House. It had been hours, judging from the night sky. She pulled on her brocade wrapper, jammed her feet into slippers, and tiptoed down the hall to Hunsdon's bedchamber.

She had not been invited into it, yet.

She knocked, but there was no response, and when she turned the knob and peeked inside, she saw only the banked fire and an empty bed.

At the feast following the tournament, Hunsdon had been seated at one end of the long banquet table, leagues away from . She'd made polite conversation with a third son of an earl starting at Cambridge next term. On her other side had been a dowager who fell asleep after the soup course.

She had spoken only once to Hunsdon, briefly, at the close of the meal. He would be delayed going back to Somerset House, he'd said. She should return without him.

moved through dark rooms, confident of her way. She felt tears thickening her throat. She had mastered Somerset House just in time to be evicted.

The Lord Chamberlain's study door was ajar, and she could hear the scratch of his quill before she even peeked inside. Hunsdon's head was bent over his writing table, papers stacked and spread across every inch. The fireplace glowed like the maw of a devil; a candelabra dripped tallow onto some of the pages near his left hand.

"I could not sleep, either," he said, without looking up at her. His quill struck through several lines of text. "Do you know, sometimes I believe I work best in the dead of the night?"

She stepped into the room, closed the door behind her, and leaned against it.

"This," he continued, as if she had asked a question, "is a play commissioned by Lord Strange's Men. Before they can perform it, the playwright's foul copy is rewritten as a fair copy and sent to me for review." He scrawled a note in the margin. "My role is one of licensing and censorship. Mostly, I make cuts and suggestions. But there have been times I've had to lock a playwright up in the Tower for crafting something problematic."

took a step forward. "Problematic?"

"Plays that are treasonous. Overly religious. Anti-Christian. Incendiary." He shrugged. "The only text that I cannot censor is the discourse of a clown, as it is usually improvised in the moment by the actor." Hunsdon glanced up for the first time since had entered. "Speech without thought can be quite dangerous, can it not?"

felt her breath catch. "I am sorry for my actions today, my lord."

His expression softened. "I know." With a sigh, he drew a line through a bit of dialogue.

She moved closer, across the table from him, until her fingertips could rest on the same sheet of paper. "Why are you so kind to me?"

Hunsdon put down his quill. "What reason have I to be otherwise?"

He is a good man, thought. This was not a terrible place to land. She glanced down at the pages fanned across Hunsdon's writing table. Her life could be viewed as a tragedy, or it could be a comedy. It was truly a matter of perspective.

took another step forward, until she stood on the same side of the table as Hunsdon. She placed her hands on either side of his chair, and then drew her palms up, from the knobs of his elbows to the slope of his shoulders, until she could cup his face. This close, she could see the crepe of the skin near his eyes, the shine of silver in his beard. She leaned forward the way Isabella had taught her, and kissed him.

She felt Hunsdon pull air from her body into his. He did not reach for her, but his fingers flexed hard on the carved arms of his chair. She let her tongue move along the seam of his lips and she twisted until she sat in his lap.

She kissed by the book, imagining herself as an actor in a role, as a woman in love. Turn here, bite there, now suck. For a few long, lazy moments, she focused only on his mouth, her fingers sliding against his scalp, until he began to kiss her back with urgency.

stood, taking Hunsdon's hand. "Come to bed, my lord," she said softly, reaching for the candelabra to guide their way.

He followed her like a shadow to her chamber. led him to the edge of the bed and set the brace of candles on the nightstand. She untied her dressing gown, holding the panels over her breasts, pausing until her hands stopped shaking.

All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players, she told herself. knew that at the end of a play the actors shed the skin of their craft and became the truer versions of themselves. It was the same now. The real , her heart's , was buried under layers and layers of artifice, but she was not merely an actor in this production. Might she write her own story?

It was the most curious feeling, to be part of a scene but not in it. objectively knew she was peeling the robe from her body, that she was standing in front of the fireplace so that the light would outline her silhouette, but she felt as if it were all happening to someone else. As she undressed Hunsdon, she marked the way breath sawed in and out of him in meter, like verse. The curtain fell—her hair—draping them as she straddled his naked body. She touched her hand to his cheek and when she spoke her next line, there was such honesty in it that the boundary blurred between what was real and what was feigned. "There's something tells me—though it is not love," she whispered, "I would not lose you, my lord."

He turned them, so that now he was on top, his cock notched against her. "Call me Henry," he corrected, and he thrust.

Tears sprang to 's eyes. While he rocked—one, two, three times—she stared up at the silk rosette of the canopy. She felt his body stiffen and finish in her, then roll to his side.

It's done, she thought.

"You are well?" he murmured.

How to answer that? Not the well bit. She was all right, if a bit raw. It was the first part of the question: the you. She wasn't quite sure who she was anymore.

When she heard his soft snores moments later, she let the tears slip down her cheeks. She might have wiped them away, or gotten up to clean herself, but she did not wish to disturb Hunsdon.

So stayed perfectly still.

—

Hunsdon became accustomed to coming home from court to find in his study, engrossed in one of the fair copies of plays sent to him for review. She would give him a synopsis and tell him which works were lazy and which had verse that made her gasp. Sometimes, she told him the story would be better served if a scene were moved from Act IV to Act II, or that a certain character wasn't authentic. To 's surprise, Hunsdon seemed to care for her opinions, and he didn't mind her asking questions.

Theater, like everything else, was a business. Playwrights were commissioned by the company—Lord Strange's Men, Lord Pembroke's Men—to write something to accommodate their roster of actors. As the troupes changed, breaking up and re-forming, plays would be tweaked so that a new actor or set might be featured. Any playwright might be hired to make these changes, not just the original one. The scripts were written quickly and messily for public consumption. In this, she supposed, plays were like traveling coaches. It did not matter what they were made of, as long as they could get you from one point to another.

And yet.

There was a difference between the coach one might hire to get to an inn outside of London, and the one made for the Queen, carved and gilded and festooned with ostrich plumes.

Several months into her new life, the first play that had read in Hunsdon's study made its way to a stage. As Lord Chamberlain, Hunsdon attended all new performances in London. As the Lord Chamberlain's mistress, so would .

The Rose Theatre had been built in Bankside, which meant that patrons had to ferry across the river to attend a performance. But the two thousand people pouring into the courtyard of the theater suggested this was not a hindrance. The building was a wooden polygon made of lath and plaster, its roof thatched. At the entrance a woman held a wooden box, a portable office where the groundlings—those who planned to stand—paid their penny each for admission. There were balcony seats, too, and galleries with cushioned chairs, but Hunsdon would be taking to the private Lord's Box.

Black flags snapped in the wind, advertising the fact that today's play, Machiavel, was a tragedy. Hunsdon steered through the crush, past men urinating against the side of the theater, around a woman selling oysters and oranges, skirting a Puritan standing on an overturned crate and lambasting the sinfulness of theater.

When they were situated in their box, leaned over the railing to get a better view of the stage and the rigging, from which there might be a thrilling flying entrance, or hidden fireworks to simulate battle scenes. When had read the play in Hunsdon's study, a real cannon burst had been written into the stage directions. The play was about the lengths to which a ruler might go to guarantee the security of his empire—including murder and deceit. It had led to a discussion with Hunsdon about the worst lie each had ever told. He had confessed to telling Leicester years ago that the Queen no longer wished for his company, in the hope that if her paramour made himself scarce it would quash the rumors that the sovereign was having an affair. Instead, the Queen had pined for Leicester's company and they had reconciled and spent even more intimate moments together.

told Hunsdon about a time she was tiny and had broken one of her father's instruments, blaming it on her cousin, who received the punishment. It was not truly her worst lie, though. Although she told him she was happy when they lay in bed, she wished for something more.

"Have a care, my dear," he said now, grasping her waist and pulling her back from the rail. "You shall fall three stories, and then what will I do?"

She leaned over and bussed his cheek. "Put me back together, certainly."

Hunsdon stretched his arm around the back of her cushioned chair. He watched her, his own smile broadening with hers. He did that often, she had noticed—brought her somewhere that would delight her so that he could see it fresh through her eyes. "You have surely been to the theater before."

"Yes," replied. "But the view from up here makes it seem new." She had attended performances with the Countess, and with her relatives, who often provided the musical interludes for plays. In fact, she now spied one of her cousins tuning his lute in the area near the stage where the musicians sat.

Because this was a new play, it had cost twice as much to attend as a revived piece. "What will happen if the play is a success?" asked.

Hunsdon shrugged. "Lord Strange's Men will make it part of their repertoire."

She knew that there was no middle ground. If the audience reacted well, the play was a hit. If they started throwing food at the actors or booing the performance, it would never be staged again.

At the strident shout of a woman selling tobacco, glanced down. There were women hawking concessions, jostling their way through the crowd. There were painted ladies who likely worked at places like the brothel she'd visited, on the arms of men as their escorts. Nearly half the people crammed into the Rose were female.

"My lord," she asked, "we met first at a masque, did we not?"

"A fond memory," Hunsdon said, stroking her arm.

"Why is it that a woman might perform for the Queen—nay, with the Queen—but not onstage at the Rose?"

"Because we do not need to give the Puritans more fuel for their fire," Hunsdon explained. "Court is…well, a safe enclosure, away from prying eyes." thought of the man on the overturned crate in the yard, spittle flying from his mouth as he cursed those who chose entertainment over morality. "The Puritans believe every member of the audience here might be better served working or praying to God." He glanced at the groundlings, where a fight had broken out between two very drunk men. "In their eyes, theater already attracts heathens and deplorables. A woman playing a role would be even more indecent."

Well, thought. In a way, she was a woman playing a role, too.

She saw a young boy, likely covering one of the female parts, in the wings of the stage. He thrust a cushion under his skirts, creating a pregnant belly. How charmed a life: to play at being a woman yet take off the costume at the end of the day and go about the world with the privileges of a man.

"My lord," said. "If it is indecent for a woman to perform in public, might she contribute in private?"

"Some ladies own shares in the companies," he admitted. "And seamstresses create the costumes and headdresses that are used—"

"Yes, but do women ever write the plays?"

He blinked at her, and then laughed. ", you never fail to entertain."

—

That night, when Hunsdon came to her, was dressed in a robe she had purchased on his credit from a seamstress who, indeed, worked for a theater. It was diaphanous and had ostrich feathers sewn onto its collar and cuffs. She wore nothing beneath it, and she saw his eyes heat at the shadow between her legs and the dark marks of her nipples. "Your crest features a swan, does it not?" she said, shrugging the gown off her shoulders. "Perhaps I can be Leda, and you can be Zeus."

"Did Leda not snub the swan?"

smiled. "Then I will play the swan, and…die in music." She raised a brow, suggestive.

"A petite mort, I hope," Hunsdon said, using the Continental term for an orgasm. Which he would certainly have, and she would certainly not, and he would certainly believe otherwise. From his robe pocket he slipped a necklace of rubies set in gold. It easily cost more than her childhood home. "Perhaps if my swan were willing to wear a collar, I could keep her by my side."

"Henry," breathed. "It's beautiful."

"As are you," he said.

She held the necklace in her hands, the metal warming to her touch. Reaching up, she fastened it around her neck. Then she stepped out of her robe, completely nude, and walked toward Hunsdon. Sometimes, the lack of costume could be a costume.

She touched the necklace, reciting the final lines of a sonnet by Sir Thomas Wyatt, one widely believed to be about his doomed love for the Queen's mother, Anne Boleyn. " And graven with diamonds in letters plain, " said, her voice husky, " there is written, her fair neck round about: ‘ Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am, and wild for to hold, though I seem tame. '?"

drew her fingers from the juncture of her thighs, between her breasts, to the lowest hanging ruby in the necklace. "Does it fit, my lord?" she asked.

—

She could not sleep that night, and so found her way to Hunsdon's study, with its ever-growing pile of fair copies of new plays that needed his review. She had dressed in a thick flannel night rail with her heaviest robe, feeling the need to hide herself after being so exposed. She still wore the necklace. It burned like a brand against her collarbones.

Perhaps some reading would make her drowsy enough to forget who she had become.

It was not the sex that made her uncomfortable. understood now that her body was an instrument. It was her soul that was the melody, and that was hers alone.

She was a talented musician; it ran in her blood. But playing notes in the right order was not the same as being the one who composed them. It wasn't until this afternoon, in the Lord's Box at the Rose Theatre, that she had truly understood the magic of invention, of putting something new into the world that would take root in the ear of the listener. What incredible power it was to create something from nothing.

Today, at some point, she had stopped watching the play and instead watched the audience. She saw the gasps of surprise when an actor revealed himself to be a villain, and laughter when the clown strutted onto the stage to break the tension. She heard shouts of warning when the crowd was so invested in the players that they didn't want harm to befall them. She listened to the muffled weeping when, in the last act, the most virtuous character died.

A playwright had taken a fresh, blank sheet of paper and from it, had made three thousand strangers feel.

She glanced down at Hunsdon's writing table. There were four new works. A Story of Pompey. The Fair Maid of Italy. Abraham and Lot.

The last was called The Reign of a Great King. She picked it up, scanning the first few pages. The writing was stilted, the characters boring, the plot dull. skipped ahead to see if it got any better, but this felt more tragedy than history, due to the dismal quality of the writing.

yawned loudly. It would be a terrible play, but it was serving as an excellent tranquilizer.

Even as her eyelids drooped, she was thinking of how much better this story could be if the entire second act were cut; if the character of Edward III was married to Queen Philippa but longed for the Countess of Salisbury, whose castle he must storm.

Now, that was a story.

She'd asked Hunsdon if women ever wrote the plays, and apparently they couldn't. But that didn't mean they shouldn't.

picked up the sheaf of papers and shuffled this play to the very bottom of Hunsdon's pile, thinking to protect him from having to read it first thing in the morning. Her glance caught on the lines scrawled across the top of the page—the title of the play, and its author.

I could do a better job than this man, she thought. But by the time she reached her chamber, she had already forgotten William Shakespeare's name.