“You are tired, brother,” she says.
“I …” He swallows. Then he extricates himself from her grasp, leans forward and rests his head in his hands. Cecilia draws back, her hands hovering near him. Her brother has never done this before. She has never seen him unsure. Weak. She is reminded, briefly, of Florin crawling along the floor, worm-like, and she has to stop her lip from curling.
“When Father told me …” he begins again. Cecilia stills. She knows what he is thinking of – the night, a little while after Arthur died, when Henry came to her sobbing and apologising, though he would not tell her for what he was sorry.
“We are in the right,” he says. “Father explained it all. If we were not in the right, our god would not have triumphed overher.”
Cecilia nods, reaches for his hand. In truth, she doesn’t understand all of this wretched introspection and doubt. What does it matter who is “right”? What does “right” signify? What value does it have?
“You told me that you would be better to me, and to Aragon, than Arthur was,” she reminds him.
“And I have been. I have taken care of all of you.”
Her stomach clenches. For the first time, she thinks:You married me off to a foreign king. You took care of yourself and your alliances, not me. But that is soft, weak thinking. She has spent too much time with Seymour, who does not understand how monarchs must act.
“What do you want from me, Cecilia?”
She licks her lips. Whatdoesshe want? Her brother. More. Brandon as a gift, chained to her bed. The queendom she was promised.
“Will you hold me, as you used to?” is what she says.
Almost imperceptibly, he recoils. “We are not children any more. Arthur isn’t here.”
A shiver runs all the way up her arms and neck. A voice, not her own, whispers,Oh, but he is.
“Please?”
It’s disgusting, the way she has reverted to pleading. Those moons in captivity turned Cecilia from queen to supplicant. Another thing that is Seymour’s fault – Seymour and her panther. But when Henry opens his arms, she climbs into his lap and curls up there. Their old ritual, when they were both at High Hall and Arthur was on one of his rampages. Henry would hold her, and soothe her, and she would fall asleep understanding safety.
She is too grown to fit as she once did. His arms are bulky, not wiry. The divine power cools her skin. She is too old, and she has seen too much. She closes her eyes tight. Tudors do not weep.
“Did you really come here to destroy the book, sister?” Henry says. His voice vibrates through his chest. He chuckles. “You can see it’s empty. The knives and scalds were smelted long ago.”
How can she explain that the book’s very presence in his rooms is an ill omen?Hisshadow is cast across the whole space, as if that empty book had expanded and filled the room with all the horrors it once contained.
“I know,” she says.
She wants to ask him what is happening to More. She wants to ask him –what is happening to her?– to show mercy to his queens. She almost does ask him.
The divine power flickers down his arm. There is something irrefutablygoddessabout the playfulness of that strength. How did she never see and question it before? She holds out her hand, wondering whether the power might jump to her. Henry shifts. Her body hollows out. Though he tried to mask it, she knows – he does not want her near his stolen power. He does not want her near him.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Cleves
They travel in near silence, joining the large groups making their way to High Hall for the festivities. The journey is more muted than Cleves remembers from previous years. This will be her sixth Moon Ball. Despite her determination to never be too impressed by her new country, she still remembers the feelings of awe inspired by every one. The Elbenese may be a strange people, but she cannot deny that they understand pomp, especially when it comes to their monarchs. Even the most committed enemy of Elben could not fail to by moved by the Moon Balls’ spectacle.
None of them compared to last year’s, and Boleyn’s daring display of truth. In that moment, she understood why Seymour loved the woman. She understood that she herself could be more than simply the Queen of Cnothan. She was seduced by both idea and ideal. Fool that she was. Is.
Cleves also knows that when a monarch is threatened, they will do their utmost to give the impression of ultimate power. So it is with this year’s Moon Ball. Despite the anxiety that hangs over those travelling to High Hall, from the nobility with their trains of carts, to the hired performers and the cooks and salesmen hawking their wares, it becomes clear that this ball is going to be the greatest in Elben’s history.
And if Cleves and the queens have their say, then it will be the most memorable. Possibly even the last.
For the first time in her life, Cleves does not enjoy her solitude during the journey. With Lelij stowed safely back at Mathmas in the care of Parr’s household, she is truly alone for the first time in her life. It had never occurred to her before that she was not a recluse by nature. She had merely replaced people with animals.
They stop on the outskirts of the palace’s grounds, in sight of Cleves’s own old wing, which is just visible above the manicured orchards of her gardens. Here there is a makeshift village set up next to a small fishing lake, where aspiring performers prepare. Beside the tents, people take turns bathing in large wooden butts filled with warm water boiled from a local stream. She washes herself in one such bath, then – while the rest of the makeshift camp sleeps – she lights a candle and sets to work on herself.
Her glasses are put to one side. She warms curling irons on the candle and sets her hair into waves. Her telltale Ezzonid blouse is folded away in a bag and she dresses in Elben’s more fashionable full gown and sleeves. When she has finished, she sits back and stares at herself in the hand mirror, her face clouded.
