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“Good for you to have noticed,” she said, her voice cold.
He lowered into Lord Leicester’s seat next to her. “I was taught to make quick judgments about people, right or wrong, in order to assess for danger.”
“And after my dangerous release of dogs, inviting orphans into my home, walking about at night in lad’s clothing, and taking on the role of Lady of Misrule, you came to the quick conclusion that I would marry the first swain who showed an interest and lead a bland life.” She turned her face to him. “I believe your education on assessing individuals was poor indeed.”
“Are you the chosen favorite?” Lord Burghley asked Greer as he walked up, bowing his head to Lucy.
“Hardly,” Lucy said.
“Not at present,” Greer said at the same time. He glanced at Walsingham as he walked over.
Lord Walsingham nodded to her. “I have thoroughly investigated the kitchen staff, utensils, and dishes for the queen. The staff has taken bites of everything the queen shall taste.”
“And Lady Lucy?” Greer asked.
“Certainly,” Walsingham said. “Anyone close to the queen is protected since she is quite fond of her attendants.”
Lucy was still grateful she’d eaten fully at Cranfield House earlier. From what Cordelia said, there were a number of Whitehall residents and visitors buying food outside the gates in London and ordering their own maids to prepare them food down in the Whitehall kitchens.
“The kitchen staff has constant supervision?” Greer asked Walsingham.
“I have guards watching every station in the kitchen with orders to periodically make the preparers taste what they’re putting out for the queen or those closest to her.”
Things must not be merry for the kitchen staff. Lucy sighed. There was nothing much she could do for them right now. They were permitted to join in the fun after food was served if they wished, although many would depart early to enjoy their families during this time.
As one of the dances ended, a herald cupped his hands around his mouth. “The sugar works approach.” Happy gasps filled the room as Lucy turned to see several sculptures, chiseled out of sugar, brought in. Each one represented a part of London: the White Tower, London Bridge, Westminster Church, and the gates of Whitehall. There were also molds of bears and bulls with renditions of the baiting gardens. Luckily there were no slashed dogs lying at the feet of the creatures in sugar-sweet death.
The crystalline wonders were set up on a cleared table covered with a red cloth so that the white carvings stood out against it. Lord Leicester led Elizabeth to view them, and she smiled, gesturing grandly.
“The sweetest parts of London,” she called. “A triumph to the sculptors.” She indicated two men and a woman who had followed the structures into the room as if they were nervous mothers following people carrying their babes. “Goodwife Mary O’Brien, recently from Ireland and Goodmen White and Butterbee from the southern part of England.” The three nodded to the crowd, who applauded the trio.
“Has anyone checked the sugar works for poison?” Greer asked Walsingham.
“Sugar works are not eaten,” he answered as if the thought was ludicrous. “They are but decoration for the holiday.”
“Surely when Christmastide is over, they will be ground back to crumbs to be consumed,” Greer said. Lucy saw the side of his jaw twitch like he was clenching his teeth.
Walsingham’s frown grew. “I will have the Darbys check it before then.” He stepped off the dais, making his way through the crowd toward the sculptures.
Lucy glanced at Greer, who seemed to stand sentry. “You may go dance,” she said, pointing with her scepter at the floor.
“I will remain by your side as your security minister,” he said.
“I assure you that no one wants me dead, Master Buchanan. Richard’s death was a mistake, one I will not repeat.”
“Poison could be delivered in other ways, not just food,” Greer said.
“Very well.” He could stay beside her despite her being irritated. Lucy had received many insults in her life, from traitor to witch, but she’d never been reduced to bland, someone to live out a predictable life. Even though he’d apologized, the wound was still raw. Imagine his surprise if she suddenly kissed him. The thought made her stomach flip.
Lucy watched Catherine stand opposite Nick in the line of dancers. They were both dressed in secondhand clothes that Lucy had found in trunks at Cranfield House, but the garments were much richer than any the children had owned before. As the queen and Leister pass before them, their eyes grew so wide that Lucy chuckled. “From the gutters to dancing with the queen,” she said and noticed that Alyce stood apart, her festive mask on to cover the scars on her cheek. Lucy absently rubbed her right hand that remained hidden away in her glove. The wounds had taught her to hide things, even big things that others would notice. And one could hide a million hurts behind a smile.
*
“You say ’tisthe blue flame that doesn’t burn?” Lucy asked Greer as they watched one of the young courtiers snatch several almonds out of the Snapdragon basin.
“Aye,” Greer said, keeping his voice low. “The brandy burns easily at lower temperatures. As long as the flame is blue, it won’t burn you.”
“Could I hold my hand in it?” she asked, her brows raised as she looked at him. It was the most she’d looked at him that evening, even though he’d apologized.
