I’m assuming this wasn’t a federal offense in Tudor times.
“I need you to get those letters, Francis. I need to read them to see if they can help us.” As in, they’re going directly into the fire. Except that story.
“I’ll leave tonight. If they’re there, I’ll easily find them, and the story,” he swears. He heads to the door, but then quickly stops to turn back around. “One more thing... if Gainsford ever touches you again, I’ll kill him.”
I let out a sigh. “When you get back, we really need to talk about healthy attachment styles and emotional regulation. Let’s block out a consistent time.”
He nods with confusion and slips from the room. I’m left in silence and can only now begin to process the fact that I just told Catherine Howard’s obsessed ex a secret that could earn me a one-way ticket to a sixteenth-century insane asylum. I have no idea if it was the right choice, but what I do know is that my head is spinning and there isn’t a shot in hell that I’m falling asleep anytime soon.
Jitters and adrenaline clash in my lungs. I have to move. I have to do something. Francis just left on a whole-ass side quest to bring Catherine back, and I need to take action, too. I think for all of ten seconds before coming to a decision.
I’m going to haunt the Haunted Gallery.
Chapter Thirteen
I’m not here to run. I’m not going to hurl myself against the doors either. Tonight, I’m taking a different approach. That’s why I’m lying on the ground, and the only thing I hear is the sound of my own voice as I quietly start to sing.
“Pastime with good company, I love and shall until I die. Grudge who lust but none deny, so God be pleased thus live will I...”
I pause as I try to remember the rest. Giving up with a sigh, I pick up the paper beside me and glance over it. I had Bartholomew recite the lyrics of “Pastime with Good Company”the other day while I jotted them down, and I’m still in the process of learning. Sidenote: jotting things down with a quill and ink converts to twenty-eight minutes for four sentences.
For idleness is chief mistress of vices all. Then who can say, but mirth and play, is best of all?
I tilt my head forward a little, doing a quick portal check in the otherwise empty hall. Nothing has materialized. I ease my head back down, preparing to take this not-catchy song from the top. I look at the paper again, and as I do, I catch the sound of footsteps. They’re alarmingly close.
I tense, not sure if I should jump up and run or play dead. I twist my neck to follow the sound when Simon comes into view. He looks at me and I look at him before I lie back down to gazeup to the ceiling. His upside-down face appears in my eyeline a few seconds later as he stands over me near my head.
“Dare I ask what you’re doing on the floor?” His voice is serious, but his eyes are teasing. It’s tricky to decipher from this angle, but I can tell.
“I just wanted a change of scenery.”
“It would seem so,” he says. “I wasn’t aware that you were fond of singing.”
He reaches a hand down, and I take it as he gently pulls me up. “I wouldn’t call it fondness. More a project I’m working on. I couldn’t sleep.”
My hand stays enclosed inside his large grasp. It reminds me of how I just imagined his hand touching me as I stood in front of the mirror in my room, until Francis interrupted. My cheeks burn red, and it almost feels like Simon can guess my thoughts as his eyes turn a little stormy.
“Yes,” he agrees, moving the smallest bit closer. “Rest seems out of reach tonight.”
Rest may be out of reach, but I no longer am. Part of me wants Simon to grab me and drag me off somewhere. The other part of me... also wants him to grab me and drag me off somewhere.
“Do you want to walk a bit?” I quickly ask him, trying to overpower my hormone-crazed mind. He releases my hand, and I rub it along the skirt of my gown.
“I should like that,” he agrees.
We move through the Haunted Gallery, and I only give a quick look to the chapel doors as we pass them. “I meant to ask you, why didn’t you travel along with the king? I assumed most of his privy council members would go with him on the journey.”
“I thought I would accompany him as well,” he answers. “But then the king informed me that he would rather I stay behind... in case any gentleman thought to get too close to you.”
My eyebrows shoot up and Simon tries to hide his own amusement. “You’re meant to be my bodyguard?” I ask, hardly believing it myself.
Simon nods. “Thomas Culpepper was asked to stay behind as well. The king requested that he write to him weekly informing him of how you fare at court.”
“Wow,” I mumble as we continue down another corridor. “So, Thomas is Henry’s eyes and ears, and what does that make you? His fist?”
A low laugh echoes in Simon’s throat. “I suppose that could be a way of looking at it. Though I’m hardly doing a good job, am I?”
I glance over at him at his question, and his humor slowly falls away. I try to guess what he’s feeling, but I can’t quite do it. His expressions are so hard to interpret. I’ve never had trouble reading people before. It’s my party trick. But not Simon. I wonder if that’s part of what draws me to him—the fact that I have no choice but to switch out of psychologist mode and just be present in the moment. I’m not actively trying to interpret his words, and I don’t have to be so careful with mine. Our dynamic is easy when it shouldn’t be.
