The messenger turns red and disappears out the door, though he ends up leaving it open. I follow after him and pause in front of Lady Rochford. I carefully taking the sleeping drafts that she has hidden in her hands. She doesn’t stop me. She lets me go. The king doesn’t like to be kept waiting.
When I arrive in Henry’s rooms, the bottles are stowed in my tight gown sleeve as I step farther inside. The space is still beautiful, but there’s an oiliness to the air now. The crackling fire sounds sharp, and the meats on Henry’s table smell like they’re days too old.
“Hello, Catherine.” My eyes track to find him, and he’s unmoving in his chair near the fire.
“Hello, Henry,” I answer.
He looks at the flames in the hearth as they snap and dance. I watch him as he sits, and his facial expressions have changed since the party. They’re not pointy and shadowed. They’re more reflective. Like he’s somehow being pulled inward.
“Are you angry with me?” I ask, keeping my voice low. Repentant.
He finally cranes his neck to look in my direction. “Why would you think so?”
I shrug gently, my palms open. “You just seem different.”
Henry turns back to the fire. “Perhaps my time away has altered your memory of me. Or perhaps you hit your head once more and forget yourself.”
He sounds like a parent who’s saying “I’m not mad. I’m disappointed.” But I also see his right hand clenching into a fist against the armrest of his chair. The rage is in there, but it hasn’t reached a boil yet. It’s simmering for now.
“Tell me, how has your time been spent in my absence?” he goes on to ask. He’s still not looking at me, and I step closer to him, trying to signify that I want to be near him. That I trust him. That he can trust me.
“I’ve embroidered mostly,” I tell him. “I also made some changes to improve working conditions for the servants.”
“Aren’t you the perfect little queen?”
He isn’t talking to me like I’m perfect. And when he turns to look at me, it isn’t the look he gives. He continues to stare at me, saying nothing, and his hand is still balled into an unforgiving fist. My insides tighten as I reactively enter into fight or flight.
“Can I get you a glass of wine?”
Henry’s smile is forced and barely existent. “How you spoil me,” he says.
I take that as a yes and turn to walk over to the side table. I twist my wrist as I cross the room, letting the bottles in my sleeve loosen and slide into my palm. I don’t want them to jingle, so I pour the wine slowly before I empty the contents of each bottle into the cup. My hands are shaking. My heart rate is in the stratosphere.
What the fuck am I doing? Am I actually going to kill the king of England?
I might hyperventilate. I steal a peek over my shoulder, but Henry is completely focused on the fire. I tell myself that it’s him or me. I have to choose. But why does he look so sad?
No, this isn’t just someone who’s disappointed in their partner. Henry VIII is a murderer. He murdered Catherine. He murdered Anne Boleyn and countless others. And he’ll probably murder me next.
And now I’m about to become a murderer, too.
I shake my head. It’s not murder if he’s planning to kill me. It’s self-defense. I’d be doing the world a favor. I’d be saving others. I can’t let history repeat itself. I think of Lady Barrow, and I remember what she said when she asked me for the wild carrot seed. If something is going to happen to me, I want it to be because of my choice, not because of my inaction.
I shove the empty bottles back into my sleeve and pick up the cup. It’s him or me. And I choose me.
I turn and make my way back to his side, keeping the cup steady all the while. When I hand it over, he smiles as he takes it, and for a split second, he looks like he loves me as much as he ever had.
“I almost forgot how beautiful you are,” he whispers.
My expression starts to soften, but then his free hand whips up, grabbing at my wrist and holding in a tight, angry grip. I’m certain that he’s discovered the bottles or is about to. But that’smy other hand, not the one he’s now holding prisoner. He pulls my sleeve up, almost ripping it as he reveals my simple beaded bracelet. The bracelet that Simon gave me.
Henry touches the green and blue beads, poking and prodding at them like little bugs he’s inspecting under a magnifying glass.
“Is this new?” he asks me. “Or have you had it all along?” His eyes are dark, and his voice has twisted back into ice.
“I don’t remember,” I hear myself answer, and he drops my wrist with a chuckle. He relaxes into his chair as I take an immediate step back. He gives the wine a sniff before bringing it to his mouth.
I don’t breathe. I don’t move. I don’t know if I want to smack the cup from his hand or force the liquid down his throat. I don’t do either as I stand and watch him. Henry’s lips part to drink, but just before he does, he extends his arm and holds the cup out to his side.
