“Of course,” he says, sitting back in his own chair. “Shall we play cards as we usually do? Or would you rather we just talk?”
There’s an almost physical twist of temptation in my gut. The psychologist in me is frothing at the mouth to have a talk therapy session with Henry VIII. The papers I could write! The case studies that could be developed! But I shake the urge off. To him, I’m Catherine. And talking is a two-way street. If I sound like me, he’ll get suspicious. And what I need now is to fly under the royal radar.
“Let’s play cards,” I answer.
Henry smirks and scoops up the deck that’s set on the table. “My competitive girl. It brings me such joy to see you recovered. When I was told of your injury, the fear nearly overpowered me.”
His relaxed shoulders and calm demeanor don’t align with the body language of an overly stressed person.
I nudge my chair closer to the table. “I’m sorry I scared you.”
He holds the deck in one hand and reaches out to me with the other. “Never apologize, Catherine. Not to me. To me, you are all perfection.”
Intense flattery. I make a mental note of it as Henry begins to shuffle the cards. I really hope whatever game he usually plays with Catherine is in my repertoire, but something tells me that Go Fish wasn’t super popular in sixteenth-century England.
“Can I ask you something?” I venture, unable to resist.
“Anything, my heart.”
I sift through a catalog of questions, looking for the most telling one. I go with “What is your favorite memory of me?”
Henry leans back in his chair with contented ease. “The night I first laid eyes you. You were dancing in the great hall. Many were there, but it was as though a light was shining down on you. You were the living embodiment of everything pure and beautiful. I fell in love with you in that very moment.”
Henry’s voice has a dreaminess to it, like he’s reliving the memory in his mind’s eye.
“Had we spoken at that point?” I ask.
Henry flashes me a knowing grin. “I didn’t have to hear you speak to know your soul. Our love transcends mere words.”
Idealization without knowing. Catherine is his fantasy. It’s not who she is that he loves; it’s who he wants to her to be. Who he’s decided she is.
“Your accident made me realize something,” Henry goes on to say. “Life is precious, Catherine. Everything can change in an instant, and my greatest desire is to live my life with you at my side.”
Oh, shit.
“I want you with me always. As a wife, as a companion, and as the queen of England.”
I swear to God, I almost laugh. This love-bombing bastard couldn’t give me ten minutes before shackling me to Catherine’s predetermined fate. I shouldn’t be surprised, yet somehow I am, and I try to look pleasantly speechless as I figure out how to answer.
“It’s decided, then,” Henry says, his voice chipper. “We will be married in two days’ time. I have already given the order, and preparations are underway.”
It seems an answer isn’t necessary. My “king” has happily decided, and I am now engaged. My mind takes off running in a million directions, but I take a breath to center myself.
Henry is still all smiles as he begins to shuffle the cards. “Now, sweet Catherine, shall we play? I have a new game I wish to teach you.”
I smile back at him because I know something he doesn’t. I amnotCatherine Howard. I am Lily Whitaker. I am going to survive this, and him, and I am going to get back home no matter what it takes.
I lean in, resting my elbows on the surface of the table. “Deal me in.”
Chapter Three
“Remind me again why we are doing this?”
Bessie groans as I pull her along through the dark corridor. The candle she’s holding is half melted away and does little to help me as I look for any sign of the Haunted Gallery.
“Because there are holes in my memory,” I remind her. “You promised to reteach me the layout of the palace.”
She plants her feet, dragging me to a stop for the millionth time. “We have already walked for over an hour. And why are we doing this in the dead of night?”
