“Yes, she lent it to me. Anything else?”
He narrowed his eyes at her. A sound formed on his lips, half word, half breath, but she could have sworn he called her a parasite before he disappeared again into the darkness.
Thomasin shook his influence off her. Her mood was too good to be spoiled by the likes of George Boleyn. She took a few steps across the yard, watching the groups about her forming and the couples breaking off to walk away into the shadows. To her right, a set of great steps led into the Thames, where a number of craft waited. Its mixed scent stole over her, part fresh and brackish, part filled with the detritus of life. She stood for a moment and watched as the dark waters raced past, the tide strong and fast, just a short distance away. The tide could carry you out to sea from here, when it was flowing in the right direction.
“You’ll get cold out here.”
She knew the voice before she turned. Rafe was standing behind her, looking out at the Thames over her shoulder.
“A lad slipped out here in the dark once. No one could get to him in time; he just went under and was never seen again.”
It was a morbid and horrid story; had he meant to scare her? Once or twice she had imagined a moment when their pathsmight meet again, and what they might say, but it certainly hadn’t been like this.
“Hadn’t you better get back to your wife?”
“She does not require a babysitter.”
Thomasin turned back to face the river, unwilling to look at him, wishing he would go away. She waited but heard no sound to suggest he had moved.
“Why are you back at court, Thomasin?”
She did not feel obliged to explain herself to him.
“Why here, among the Boleyns? You used to loathe them.”
“You don’t refuse a request from Sir Thomas.”
“No, I suppose not. I thought you’d left forever.”
“So did I.”
He paused, searching for words. “You must find things much changed.”
“Yes,” she said, finally turning back to face him. “But then I am much changed too.”
His chestnut eyes gleamed in the darkness, his dark hair pulled back from his forehead. Once, Thomasin would have found his physical presence overwhelming, difficult to resist, but now she looked at him calmly, dispassionately, tempered by the memories of their conflicts.
“I do not think anyone could have passed through the last four years unchanged.”
“You are altered too, I think.”
“Of course. Nothing stays the same. And now we have a new queen.”
“I am not staying,” she found herself bound to say. “I am returning to the country with my husband as soon as possible. I would be there already, if I had my choice.”
A wry smile twitched over his lips. “Choice, Thomasin. Still talking about choice.”
His words annoyed her. He had never believed in their ability to choose their own path, merely to act as the pawns of great ones.
“Well, right now I choose to return to the hall. Goodnight.”
Before she could change her mind, she lifted her skirts above the cobbles and walked past him. There was no benefit in speaking with Rafe; he belonged to her past, and although he may have changed in some ways, she did not doubt he was as jealous and troublesome as he had been before.
“You look well,” he said softly, just as she was moving out of earshot.
As if fate was at play, the first person Thomasin encountered as she re-entered the hall was Isabel Danvers. She was flushed from the warmth inside, her cheeks rosy, her eyes aglow, the colour of the sky. She was a little taller than Thomasin, closer to Rafe’s height, but around the same age. She had a look of contentment about her, something in her bearing and smile that suggested she was a woman who was loved.
She dropped a slight curtsey on recognising Thomasin from Anne’s chamber in the Tower, then opened her lips as if she was about to speak, but Thomasin got in first.
