“At least you still have a door,” Seymour says. “I have given all for the cause. Can you blame me for taking risks?”
“Not at all. But then you must not blame me for being cautious.”
Seymour looks very much as though she would like to blame Cleves, but Cleves has business to attend to if she is to keep the king’s sister under house arrest.
“You are tired,” Cleves says again. It is not a question this time. “Sleep in my bed for now, and we will find a better hiding place for you soon.”
Seymour looks as though she wants to refuse.
“We can talk later,” Cleves says.
“No,” Seymour says, but she sways on her feet.
“Come …” Cleves begins.
“I must know how we wield the bordweal,” Seymour says.
Cleves takes her by the shoulders and steers her towards the bed. She had forgotten how tall Seymour is.
“I swear on my gargoyle’s life that I will tell you, once you are rested.”
They sink onto the edge of the bed.
“But—”
“Sleep now, my queen.”
Seymour shakes her head. “I must know whether you have broken the chains between our husband and us.”
Cleves sighs. She is not going to get Seymour to rest until she has answers. “I do not think so. We used the spirit stones to conjure the divine power, much as our combined presence at Brynd conjured it at the Moon Ball. But I have felt no remnant of the power since.”
She does not admit that the lack of that power is now a physical ache within her chest. She craves it, as those in perpetual pain crave the ecstasy of the h?mdran flower.
“But it can be done,” Seymour whispers. Her eyes are almost closed. Cleves lays her down upon the bed and draws blankets over her gown. She resists the urge to stroke a stray lock of hair away from Seymour’s face. She is neither lover nor mother to Seymour, but a friend and a peer.
“Rest now, my tired queen,” Cleves says. She stands, brushing down her gown.
Seymour, eyes already closed, runs her hands over the fur blankets.
“It has been a long time since I have slept on a proper mattress,” Seymour says.
“So sleep. You do not always have to be fighting.” Cleves moves away, from both the bed and the image of Seymour entangled in her sheets. The thought is very tempting, especially since Cleves’s bodice is already loosened. But there will be time enough to try for a tumble later. She likes her women passionate, not exhausted.
“I ask only one favour,” Cleves says, as Seymour nestles deeper into the sheets.
“What?” Seymour says. She looks up at Cleves from beneath long lashes.
“Do not drool on my pillows.”
Cleves slips from her own bedchamber and leans her back against her door. One breath, two, then she is in control of her senses once more.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Howard
She says, “Do not go, my love,” even as she thinks, “Go, and do not return.”
Henry kisses her, but his mind is elsewhere. “I wish I could stay with you for an eternity,” he says, but she can see that he is thinking, “I have given you more than a sennight; why must you cling?”
