Midnight Never Come by Marie Brennan

amused smile, one he could not help returning.
    All too soon, though, frustration returned to plague him, as it so often did. They walked a little way in silence; then Anne, sensing his mood, asked, “What troubles you?”
    “Practicalities,” he confessed. “A growing awareness that my ambition and I dwell in separate spheres, and I may well never ascend to meet it.”
    Her gloved hand rose and tucked itself into the crook of his elbow. “Tell me.”
    This was why he loved her. At court, a man must always watch what he said; words were both currency and weapons, used to coax favor from allies and strike down enemies. And the ladies were little better; Elizabeth might forbid her women to engage heavily in politics, but they kept a weather eye on the Queen’s moods, and could advance the causes of petitioners when they judged the moment right — or hinder them. Even those without the Queen’s ear could carry tales to those who had it, and a man might find his reputation poisoned before he knew it, from a few careless words.
    He never felt the need for such caution with Anne, and she had never given him cause, not in the year he had known her. She had said once, last autumn, that when in his company she could be at ease, and he felt the same. She was not the greatest beauty at court, nor the richest catch, but he would gladly trade those for the ability to speak his mind.
    “I look at Lord Burghley,” he said, approaching the subject from a tangent. “Much of what Walsingham does is built on foundations laid by Burghley, and in fact the old baron still maintains his own links with agents and informants. When Burghley dies, or retires from her Majesty’s service — which won’t happen until after the Second Coming — his son Robert will inherit his barony, his offices, and his agents.”
    When he paused, Anne said, “But you are not Robert Cecil.”
    “Sidney might have been — he was married to Walsingham’s daughter, before either of us came to court — but he’s dead. And I am not sufficiently in Walsingham’s affections to take his place, nor ever likely to be.”
    Anne squeezed his arm reassuringly. They were walking too close together, her farthingale shoving at his leg with every stride, but neither of them moved to separate. “Do you need to be?”
    “To do what Walsingham does? Yes. I haven’t the wealth to support such an enterprise, nor the connections. Beale and I are forever passing letters and petitions up and down the chain, obtaining licenses for foreign travel, pardons for prisoners who might be of use, requests for gifts or pensions to reward those who have been of service. They do not often receive payment, but the important thing is that they believe they might. I cannot promise that and be believed. And even if I could . . . I am not in the Queen’s councils.” Deven’s mouth twisted briefly in inarticulate frustration. “I am the son of an unimportant gentleman, distinguished enough by my conduct in the Netherlands to be rewarded with a position at court, pleasing enough to be granted the occasional preferment — but nothing more. Nor ever likely to be.”
    That speech, delivered in a low monotone from which familiarity had leached all the passion, carried them back to the center of the garden where the banqueting house stood. The morning was upon them in full; the Queen would be waking soon, and he had to be there for the honor guard when she processed to chapel for the service of Epiphany. But the chambers of the palace were close and stuffy, too full of people flocking to the winter court; out here the air was clean and simple, and he did not want to leave.
    Anne turned to face him and took his gloved hands in her own, buff-colored leather against brown. “-You are twenty-seven,” she pointed out. “The men you speak of are
old
men. They achieved their positions over time. How old was Walsingham, when Elizabeth made him her Secretary?”
    “-Forty-one. But he had