Midnight Never Come by Marie Brennan Page A

connections at court —”
    “Also built over time.”
    “Not all of them. Much of it is a matter of family: fathers and sons, brothers and cousins, links by marriage —”
    Her fingers tightened fractionally on his, and Deven caught himself. “I’ll not lay you aside for political advantage,” he promised.
    The words brought a smile to her face that warmed her gray eyes. “I did not think you would.”
    “The true problem is the Queen. I do not speak against her,” he added hastily, and could not restrain a quick glance around, to reassure himself they were alone in the garden. “I am her loyal servant. But her preference is for those of families sh-e knows — often those bound to her already by ties of blood. Of which I am not one.”
    Anne relinquished his hands so she could straighten her hood. “Then what will you do?”
    He shrugged. “Be of use to Walsingham, as much as I can be. Hope that he will reward me for my service.”
    “Then I have something for you.”
    Deven cast a startled glance at her, then frowned. “Anne, I have told you before —’tis neither meet nor safe for you to carry tales.”
    “Gossip is one of the great engines of this court, as you well know. I am not listening at keyholes, I promise you.” She was a tallish woman, the top of her hood at eye level for him, and so she did not have to tilt her head back much to look at him; instead she tilted it to the side, eyes twinkling. “Are you not the least bit curious?”
    He was and she knew it. “You will find a way to tell me, regardless.”
    “I could be more subtle, but this is so much easier.” Anne folded her hands demurely across the front of her cloak. “ ’Tis a minor thing, to my eyes, but I never know when some minor thing fits into the greater patterns you and your master see. You are aware of Doctor Dee?”
    “The astrologer? He had an audience with the Queen a month gone, at Richmond.”
    “Do you know the substance of it?”
    Deven shook his head. “He was at court only a day or two, and I did not speak to him.”
    “My lady of Warwick tells me ’tis some difficulty with his house and books. Someone despoiled them while he was abroad; he seeks redress. You may expect to see more of him, I should think — or at least to hear people arguing on his behalf.”
    “People such as your countess?”
    “I thought you did not want me carrying tales.” She laughed as he mock-scowled at her. “I imagine your master knows of his situation — they are friends, are they not?- — but I can learn more if you would like.”
    This, he was unpleasantly aware, was often how espionage worked. Few of those who fed Walsingham information did so in an organized and directed fashion, deliberately infiltrating places where they did not belong, or masquerading as that which they were not. Most of the intelligence that reached the Principal Secretary came from men who simply kept their eyes and ears open, and wrote to him when they saw or heard something of interest.
    Men, and the very rare woman.
    As if she had heard that thought — he must be as transparent as glass to her — Anne said, “ ’Tis not as if I were offering to return information from the court of the Holy Roman Emperor, or the Pope’s privy closet. I will simply tell you if Doctor Dee calls on the countess again.”
    “I cannot ask a woman to spy,” Deven said. “It would be infamous.”
    “ ’Tis listening, not spying, and you are not asking me. I do it of my own free will. Consider it a dowry of an intangible sort, paid in advance.” Anne took his hand again, and tugged him a step forward, so they stood in the shadow of the banqueting house. There she cupped his jaw in her gloved fingers and kissed him again. “Now I must return; my lady will be rising.”
    “As will mine,” Deven murmured, over the rapid beating of his heart. “You will tell me what the countess says — whether the Queen would be angry at the thought of our marriage?”
    “I