Tarnish by Katherine Longshore Page B

with the right guidance. I suppose Wyatt would serve you well in that capacity.”
    I make a rude gesture that he doesn’t see because he has already turned and walked away. I can hear him whistling.
    “Bastard,” I mutter under my breath. I feel my hair to make sure it’s tucked under the edge of my hood, straighten my sleeves, and follow George’s footsteps through the doorway, clenching the pot of ceruse in my hand. I might as well have another confrontation. It seems to be the day for it.
    But when I round the corner and see James Butler at the end of the gallery, I slow my steps until he disappears into the warren of rooms.
    Better not to have more confrontations than absolutely necessary.

18

    I NAVIGATE THE CHAOS OF R ICHMOND TO THE ROOM RESERVED for the Duchess of Suffolk. I take a deep breath, knock, and am allowed entrance. Her confederacy is there, fussing and bootlicking, except for Jane Parker, who sits in the corner, silent and unobserved.
    “Your Grace,” I say by way of announcement, and curtsy deeply. It doesn’t hurt to soften a slight with deference.
    “Mistress Boleyn.”
    I hear the coldness in her voice. And I believe Wyatt is right. She never really meant to be my friend, just wanted to use me as a doll for a day.
    “I have come to return this, Your Grace.”
    I cup the little pot in my upturned hand and raise my gaze.
    My eyes take in Mary Brandon, Duchess of Suffolk, sister to the king, with her perfect skin and silky auburn hair. Her damask sleeves are the color of a weathered rose, her bodice covered in pearls and gold. She doesn’t need the ceruse. I should have just thrown it away.
    I meet her gray eyes. They hold none of the merriment that the king’s do. Still, the similarity stuns me.
    “You have no use for it?”
    Silence. Jane’s hands twist in her lap, and I can see the effort it takes for her not to bite her nails. She catches my eye briefly, and I think I see her shake her head.
    “No, Your Grace.”
    “You have no use for a token of friendship.”
    It’s a statement. Not a question. She is equating her friendship with the ceruse. If I refuse it, if I refuse to wear it, I refuse her.
    I think of Wyatt. The ripple of his laughter when I make a joke. The way he actually listens to me when I speak.
    “No, Your Grace.”
    She draws herself up to her full height. She is tall, like the king. She looks down on me, eyes trailing the cut of my hood. My gown.
    “You think because you inspire the lust of the men of the court that you have become someone. Someone risen. But you are nothing. And will always be nothing. No matter whom you dance with.
    “You will never be one of the inner circle of nobility, Anne Boleyn. A Stafford. A Talbot. A Percy. No matter how many masques you do. Or heads you turn. You should accept the hand of friendship when it is offered.”
    “I am a Howard.”
    “I’m afraid often that is more of a hindrance than a help.”
    Someone in the room titters, but I don’t look away from those gray Tudor eyes.
    “One piece more of advice, little Boleyn,” the duchess adds, affecting a generous smile. “You should stay away from that rascal poet, Thomas Wyatt. He has no honor. He can’t be trusted.”
    I think about the laughter I heard follow me from the room after she slathered me in ceruse. The way that muck felt when I scrubbed it off. The way she looks at me now as if I’m something she found stuck to the bottom of her slipper.
    “That is interesting, Your Grace,” I say, “because he says the same thing about you.”
    I know I will regret these words later, but they taste like sugared almonds and I savor them.

Bridewell Palace
    1523

19

    T HE MEN OF THE COURT ARE ITCHING FOR WAR. F OR BLOOD AND pain and death and victory. They are like animals, caged. We move to Bridewell, hemmed in by the City, and tensions rise. Trapped between rivers and walls, squeezed by monasteries on either side, the men’s restiveness only partially assuaged by