The Winter Queen by Amanda Mccabe Page B

if someone watched her most intently. She rubbed at the tingling spot, peeking surreptitiously over her shoulder.
    Anton grinned at her from his place in one of the galleries. Rosamund instinctively wanted to laugh in return, but she pressed her lips tightly, returning her stare to her hands.
    She had been so busy with her own feelings about their kiss, about what it meant, but now she wondered what he thought. What he felt. Was he, too, moved by what had happened between them? Or was it a mere diversion to him, one of many? She remembered all the ladies who followed him about, and feared she was becoming one of them.
    Just another reason to stay away from him. If she could.
    She peeked at him again, to find that he still watched her. One of his dark brows arched, as if in question. But she had no answers, either for him or herself.
    She faced forward again as Master Buckenridge, one of the Queen’s chaplains, climbed into the pulpit. ‘On this blessed day of the Nativity,’ he began, ‘we must always reflect on the Lord’s many gifts to us for the year ahead…’
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    â€˜What then doth make the element so bright? The heavens are come down upon earth to live!’
    The Yule log was borne into the Great Hall, carried on the shoulders of a dozen strong men. Anton and Lord Langley had indeed found a grand one, Rosamund thought, applauding with the rest of the company. As long and thick as a ceiling beam, the great, oak log was adorned with greenery and garlands tied up with ribbons. It would be lowered into the great fireplace, where it would burn until the end of the holiday on Twelfth Night.
    And, as it burst into light, who knew what would happen?
    Rosamund smiled as she watched the log being paraded around the hall, its streamers waving merrily. She remembered Christmases at Ramsay Castle; her father and his men had gone out to proudly carry back the largest, thickest Yule log from their own forest. Her mother had laughingly protested that it was too big even to come through the door. And the entire household would sing as the embers from last year’s Christmas had set it alight.
    Suddenly, she was engulfed by a cold wave of homesickness, of sadness that she was not there with her family to share their holiday. She felt terribly alone in the very midst of the noisy crowd, adrift.
    Rosamund eased away from the others as they pressed towards the log until she could slip out of the doors and into the comparatively quiet corridor. There was no one there to see her as she hurried towards the Waterside Gallery. No one to see the sheen of tears in her eyes.
    She furiously scrubbed at those tears, brushing them away as she dashed up a narrow staircase. She was a fool to cry, to miss something she’d never really had in the first place. Once, she had imagined her parents had truly cared for her and her happiness. She had enviedtheir long marriage, their contented home, and had imagined she could have the same. It would never have been with Richard, though; she saw that now.
    â€˜It is only the holiday,’ she muttered to herself as she tiptoed into the gallery. ‘Everyone turns melancholy and sentimental at Christmas.’
    She stopped by one of the high windows, leaning on the narrow sill as she peered outside. No one was in the gallery today; they were all in the Great Hall to watch the Yule log being brought in, and she had the echoing space to herself.
    The gallery was narrow but very long, running along the Thames to afford a view of the life of the river, the boats and barges that constantly passed by. But now the great river was frozen over, a silver-blue expanse that sparkled under the weak sunlight. Only a small rivulet of slushy water ran along the centre.
    Soon it would be frozen, through, solid enough to walk or ride on. Assuredly solid enough to skate on.
    Rosamund wondered what it felt like, gliding along as if on glass, twirling through the cold air, her hand anchored