Tarnish by Katherine Longshore Read Free Book Online

be heard.”
    He studies me as one would a new species. We are separated by space and silence, no longer the portrait of young love. This will never work.
    “You’re right,” he says quietly. “You do.”
    He closes the gap between us, bends over me to whisper directly into my ear.
    “Let’s make sure you’re heard. If you do as I say, if we work together on this, the most important ears at court will listen.”
    I snap my eyes up to his. The king? Our lips are inches apart.
    “Good. Now, you must follow my directions exactly. Lower your gaze.”
    I continue to keep my eyes on his face. To show him that he cannot order me like a servant. Or a wife.
    “They all see us. The men will watch your every move.”
    I hesitate. If he’s right, my life at court could turn completely.
    Perhaps even the king himself will notice. Will hear.
    I follow Wyatt’s instructions and look to the floor at the center of the room. To the cluster of leather shoes pointed just slightly in our direction. I do not bow my head. I merely lower my gaze.
    “Perfect.”
    The praise is like a strand of melody in my heart.
    “Think in terms of music,” Wyatt whispers, as if listening to the same tune, “of poetry. Because flirtation is a dance. Count the time in your head.”
    He taps it out along the pulse at my wrist.
    “Now wait for a count of four. Count it in your mind. Then raise your eyes. Tilt your head. And smile. Just a half smile. Don’t look away. Another count of four. Then turn. And walk away.”
    I picture it, as if I am the one watching. The measured way it operates, like a crescendo, or an unfinished chord, leaving the listener breathless for completion. If he keeps his eyes on me no matter what I do, I will look as if I’ve captured him. As if I have the power.
    “But wait,” he says, just before I lift my eyes, his words like a caress on my cheek. “And this is the most important part.”
    He pauses. And then he does trace the line of my jaw, almost, but not quite, touching my lips.
    “When you walk away—and every time you walk away from me— don’t look back .”
    Like Orpheus. Like Lot’s wife. Looking back would break the spell.
    He strokes one finger down the center of my upper lip, as if asking me to hush, then releases me.
    “Now go.”
    I do exactly as he says. The look. The smile. The turn.
    I feel him watching me. I feel everyone watching me. I consider emulating Queen Katherine, fingers pressed around each other like a gift, head bent in humble piety. But I am not a queen. Never will be.
    So I straighten my spine, elongate my neck. I look down and to the left, not back at Thomas Wyatt. Showing just a hint of my face—an enigmatic glimpse—before I straighten again and walk through the door to the gallery and out of their view.
    I hear a rising tide behind me, as if the room has released a collectively held breath.
    A sense of power swirls through me like a draft of potent wine, and I have to steady myself, one hand on the cool stone wall. I long to lay my forehead against it but hear the returning murmur behind me and walk away.

8

    F OR FOUR DAYS, NOTHING HAPPENS. T HEN, AT W OLSEY’S NEXT visit, Henry Percy smiles at me again. One of the king’s men asks me to dance. And I hear, in the ripple of whispers around the duchess’s confederacy, “What do men see in her, anyway?”
    It’s not much, but it’s something.
    I try to carry on my normal routine. Serving the queen. Avoiding Mary because I still do not know what to say to her. Practicing my music on strange lutes because I left mine in her room, at the mercy of the king. When I need to escape the castle walls, I visit my falcon.
    The mews at Richmond is smaller and more cramped than the one at Greenwich. But I believe the falcons are treated better here, because Simnel, a falconer from the Royal Mews at Charing Cross, has come to care for them.
    I carry sugar comfits in my pocket, stolen from the kitchen, nod a good morning to Simnel. Make my