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end of the palace, just beyond my sister’s ill-attended room. It is musty and dirty, with a single, cracked window and no tapestries, and I believe everyone has forgotten about it.
    It is the perfect place to cry.
    And when the tears are spent, it is the perfect place to plan.

7

    “W HAT DO I NEED TO DO?” I ASK W YATT WHEN I FIND HIM IN the long gallery.
    “. . . is exactly the right thing to say.”
    I struggle not to roll my eyes. It’s hard to take the man seriously when he says things like that. But if I’m going to rid myself of James Butler, I need to attract the attention of someone else. Someone better. Wyatt just might be able to help me with that. So I will suffer his foolishness.
    I turn to the maps that line the walls of the gallery. England. The Channel. The Low Countries. France. I run my fingers along the shadowy outline of what they call the New World.
    “I wish I could go there.”
    He takes my hand in his and says, “Why would you want to leave England when everything you need is right here?”
    He presses my palm to his heart, and I bite back a laugh.
    “A little overdone, don’t you think?”
    “I’ve been pining for days.” He leans in close, and I can see the rim of black around the blue of his eye. A tiny dark speckle, like a grain of onyx, glints in the right one. “It took you long enough to come and find me.”
    “You were supposed to be pursuing me.” I feel his heartbeat beneath my fingers. His breath on my lips.
    “You said you needed time. I do little pursuing unless I’m going to get something out of it.”
    “Your seduction techniques are not going to work on me, Wyatt.”
    “Do you want to bet on that?” The laughter in his voice is evident—a musical bass note that makes me want to laugh, too.
    “I shall choose to ignore them, then,” I say lightly. And repeat myself. “What do I need to do?”
    “Flirt with me.”
    “Now?” I glance quickly around the room. It’s full of maps and tapestries and quiet conversation. Courtiers plotting advancement. Ladies making assignations. Henry Percy. Norris. George.
    Wyatt brushes a stray hair from my cheek to draw my eyes back to his.
    “Constantly.”
    “Wouldn’t that be a little obvious?”
    “I believe I’ve said before that most people at this court can’t see what’s in front of them until you beat them with it. So, yes. It has to be obvious.”
    “And nothing else?”
    “Nothing until you want it, Anne.”
    His gaze moves from my eyes to my mouth and back. Almost without my wanting to, I look at his mouth, the full lower lip and the hint of reddish stubble on the upper one.
    “If you do as I say,” he continues so quietly that I find myself unable to stop watching his mouth, “I can guarantee the entire court will fall swooning at your feet.”
    I force myself to look back into his eyes.
    “Think a lot of yourself, don’t you?”
    “I have to. Or no one else will.”
    “So what do we do first?”
    “First we get their attention.”
    “And how do we do that?”
    “It’s already done. We have the entire room watching our intimate little scene.”
    I realize how we must look to all the others. Standing so close, gazing intently into each other’s eyes. Like lovers.
    “We have their attention. Now we need to capture their imaginations. Display your assets.”
    “That’s what my sister says.” I pull away and cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t want lechery.”
    This isn’t why I came to him.
    “I meant your eyes. Dark. Mysterious. Alluring. And your face. So haughty, but such promises in those lips.”
    “My lips have promised you nothing.”
    “But the point is to look as if they might. You look like someone who has something to say. Something important.”
    “I do.” I take his hand in mine again, hoping he’s really listening. “I have ideas. I’m more than breasts and eyes and lips, Thomas Wyatt.”
    I pause for breath. I’ve said too much. But I can’t stop.
    “I deserve to