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conscious of our physical closeness. I glance up and spy Lady Rochford, scrutinizing my every movement, my facial expression, the reaction of the king to whatever I say. The king doesn’t seem to notice. Perhaps he is so accustomed to being watched that it simply fails to register in his mind. The life of a king is a life lived in public.
    I think I see a hand pass before the doorway; the edge of a velvet cape, an elbow encased in satin. Thomas is standing there. I avert my eyes carefully, gazing at the sapphire glittering darkly upon my finger.
    “It rather dwarfs your hand, doesn’t it?” The king laughs, tapping the stone with his own jeweled finger. “Your little fingers will be weighed down by jewels, very soon.”
    “You know well how to delight a young maid, Your Majesty.” The king is staring at me, appraising the soft white flesh exposed above the collar of my gown.
    “I yearn for you, Catherine,” he whispers hoarsely. I look down at my small hand in his great one, not knowing how to react. My eyes flutter, my vision blurs.
    “You must know this,” he persists. “I’ve yearned for you since the moment I first saw you.”
    “I—I didn’t realize.”
    “I’ve flustered you! Don’t be bashful, my dear.” His laugh is a low rumble, unmistakably masculine, suggestive. He rests his fingers delicately upon my shoulder; they radiate heat against my skin.
    “I am glad that I please you, Your Majesty.” I blink, meeting his gaze in a brief flash. “I hope that I will please you.”
    “Do not worry about that.” He strokes my neck and chin lightly. I stare instead at the fire, the bright orange flames flickering in a frantic dance.
    “Our pleasure will wait until the wedding ceremony is complete, Catherine. Do not worry, there will be pleasure for both of us, you will see.” He laughs again and I smile shyly in response, my cheeks burning pink. He tilts my chin up with the tip of his finger and gazes into my eyes.
    “I would not threaten your purity, your maidenhood, until we are properly wed.”
    I have never heard such a noble thing as purity discussed in so lascivious a tone.
    “I thank you for this, Your Majesty,” I whisper. I press my newly jeweled hand upon his and shift again upon the dais, my arm brushing against the sleeve of the king’s doublet. My face (a measured expression, a beautifully constructed mask) reveals equal parts nervousness and eager anticipation. I must hide all weakness from my king—except, of course, my weakness for him.
    The king laughs at his own passion. He rests his hand upon my leg, stroking the nap of my gown. His hand is massive; the sight of it upon my knee makes my throat constrict.
    “You are a warm-blooded creature under there, are you not, Catherine Howard?”
    “Of course I am, my lord.” I smile and squeeze his hand warmly.
    The Duke of Norfolk has done well to convince the king of my purity, chastity, devout Catholicism (without being too prim or pious), and delightful attitude. Now I need merely live up to the mythos created about my personality. The king must never know that his wife is half person, half fiction. I wonder if this is how the king must feel—needing to be so many different things, for so many different people. Lucky for me, I suppose I need only please him: as a maiden, as a lover, and as a wife.
    I have only three days to prepare myself.

VII
    For the wedding ceremony I will wear the royal jewels—last worn by Queen Jane—and a gown of cloth of gold. Lady Rochford and the duchess assist in the final fitting of the gown; its metallic luster is warm and provocative. I feel as if I’ve been dipped in a pool of gold. The double strand of rubies and pearls is cold against my neck, and each time I shift it with my fingertips I feel a certain thrill rippling over my flesh. I stare at myself in the mirror, glittering like a jewel in the candlelight.
    “What a beautiful bride.” Jane pats my cinched waist in approval. “The gold was