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almost stole away to see my brother, my loneliness too heavy to bear. I would have been willing to suffer any punishment my father or the duke chose to deal me, but the possibility father would take his ire out on Samuel was too great a risk.
    Trapped as days tumbled past, I tried to find my balance in a world where everything I did was wrong and there were always people eager to tell me so. I spent hours under Uriel Ware’s inescapable eye as he made me practice the skills I would need. I walked backward toward doors I could not see, because a courtier must never present his back to the queen. I mastered intricate dance steps and memorized words to French songs Her Majesty favored. I familiarized myself with the rattle of dice that ruled the gaming table where the queen pursued one of her favorite pastimes. Not that a queen whose dowry had not been paid had any business gambling, Ware complained.
    But I would have wagered upon dicing forever to spare myself an encounter with the dining table. I fumbled with that Italian contrivance called a “fork” and tried to keep from spilling on my new regalia. Glass goblets mystified me, their slippery surface too broad for my hands to get a secure grip.
    On my eighth day under Ware’s critical gaze, he determined I should not get a drop of moisture unless I drank as a gentleman should. Parched, my fingers aching, I longed for talons to sink into the glass surface—the only hope I had of holding on to the vessel. Despite my efforts, the goblet started to slip. Exasperated, I trapped it between two hands, as I had the pewter flagon Samuel and I shared at home. I gulped wine, then thumped the goblet down on the table before Ware could snatch my glass away.
    Ware’s voice grew deadly quiet. “I do not think you grasp the gravity of your situation. The favorite sport of the French courtiers is finding fault with Englishmen—including the king. How do you expect to succeed in your mission if you cannot do something as simple as raise a goblet to your lips?”
    I struggled to keep my voice calm. “My hands are too small to encircle the goblet. There is no help for that unless you can lengthen my fingers.”
    I remembered the times John had attempted to stretch me so I could be like other boys. My brother would sneak me into the butcher shops and lift me so that I could hold on to the iron hooks sunk in the ceiling beams. I would dangle like the haunches of meat, my limbs nearly pulled from their sockets when he grabbed hold of my middle. He’d add as much weight as he could, until my burning fingers surrendered and we both slammed down onto the stone floor.
    “Hudson!” Ware’s voice pulled my attention back to the gleaming tableware. But despite such luxury, I could still feel the hook slickening under my hands, my arms shaking with the effort to hold on. I could still hear John’s voice: Do you want to stay a freak? I cannot help you if you lie there on the floor, crying like a babe!
    “You cannot clutch the glass like some clodpoll the shambles has shaken off its hoof!” Ware poured more wine, then pulled my hand from the glass and slammed my palm flat on the table. His face was so close, I could see puckered skin at the rim of his patch. “Try again, and this time use one hand, or I will nail your sleeve to the table.”
    I wanted to fling wine into his face and storm off as other men might do, but I had learned from experience that such gestures were futile for one of my size. They only embarrassed me more.
    I grasped the goblet as if I were hanging from John’s hook, the sweat on my hand mingling with the dampness beading the side of the glass. My fingers pinched the glass so tightly, it sprang out as if from a slingshot.
    I had never heard glass shatter—had never touched glass until I joined the duke’s household. Ware wrenched around, nearly breaking my wrist before he released it. We both stared at the shards on the floor.
    “Fool! Do you have any idea how much