by Lyn South
“Let me kiss Maman before we talk of presents, little dove.” He kissed her long and deep, and she held him tight.
After a few moments, the celebratory mood turned somber. Maman talked of her worry for our village, and the anger over English occupation. There were fights in the town square where red-faced soldiers shouted insults and commanded townspeople to bow to the king or everyone would be forced out of Acadia forever. Maman would quickly turn me away when these things happened, but I still heard them. I remember them all.
Papa’s face clouded like a storm at sea. That’s what we called it when Papa was cross: stormy sea moods. He saw me watching them and put on a brave smile.
“Mariette, hush,” he said to Maman in a low voice. “We mustn’t frighten the child. After supper, I’ll speak with the minister to ask for news.” His eyes brightened and our jester returned. “We have a grand ball to attend in honor of a very special birthday. And, if Maman is good,” he winked at me, then grinned at us both, “maybe I will give her the pearls I stole from a pirate’s chest just for her.”
I squealed in delight and skipped happily over to Beau, the Boulonnais workhorse we borrowed from our neighbors for trips into town. Papa mounted first, then Maman boosted me up to sit behind him. Finally, she swung up behind me with the aid of Papa’s strong arm. When I was small, I would drift off sitting between the two of them as the rhythmic walking of the horse rocked me to sleep. On this day, with the birthday excitement and the continued serious conversations in hushed tones, I stayed awake until our village came into view.
Maman gasped, and I could feel her heart pounding against my back through her clothes. Her panic frightened me. Papa spurred the horse forward as quickly as the animal could manage with the burden of three people to carry. I heard anguished screams and smelled smoke before I saw the fires.
English soldiers went door-to-door, flushing families from their homes, then setting the buildings aflame. Women wept as they ran with their little ones; the soldiers quickly rounded them up like sheep toward buckboard wagons waiting to take them away. Anyone who dared to fight back was beaten into the ground.
When we drew close enough to see our house, Papa shouted at a torch-brandishing soldier standing on the doorstep. He dismounted the horse and ran with a fury I had never seen. He tackled the man to the ground.
Maman clutched me tightly and yelled, “Louis! No!” She slid from Beau’s back, me in her arms, and the horse neighed as he backed away from the flames and chaos.
Two soldiers ran to rescue their comrade. The torch, still burning, lay in the dirt within arm’s reach of both Papa and the soldier as they rolled on the ground throwing punches at each other. Another soldier pulled Papa off of his friend. Papa swung his arms, and his enormous fist smashed into the face of the man who’d grabbed him. Blood spurted from the soldier’s mouth.
A loud bang echoed from behind us.
I looked backwards and saw an officer, his arm outstretched and his musket smoking from the fired shot.
Maman screamed.
I watched Papa fall. A pinpoint red stain bloomed on the back of his shirt. He didn’t move. After that everything blurred together.
A torch was thrown into our house.
Maman lay crying on Papa’s body until soldiers pried her from him and dragged us both to a nearby wagon.
The soldiers took the rucksack, with my doll and Mama’s pearls inside, and threw it into our burning home.
The last thing I remember about that day is watching my Papa’s lifeless body get smaller and smaller as the wagons took us away. I was eight years old when I learned the meaning of rage.
I pull my fingers away from Fagin’s hand, away from the pearls. There aren’t enough jewels in the world to pay this blood debt.
Fagin’s plan is meant to rally me to the mission. More to the point, it’s meant to guarantee my obedience with promises of imperfect vengeance. Fagin is right about one important fact: The threat of imprisonment or death is a powerful motivator. If we fled, we wouldn’t last a day on our own before either the Benefactors or the GTC caught up to us.
We move back to the round table in the Sim Room’s reproduction of Lady Anne Boleyn’s chambers at Greenwich Palace. Fagin drones on about the mission plans based on the Benefactors’ acquisitions list, which I have yet to see. She likes to be methodical and organized, which means searching through mountains of Tudor simulation programs pieced together from hundreds of time jumps to the era.
After hours of searching, we find enough nuggets to create a rudimentary plan. As Fagin reads mission summary aloud, I stand to stretch my back and legs and wander over to the table of holographic jewels. Looking at the necklace with the initial ‘B.’ I pick it up and secure it around my neck.
“What’s our cover story? It’s no easy task to gain entry to a royal inner circle unless you have connections.” I gaze at myself in the silver looking glass on the table. The necklace is exquisite.
Fagin looks up from the reports. “Current plan is to assimilate into the French court of King Francois the First,” Fagin says. “I am the wealthy widow of his favorite wine merchant, delivering a shipment of rare and expensive Port to the king.”
“Who am I in this scenario?”
“You’re my ward.”
“An orphan?” I give her a sideways glance. “Why not pretend you’re my mother?” People have commented on our familial resemblance since Fagin took me in, so it wouldn’t be a stretch to claim we’re related. The suggestion that we could be parent and child elicits a response that’s equal parts mock horror and genuine admonishment.
“Watch it, kid.” She shoots me a look. “I can still pass as your sister. Don’t be a brat.”
Fagin is a beautiful woman. Aside from being tall and lean, she has clear skin and auburn hair swept back into an elegant chignon. While she looks young, no one knows her real age. Not even me. She could be old enough to be my grandmother.
“Why France?” I ask, continuing to admire the look of the pearl choker on my neck. “If we’re infiltrating the English court, wouldn’t it be better to start in England?”
“This is why.” Fagin taps the touch screen on a handheld computer interface. A large hologram schematic of a historical timeline—a bright red line with blue labels for the key dates of Henry the Eighth’s reign—hovers above the table. She uses two hands to stretch the timeline, exploding a few months in late 1532 into a larger view. “King Henry, his lady, and nearly the whole of English court journey to France. The purpose of the trip is to secure the French king’s support of Anne as Henry’s legitimate queen, after he set aside his first queen, Catherine of Aragon. They arrive in Calais on 11 October 1532.”
She launches a separate timeline that spans Anne Boleyn’s childhood. “Lady Anne is more French than English in many ways, having spent a great deal of time in France when she was a young girl. She would likely welcome a young courtier from Francis’s court as one of her ladies-in-waiting.”
“If she loves all things French, she may have some redeeming qualities.” I return to the looking glass and pile my black hair on top of my head, then turn my head from side-to-side, getting a sense of how well this jewelry fits me. Would Lady Anne miss this pretty bauble if I relieved her of it?
“Let me put a finer point on this for you.” Fagin turns and notices I’m wearing the pearls. She gives me a wry smile, like she can see the gears turning in my head. “They suit you. Remember, my dear, the light field creating that necklace will dissipate the moment the simulation ends. The real thing is waiting for you in 1532.”
There’s more than just a necklace waiting for me.
I decide to change the subject. “You were going to put a finer point on something for me,” I say, removing the holographic pearls and placing them back on the velvet-lined tray.
Fagin puts her hands on her hips. “This is the most complex job we’ve ever had, with the highest possible stakes. Once the King and Lady Anne arrive in France, we have li
ttle more than a month to get into their good graces and secure an invitation to return to England with them.” She pauses for a moment and her smile broadens. “What do you think?”
“I’ll only need two weeks to get us to England.”
Chapter 5
There’s one thing that never loses its shine, no matter how shitty the circumstances: the crazy shot of adrenaline that blasts through my system as I walk a tightrope between pulling off the perfect heist and getting caught. Even training sessions can be a gas if I’m in the right mindset. When I channel that crazy energy—the lightning-in-a-bottle surge—it’s better than sex. There is the risk that if I stay in the vermin’s court for too long, my rage might suffocate me faster than death by vacuum after being blown out of an airlock.
There’s a familiar twitch in my fingers and as the hologram scene at Greenwich Palace springs to life around me, excitement vibrates in every muscle in my body.
Here we go.
Courtiers mill around the great hall awaiting the king’s arrival. The room is decorated with flowers and banners bearing the Tudor rose entwined with Lady Anne Boleyn’s falcon emblem. There are tables laden rich food, and the wine is flowing. Most well-wishers chat and laugh as though this is a normal party, while others whisper in huddles, casting furtive looks at passersby who might mistake gossip for treason.
This is an extraordinary day for the king. He has overthrown his first queen for a new lady, and everyone holds their collective breath to see what this new order will bring. Having just returned from a triumphal visit to France, today represents the first day of Lady Anne Boleyn’s ascendance to power.
The trumpets sound. People make way for the royal processional. From the depths of a curtsey, I sneak a glance as the king and his pretender queen pass. The hundreds of diamonds Anne wears — they drip from her ears and neck and are embedded in the embroidery of her white linen gown — are only half as incandescent in reflecting the candlelight as her face.
While she is radiant from the joy of her triumph, the King doesn’t gaze at her. Instead, he surveys the room with raptor-like eyes, searching for signs of disrespect in the sea of human faces.
It’s a good thing King Henry doesn’t look directly at me or he would see my rage. The Duke of Suffolk stands within arm’s reach of me. A brief fantasy plays in my head: Snatch his dagger from its sheath, rush the king and his lady, and drive the shaft into his heart, then hers.
Henry mounts the dais. Anne follows, taking her place in a chair next to the monarch’s chair of estate. According to our plan, the optimal window for obtaining the first item on the Benefactors’ acquisition list is the next thirty minutes, as the entire court is occupied with this nonsense. I walk through the room, chatting with Anne’s ladies-in-waiting—God, do they ever stop talking?—so they can attest to my presence in the great hall during the reception. A steward offers pewter goblets filled with wine, and I accept a cup so he will move on to the courtiers chatting near the windows overlooking the gardens.
Music and dancing begin and the reception line to greet the royal couple still stretches half way across the room. No one notices when I slip out of the room. Columned archways frame the perimeters of the hallway, offshoots to different parts of the palace. They offer adequate cover where I can observe the corridor as I make my way to the king’s chambers.
When I reach the top of the staircase leading to the king’s apartment, I find both sentries slumped against the wall with their legs splayed out in front of them. I watch them for a moment. The only movement is the gentle rise and fall of their chests as they breathe. A few steps closer and I find half-drunk cups of wine beside each man, the remnants of Fagin’s sedative-laced Madeira spilled on the floor where the cups have dropped.
If I’m lucky, they’ll be out for a couple of hours. The door to the king’s chambers is locked, but it doesn’t slow me down. In less than a minute, I’ve picked the lock and slipped into the room.
There’s no moon in the sky, and no light filters through the leaded glass windows. There’s a dim glow from the banked embers in the fireplace—the servants haven’t yet stoked them into flame before the king retires for the night. The room is in deep shadow; I won’t find what I’m looking for without some help.
Reaching into a pocket hidden in the folds of my gown, I grope for the small pair of night-vision glasses that will help me search the room.
They’re gone.
Patting down the three other hidden pockets produces the same result: nothing. Perhaps I dropped them. Retracing my steps back to the great hall would be risky and time-consuming. I could search for a candle, but I’d need to find a matchstick to light from the fireplace embers. Unless the clouds in the night sky part, allowing moonlight in, I’m out of light source options.
My kingdom for a damn flashlight.
There are shouts outside in the corridor. The unconscious men have been discovered, and the general alarm sounds. The door to the privy chamber bursts open and four guards, armed with daggers, rush toward me.
“Computer, stop program and reset.” Fagin says from the shadows. “Lights to one hundred percent.” On command, the snarling guards disappear in mid-stride and fluorescent lights come up to full power.
“I swear I had those glasses in my pocket when we started,” I say, pre-empting the lecture I know is coming. I don’t need a litany of all the things I’m doing wrong. Fagin, however, is hell-bent on giving a lecture.
“Are you sure?” she asks, dangling the missing glasses on two outstretched fingers. “You left them in the loo during the last break.” She levels a steady gaze at me, brows knitted together in frustration. “Where is your head? You’ve made every stupid mistake a first-year recruit wouldn’t make after a month of training.”
“It’s nothing.” I shake my head to clear it. It doesn’t help at all. I have to move. Standing still, even for a few minutes, drives me crazy. “Let’s go again.” I spin away from Fagin and head for the door, but don’t get very far.
She grips my arm, pulls me around to face her. “We can’t afford distractions. It’s neither an understatement nor a cliché to point out that mistakes will get us both killed.” There’s an edge to her voice that surprises me; Fagin doesn’t get easily rattled. She also doesn’t usually lay hands on me like this. One raised eyebrow from me, and she releases my arm, but her expression remains tense. “How many times must I remind you what’s at stake?”
A ringtone interrupts us—a shrill whistle that reminds me of a demented exotic bird. Fagin shifts from one foot to the other, and a muscle in her jaw twitches. It doesn’t look like she’s done reminding me of the stakes. The newcomer is insistent and the tone sounds again.
“Computer, open door,” she says.
The door to the Sim Room swooshes open and Nico pokes his head inside.
“Looks like I’m in the right place,” he says with a big grin. When neither Fagin nor I return the greeting, he frowns. “Unless, I’m not.” He pauses, then jabs a thumb toward the hallway behind him. “I could leave and come back later, if you like.”
“Stay,” Fagin replies tersely. “Maybe you can get her to focus so we can get through this training simulation.”
Nico’s smile falters. He shuffles his feet as he moves hesitantly toward me and scratches the back of his head. “Bad day?” he asks with a desperate expression that says his morning plans didn’t include being thrown between two fighting women.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.
Fagin rolls her eyes. If she weren’t here, I’d push Nico down on the nearest table and straddle him. God, I could use the release after the morning I’ve had. A shiver runs up the back of my neck at the mental image of looking down into his face, feeling his hips nestled between my thighs. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I didn’t expect to be here.” He points at me and sits on the edge of the table where he had just been flat on his back in my brief daydream. “You’re my ne
xt assignment.”
His proximity, the way he sits with his legs slightly apart, the scent of shaving cream and soap lingering on his skin: All of it serves as a distraction I’d willingly give myself over to if I could get rid of Fagin for half an hour.
“You’re our co-pilot?” I ask.
“Your pilot, actually,” he replies, looking like he can’t quite believe it himself. “I was promoted this morning.”
Fagin’s brow wrinkles. “I didn’t realize you were eligible for promotion.”
“I wasn’t. This came out of nowhere, but hey, I’m not going to refuse the gift. It comes with a hefty pay raise.” The thousand-watt smile returns. “Guess you’re stuck with me.”
Relief washes over me and I allow myself a smile. Our work partnership—Nico’s and mine—is like a blade honed on a whetstone: sharp, smooth, and polished.
I bury the smile, but not fast enough. Fagin notes my reaction with narrowed eyes and a darting glance from me to Nico who, wisely, keeps a straight face. While fraternization between Observers isn’t forbidden, Nico and I agreed to keep our physical relationship private to avoid the policy restriction that significant others can’t be assigned to the same mission in case the something goes pear-shaped.
“We’ll get you up to speed over lunch,” Fagin says, turning to him. She pauses a moment to throw a quick glance in my direction. “Unless, there’s something the two of you need to tell me.”
We shake our heads, feigning confusion over her question, but I’m not sure she buys the denials. She pulls up the lunch menu from the catering hologram and orders sandwiches.
An hour later, Nico knows everything we do about the English mission, minus my personal family history. I’m not sure how to tell him, or if I even want to tell him.
“I thought the Benefactors loved their favorite thief’s renegade ways,” Nico says with a smirk between bites of his roast beef-and-swiss sandwich. “Why punish the goose when she’s delivering golden eggs?”