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part. You can always start over."
    I am touched, not only by his advice, but by the fact that he has spoken to me for more than five minutes. It is a rarity I enjoy all too infrequently.
    I have no words to express this. It seems I am better at verse than real-life conversation. Instead I attempt Anne's famous court smile. "I did not have the pleasure of an introduction," I say, "though it seems you know my name."
    "I am Cedric Dane," he tells me with a little flourish of a bow. "A grand nobody. But it is just as well. I think it is far less dangerous to be a nobody at this court!"
    It is that, but I do not say anything lest it be overheard that I am making crude comments about our grand court. "Are you from Cornwall?" I ask, not wanting to end the conversation. My heart is racing with giddiness.
    "My accent still gives me away." He laughs. "Yes, Tintagel. My father served Henry VII as one of his musicians, so our current Good King Harry was thus inclined to favor me with a post here. It is a...fascinating place."
    "Yes," I agree. "It is that."
    "Well," he says, doffing his feathered cap, "the hour is late and I believe I am keeping you from something. I do hope I can hear some of your compositions--only the best ones, of course."
    "I shall make certain of it!" I promise, unsure as to whether I am being improper, but not quite caring.
    I leave Anne's apartments, a thrill coursing through me. I have never experienced this. I want to spread my arms like wings and fly through the halls like one of the king's great raptors. All I want to think about is Cedric Dane; his gray-violet eyes twinkling with mirth, his slender hands, his smile. His voice, even his gentle mockery. I whisper his name to myself over and over. Cedric. Cedric. Cedric Dane ...Never have I felt this way. I know what occurs between a man and a maid, and that I am expected to make a marriage soon. Somewhere in the back of my mind is the knowledge that there was talk about my betrothal to Lord Bulbeck, son of the Earl of Oxford, but whether that will ever come to fruition I have no idea. Marriage--my marriage at least--is the farthest thing from my mind. But romance...This court, not to mention my own father, are all shining examples that you do not need to have marriage to have romance. My heart leaps at the naughty thought, sinking just as quickly as I realize where, almost against my will, I am now headed.
    My father's liveried guards stand aside, offering gentle smiles as they open the doors to his rooms.
    He is not behind his desk tonight, but stands before the fire in his privy chamber, hands folded behind his back. His eyes are distant and his lips are pursed.
    "It's been a lovely night, Father," I tell him. "I wish you would join us more often. I think it would do you good."
    "Who are you to tell me what is good for me?" he demands in his quiet voice. Before I can answer he continues, immediately arriving to his favorite topic. "How goes it with Anne?"
    "She is well," I say, though I know this isn't what he wants to hear. He wants details, details of things I do not know. It is so hot in his chambers. I wave a hand in front of my face to fan myself. My throat is dry and scratchy. I wonder if it is due in part to the nervousness of having shared my poetry.
    "I do not know much else," I confess. "They are close. The king is very...affectionate," I say after a moment, searching for a word appropriate for describing his lecherous attempts at pawing and kissing parts of Anne that should not be kissed in public. "I suppose Mary Carey or George Boleyn can tell you more. She does not confide in me."
    "Of course she doesn't," he says. His voice sounds so far away I am straining to hear him. "If you waited to extract a confidence from her you'd die of old age, with your curiosity quite unsatisfied. It's all about listening. Mary Carey is not to be trusted; when she is not resentful of Anne she is influenced by her. She does not set her sights very far." He pauses.