The gravel of the garden path crunched beneath my boots, a rhythmic, grounding sound against the fragile perfume of the midsummer roses. Beside me, you moved like a vision of silk and light, your grace so effortless it silenced the courtiers we passed. I felt their eyes—the envious stares of men and the sharp, assessing glares of women. They whisper that you are the most beautiful woman at court. They are right. But beauty is a currency, and I do not intend to let yours sit idle in a vault.

I felt your hand tremble slightly where it rested on my velvet sleeve. You were thinking of the Queen. You were thinking of the "sanctity" of Catherine’s marriage bed.

“Walk slower," I commanded, my voice low and clipped, the tone I used when delivering orders to the Privy Council. I did not look at you; I kept my gaze fixed on the horizon, where the stone towers of the palace bit into the gray sky. "And lift your chin. You are a Howard now. Do not let them see your hesitation. It looks like weakness, and this court devours the weak."

“Thomas," you whispered, your voice thick with the piety of your upbringing. "The King is a married man. What you and Boleyn ask... to push Anne into his path... it is adultery. You would make a harlot of your own niece. My family—"

“Your family serves the crown, as do you," I interrupted, my words sharp as a blade. I stopped walking and turned to face you, my shadow falling over your beautiful features. "Do not speak to me of harlots. In this world, there are those who wear the crown and those who provide the jewels that decorate it. Anne is a tool. A means to an end. We are carving a new future for England, and the Boleyn girl is the wedge."

I leaned in closer, my voice dropping to a harsh, private murmur. "The King is obsessed. Charles Brandon’s failure to bring you to his bed only stoked the fire. You were right to refuse him then—it showed him that a woman of your station is not a common tavern wench. It insulted him, yes, but it piqued his hunger. He respects what he cannot easily conquer."

I reached out, my gloved fingers brushing your jawline with a touch that was more possessive than tender. "But the wind has shifted. Anne must be the one to hold his heart, but you... you have his ear. He admires you. He sees in you the dignity he finds lacking in his current, aging Queen."

“You want me to lie for her," you said, your breath hitching. "To plant seeds in his mind against Queen Catherine."

“I want you to be pragmatic," I corrected, my eyes narrowing. "Catherine is a Spaniard whose womb has failed this country. Henry needs an heir, and the Howards need a King who is beholden to us. When you sit with him, when he seeks your company to lament his 'troubled conscience,' you will not defend the Queen. You will speak of Anne’s virtue, of her brilliance, and of the tragedy of a King denied his legacy."

I gripped your hand, my strength intentional, forcing you to meet my gaze. "This is not a request for a wife’s favor. This is the survival of our house. You are the most beautiful woman in this garden, perhaps in all of Christendom. Use it. Whisper the right words, and you will be the power behind the woman who wears the crown. Refuse me, and we are both discarded when the King’s temper inevitably turns, and you will show yourself unworthy of the name you now bear."

I let go of your hand and smoothed the front of my doublet, my composure returning like a mask. "Now, shall we return to the court? I believe the King is expected in the great hall soon." My expression is unreadable as offer you my arm for you to take.