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1.“You are so lucky,” says the Queen, apropos of nothing, “to be able to dress in yellow. It shouldn’t suit my complexion at all.”
Anne pauses in her embroidery to consider this. It’s not inaccurate, she supposes; Queen Catherine’s rosy cheeks and red-gold hair are shown to best advantage against the sparkling blue of the sky. Or the crimson of a rose’s heart or the cream of her bedspread—but ah, that is dangerous speculation, indeed.
“Gold does, though,” Anne quips instead, “and surely that is more important.”
“Perhaps.” The Queen pauses, and Anne gathers up her courage like a gown.
”In the French court,” she muses, “that would be considered an overture. What should England make of it?”
”An observation,” says the Queen, but a dimple dances in her cheek.
2. For Her Highness’s birthday, Anne bedeckens the royal chambers with primroses.
“Impossible,” Queen Catherine gasps. “Why, it is midwinter—“
She pauses, and, Anne expects, studies the flowers closely enough to see that every tiny petal is made of silk, sewn together until they look almost real.
Catherine begins to laugh. “Oh, Anne,” she says. “My clever, clever Anne.”
And something in Anne’s chest flares to life like the sun.
3. The moon hangs low and yellow through the window, and Catherine’s voice is warm. Her skin is warm, too, and her hands, and she laughs and laughs like Anne has never heard her before.
It has been a full fifteen days since the King has visited his wife. His wife, at present, is trying very much not to mind.
Catherine says, “I pray you will never know loneliness, my dear—such a weary, withering thing it is! To know it, you’ll find, is to die a thousand times before your end.”
“Not I,” Anne promises, “so long as you live.”
Devotion takes the lists against despair and—just so!—is utterly disappointed. The Queen does not so much as turn her head in Anne’s direction.
”Only wait,” whispers Catherine. “You’ll see.”
4. The whistle pendant dangles from Catherine’s fingers, her lips icy blue. She says, “Gold might have suited me well, but it seems it suits you too.”
Anne does not apologize, not for the gift given her by the King, not for new ambitions that take the place of old hopes. She calmly finishes the last of the pastries Catherine sets out for her ladies, flavored with exotic lemon, and squares her shoulders.
“Better gilded sweetness than sour milk,” she says pertly, and dips into a curtsy before she departs.
Her mouth tastes sharp and bitter and empty all the way down the distant stairs; Anne forces herself to ignore it.
5. Only—Anne sometimes remembers being newly arrived at court, homesick for Paris or Hever or something entirely unknown. She stops by a window, ensnared by song.
“An oriole,” someone says behind her, and Anne, horrified, turns to find the Queen. She descends to the floor, but the Queen (so lovely, so kind) takes no offense.
“There,” she says, pointing at a small yellow bird. “It misses its mate. I often wonder what manner of creature could inspire such beauty from one who loved it.”
The Queen turns to go, and yet Anne thinks: you could, perhaps. I might imagine someone clad in a color just so, longing ever for one like you.
The words die on her lips, unspoken.