Madeleine sat forward. "She was following my instructions."

"She is your lady-in-waiting," Theodora corrected. "Not Whitehall’s mistress of the household." Theodora smiled faintly. "Do not look so pained. I am not sending her to the cells, the laundry is far more educational."

"You cannot be serious."

"I am rarely anything else." Theodora turned back to Elodie, her expression settling into cool finality. "Since you thought yourself Whitehall’s head maid, listen to me carefully. You will be spending the next three months in the palace laundry, from dawn till dusk. I do not want to see you anywhere else."

"Then who is supposed to attend to me?" Madeleine demanded.

Theodora turned slowly. "You should have thought of that before you disobeyed me."

Madeleine drew herself up against the pillows, anger burning through the sulk that had settled over her face. "You cannot simply send her to scrub linen because you are displeased."

"I can," Theodora said. "I just did. You thought you had won because you earned yourself one month’s freedom," Theodora continued. "How pathetic."

Madeleine’s face sharpened. "I did win."

"Yes. A magnificent triumph." Theodora looked around the chamber. "Shall I summon musicians?" She turned back to Elodie. "Get out."

Elodie curtsied immediately, lowered her eyes, turned, and left without another word.

"You have done well for yourself, Princess," Theodora said. "Truly. Congratulations. You won the last round," she continued. "You strutted about Whitehall as if the palace already belonged to you." Theodora smiled faintly. "Anyways, life must go on. The clergy will come for you tomorrow to begin the formal preparations for your marriage."

The churchmen would examine the marriage terms, instruct her in the duties expected of an English queen, arrange confession and devotional observances, and remove her from court for a period of spiritual preparation.

"It may not be exile like mine was," Theodora added, "but it will get you away from Whitehall for a while."

"I cannot go tomorrow."

Theodora’s brows rose. "And why is that?"

"Because I have asked the royal physician to examine me," Madeleine said. "I need to know whether I carry His Highness’s child. My most recent courses have not come."

Theodora’s face went blank. Every thought came to a violent halt.

A child.

No.

A child would complicate everything. A royal child would not merely complicate matters; it would nail Madeleine to England’s throne before the wedding vows were spoken. The court would rally around the prospect of an heir. The Church would insist upon haste. Henry’s doubts, desires, and inconvenient love for Livia would become irrelevant beneath the weight of succession.

Theodora looked at the princess, who had already placed one protective hand against her belly despite having nothing more than a missed course and an abundance of hope. "It is too early for certainty."

Madeleine’s mouth tightened. "The physician may still recognise the signs."

"He may ask questions, examine your complexion, study your urine." Theodora smiled thinly. She moved toward the door before Madeleine could study her face too closely. "A physician’s questions will not occupy the whole day, Princess. You will still leave for your religious instruction."

"But—"

"The matter is settled." Theodora walked out.

The moment the door closed behind her, her pace quickened. She had to act immediately. Too many pieces were moving at once.

She stopped abruptly and turned to one of her attendants. "Have a tea table prepared in the gardens," she ordered. "For the princess, Lady Bella, and me."

The maid curtsied. "Yes, Your Grace."

"And find the royal physician first. Send him to me."

The maid curtsied again and hurried away. Theodora resumed walking, her mind arranging possibilities with ruthless speed.

She could kill two birds with one stone. Get rid of whatever prospects of a child and manipulate Bella into inviting Livia back to Whitehall in one tea sitting.

*****

Richard was going mad. Tabitha Crowe was driving him there one rigid rule at a time. The woman was always near Livia. Always. At breakfast, she stood behind her chair. During walks, she followed at precisely the distance required to prevent intimacy while still hearing every whispered word.

She had even arranged for a guard to stand outside Livia’s chamber at night.

A guard.

Inside his own house.

Richard had demanded to know what danger she expected to repel.

Tabitha had looked him directly in the eye and said, "You, Your Grace."

He was suffering from withdrawal. There was no nobler term for it. He missed Livia’s warmth beside him, her hand slipping into his, the quiet conversations that grew intimate. He missed kissing her. He missed the smell of her hair and the soft little sound she made when he fucked her.

Now, if he stood too close, Tabitha appeared. The truly insulting part was that Livia did not appear nearly as distressed by their separation. She had her precious books to occupy her, after all. Books did not attempt to kiss her in corridors. Books did not stare at her mouth during supper. Books were apparently excellent company and required no supervision.

Richard was beginning to resent literature.

That evening, they sat at opposite ends of the long dining table. Richard sat at one end. Livia sat at the other.

Between them stretched candles, platters, flowers, and what felt like the entire distance between England and France.

Tabitha stood near Livia, overseeing the maids as they served roasted capon, stewed vegetables, bread, and sauce. Richard’s valet attended him, filling his wine cup.

Richard stared down the table. "So," he called, "how was your day?"

Livia looked up. "It was fine. I caught up on some reading," she continued. "I visited the tenant farmers and got to know some of their families."

Richard leaned forward. "What?"

"I said I visited the farmers. Did you know Mrs. Whitaker is a dressmaker? A very talented one, apparently. She makes gowns for women in the village, but few people beyond it know. It would help her greatly if more ladies knew she possessed such skill."

Richard watched her speak, catching perhaps one word in four between the clatter of plates, the crackling fire, and the ridiculous length of the table.