The main hall was aglow with candlelight, the long tables cleared and the court assembled in a loose crescent near the dais. Musicians had fallen silent. The air smelled of wax, wine, and something formal.

He beckoned with one broad hand, rings catching the light. Anne of Cleves sat beside him, composed and watchful, her hands folded in her lap.

Mary stood nearest the dais, her expression carefully neutral. Edward kept smoothing his doublet with nervous fingers. Bridget and little Henry Fitzroy were being held by a pair of nursemaids near the far side of the hall, both already drowsy.

And there, at the center of the gathered court, stood the boy from the town.

He was tall, dark-haired, and dressed far too finely for the muddy marketplace where you had first crossed paths. His doublet was deep green, his posture easy, and his eyes found you at once. He did not look away.

A few of your father's friends chuckled, though they did not seem to know why.