Chapter 2 — The Rose's Keeper

The palace loomed ahead, its windows dark except for a single torch by the service entrance. She ducked through the low doorway that led to the scullery, a route she had used a hundred times in childhood when she and Mary would steal sweetmeats from the cooks. The smell of cold grease and herbs clung to the stone walls. She pressed herself against the damp wall, listening.

Nothing.

She counted to thirty before she let herself breathe. The black rose was still in her palm, its silk petals warm from her skin. She cupped it carefully, afraid to crush it. Thomas had pressed it into her hand with such urgency—a clue, a warning, a promise. She did not know which.

She slipped up the back stairs to the women's gallery, her skirts brushing the worn steps. The corridor was empty. Her chamber door stood ajar, the candle she had left burning now guttering in its holder. She pushed the door open and stepped inside, closing it behind her with a soft click.

The room was as she had left it. The bed curtains were drawn back, the fire reduced to embers. She crossed to her writing desk and slid open the secret compartment beneath the inkwell—a hollow space she had discovered in her first month at court, meant for love letters and, now, for silk roses. She placed the black rose inside and closed the compartment, then sat heavily on the edge of the bed.

Her hands were trembling. She clasped them in her lap.

A soft knock at the door made her jerk upright.

"Mistress Anne?" A low voice, female, careful.

"Yes?" Anne forced her voice steady.

The door opened a crack, and a young woman slipped inside. She was dressed as a lady's maid, her cap pulled low, but Anne recognized her at once: Margaret Wyatt, a girl she had known since childhood. Margaret's father was a gentleman of the king's chamber, but she was no servant—she was a friend, though one who had grown distant since Anne's star had risen.

"Margaret—what are you doing here?"

Margaret shut the door and pressed her back against it. "I was watching the gardens from the east gallery. I saw you meet Lord Ashford."

Anne's blood turned cold. "You were the one?"

"No. The guard who followed you—I sent him away with a false message from the queen. He thought you had gone to the stillroom for a tisane. But I saw Thomas give you something. A rose?"

Anne did not answer. She studied Margaret's face in the dim candlelight. There was no malice there, only worry.

"I am on your side, Anne," Margaret said softly. "I have always been. But you must be careful. There is talk that someone in the king's inner circle is searching the chapel records. They know something is missing."

"The ledger?" Anne whispered before she could stop herself.

Margaret's eyes widened. "You know of it? Thomas told you?" She stepped closer. "Anne, that book—the names in it. My father is listed. I do not know why, but he would never harm you. He is not part of whatever this is."

Anne stood. "Your father? How can you be certain?"

"Because he told me he found the book years ago. He hid it beneath the chapel floor to keep it from the men who wrote it. He did not know Thomas would find it. He meant to destroy it."

Anne's mind raced. Thomas had found the ledger by accident. But Margaret's father had intentionally hidden it. That changed everything. "Your father knows what the black rose means?"

Margaret nodded. "It is a marker—used by a secret council that believes the Tudors are not the true heirs. They have been waiting for a chance to place their own claimant on the throne. The rose is left as a sign that a target has been marked for removal."

"A claimant? Who?"

"I do not know. My father would not tell me. But he said the rose was left with the ledger as a warning—that the council knows someone has discovered their payments. And now Thomas has the book, and you have the rose. They will come for you both."

A chill ran down Anne's spine. "Then why are you telling me this?"

"Because I want to help. And because I am afraid for him." Margaret's voice caught. "My father is not a strong man. If the council suspects him—"

A knock cut through her words. This time it was sharp, commanding.

"Mistress Boleyn? A message from the king."

Anne and Margaret exchanged a glance. Anne smoothed her gown and opened the door. A page stood there, his face impassive. He held out a sealed parchment.

"His Majesty requests your presence in his privy chamber at dawn. A matter of some urgency."

Anne took the letter, her fingers cold. "Tell His Majesty I will attend."

The page bowed and left.

She closed the door and met Margaret's gaze. "Dawn is four hours away. If the council moves tonight—"

"Then you must not be here when they arrive. But you cannot refuse the king." Margaret bit her lip. "Unless I go in your place. I can pretend to be you, just long enough for you to find Thomas and warn him."

Anne stared at her. The risk was enormous. If Margaret was caught, they would both be accused of treason. But the alternative—sitting alone in her chamber while enemies circled—was worse.

"No," Anne said. "I will go to the king. But you must find Thomas. Tell him to hide the ledger and destroy the rose. Tell him to meet me tomorrow at the tiltyard, after the noon joust. I will find a way to escape the king's watch."

Margaret nodded once, then slipped out the door as silently as she had come.

Anne sat down at her desk and opened the king's message. It was short, in Henry's own hand: "Dearest Anne—I have need of your counsel before the council meets. Come alone."

Alone. The word seemed deliberate. A trap, or a test?

She drew the secret compartment open again and touched the black rose. Its petals felt fragile, as if they might crumble at the slightest pressure. She left it where it was and closed the compartment.

Dawn was coming. She would face the king, and she would smile. But she would not be alone in the dark. Thomas was out there, and Margaret, and a secret council that thought a black rose could topple a throne.

They were wrong.

--- CONTINUITY ---