Free Midnight Never Come by Marie Brennan Page A

Queen’s watching chamber. From them, he learned that Elizabeth was having a wakeful night, as she often did since the recent death of her favorite, the Earl of Leicester. To distract herself, she had gone to a set of rooms on the southern side of the Fountain Court to listen to one of her ladies play the virginals.
    The door was guarded, of course, and Deven was not in that elite rank of courtiers who could intrude on the Queen uninvited. He bowed to his two fellows from the Gentlemen Pensioners, then turned to the weary-eyed usher who was trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.
    “My most sincere apologies for disturbing her Majesty, but I have been sent hither to bring her a message of some importance.” Deven brought the sealed parchment out and passed it over with another bow. “It was Sir James Croft’s most express wish that it be given to her Grace as soon as may be.”
    The usher took it with a sigh. “What does the message concern?”
    Deven bit back the acid response that was his first reflex, and said with ill-concealed irritation, “I do not know. ’Tis sealed, and I did not inquire.”
    “Very well. Did Sir James wish a reply?”
    “He did not say.”
    “Wait here, then.” The usher opened the door and slipped inside. A desultory phrase from the virginals floated out, and a feminine laugh. Not the Queen’s.
    When the usher reemerged, he had something in his hand. “No response to Sir James,” he said, “but her Majesty bids you carry these back to the Paradise Chamber.” He held out a pair of ivory flutes.
    Deven took them hesitantly, trying to think of a way around embarrassing himself. He failed; the usher gave him a pitying smile and asked, “Do you know the way?”
    “I do not,” he was forced to confess. Hampton Court had grown by stages; now it was a sprawling accretion of courtyards and galleries, surpassed in England only by Whitehall itself, which his fellows reassured him was even more confusing to explore.
    “The quickest path would be through these chambers to the Long Gallery,” the usher said. “But as they are in use, go back to the Great Hall . . .”
    It wasn’t as bad as he feared. A pair of galleries ran north to south through the back part of the palace, connecting to the Long Gallery of the south side, with the chambers where Elizabeth had chosen to reside for this visit. At the most southeasterly corner of the palace, and the far end of the Long Gallery, lay the Paradise Chamber.
    Deven unlocked the door and nearly dropped the flutes. The candle he bore threw back a thousand glittering points of light; raising it, he saw that the dark chamber beyond was crammed to the walls with riches beyond words. Countless gems and trifles of gold or silver; tapestries sumptuously embroidered in colored silks; pearl-studded cushions; and, dominating one wall, an unused throne beneath a canopy of estate. The royal arms of England decorated the canopy, encircled by the Garter, and the diamond that hung from the end of the Garter could have set Deven up in style for the rest of his life.
    He realized he had stopped breathing, and made himself start again. No, not the rest of his life. Ten years, maybe. And ten years’ fortune would not do him much good if he were executed for stealing it.
    The entire contents of the room, though . . .
    No wonder they called it Paradise.
    He set the flutes on a table inlaid with mother-of-pearl and backed out again, locking the door on the blinding wealth within, before it could tempt him more.
They would hardly miss one small piece, in all that clutter. . . .
    Perhaps it was his own guilty thoughts that made him so edgy. When Deven heard a sound, he whirled like an animal brought to bay, and saw someone standing not far from him.
    After a moment, he relaxed a trifle. Rain had begun to deluge the world outside, obscuring the moon, and so the Long Gallery was lit only by his one candle, not enough to show him the figure clearly, but the silhouette