Free Six of One by JoAnn Spears Page B

“Perhaps a bit more Dickensian than Tudor overall, but plenty Merrie Olde English enough for just dues.”
    With my comment, Margaret Beaufort and Elizabeth of York turned and followed Kat out of the room, their trains sweeping the rushes on the floor as they went. Elizabeth had the last word. “The rest of our ‘ensemble,’ as you call us, waits upon your pleasure, Dolly. We will send the young ones to you next. Perhaps after Kat’s artifice, their artlessness will convince you that we are not play-acting here. This is serious business, Dolly; you’ll find out just how serious before the night is out.”
    Margaret gave me a royal wave in farewell, allowing me intentionally, I think, one last look at those remarkably long and slender fingers of hers. When she was young, her hands must have been the most beautiful things imaginable. No wonder all those men had crushes on her.

Chapter Thirteen
    “It’s All Greek to Me” or “Latin-Lovers”
     
    There were no timepieces in the room, and I could see only darkness through the arrow-slit windows, so it was impossible for me to tell what time it was. The state of the candles and their wicks probably held a clue, if I only would have known how to use them as a gauge. But I did not have much time to wonder about it. The young people came through the door, as promised, almost immediately. They were girls—three of them. The eldest was really more of a young woman than a girl, close to thirty by the look of her. She was not one of the world’s great beauties, but she had, as they say, a pleasant face. She was definitely older than the other two, who looked to be in their early to middle teens. All three resembled each other. Which Tudor characters had they sent me this time? I wondered. I would be ashamed of myself if I was not able to guess them more and more quickly as the night wore on.
    The older of the two teenagers before me was very lively. She reminded me of Harry’s daughter Lizzie, and she looked about the same age. With those carroty locks, she couldn’t possibly be anyone but the Princess Elizabeth, burgeoning Virgin Queen and Kat’s own poppet. She actually resembled her great-grandmother, Margaret Beaufort, to a striking degree. Like Margaret, she was tall and slender, and she had the same beautiful, tapering fingers. I couldn’t help it; it just burbled out of me. “Hello, Miss Firecracker!” I said. “You must be Princess Elizabeth!”
    Trying to make up for my informality, I curtsied deeply as I said this. Even so, my statement elicited winces all around.
    “I apologize for the Firecracker soubriquet,” I said. “It was only a tribute to the young lady’s fiery red hair.”
    “I have to agree, the firecracker is reflective of my cousin Elizabeth’s temperament. It does tend to make itself felt, no matter how hard she tries to conceal it.” The youngest of the trio, a pale girl with a serious demeanor, validated my guess. She clearly felt responsible for toeing the social line and easing over an awkward moment. She looked very much as though she wished she was somewhere else, a lot like my cousin Jean had looked earlier, back at the Rainbow Lounge.
    The young Elizabeth was not about to be outdone. “I have nothing to conceal!” she said. “If our guest thinks of blazing ascension in my connection, there is no need for her to apologize for it!”
    “Our guest’s allusion is also germane to fiery objects burning those around them, even if such harm is unintentional,” the eldest girl said to Elizabeth. Then she turned her attention to me.
    “It is not your allusion we take exception to, Dolly. It is the use of the word ‘princess’—or the title ‘Lady,’ or even the word ‘queen,’ in our association. We request that you avoid the use of these words altogether when you address any of us. Rank is a very sore and highly disputed subject for many of us here, especially my sister and me. We have agreed that allowing our guests to use