Free Murder at Whitehall by Amanda Carmack Page A

books off her table and kicked them out of her way. Shestalked to her one small window and nudged the curtain open to peer outside.
    Below her was the snow-dusted courtyard of the inn, where she could see some of the servants huddling together in the cold wind in order to laugh for a moment without the landlady shouting at them. Beyond the gate she could glimpse the spires and chimneys of the city, looking golden and enchanted in the gray light of day.
    When she had lived in the country, she would pore over maps and engravings of London and dream of the day when she would see the great city for herself. She would envision shops full of silks and books and ribbons, the people she would meet, even the queen herself. She had glimpsed such things on her journey, peeking out from her litter to see the sparkling shop windows, the grand palaces along the Strand, the ladies in their beautiful gowns, the handsome young men. She had even gawked at terrible sites, like the heads of traitors staring down sightlessly from the top of the bridge.
    But ever since then, London had been only this room.
    As she watched the courtyard below, a large group came out of the inn and hurried toward the street. They wore beautiful cloaks of fur and velvet, embroidered doublets and plumed caps. Ice skates gleamed on ribbons tossed over the men’s shoulders, and they were all laughing and merry together. One of the ladies seemed to slip on the snowy ground, and her escort caught her up in his arms.
    With them was the lady who had called out to Mary on the stairs, her cloak a distinctive red in the gloom of the day. How Mary had longed to answer her, to ask her questions about life at court! But she had become frightened and run away, and now the lady was gone.
    The woman in the red cloak glanced up, and Mary instinctively drew back into her room, letting the curtain hide her from the world outside. She was going to have to be much more careful now. She did not want to get into trouble, not again.

CHAPTER SIX
    K ate heard the most wondrous sound coming from some distant place in the palace, a music that sounded almost like that of a lute, but not quite. It was lighter, higher, more resonant, almost like a summer cloud.
    She followed the sound as if drawn by a magical spell. The queen was in a meeting of her privy council, so the privy and presence chambers were not as crowded as usual. But the room from where the sweet music emanated, one of the smaller sitting rooms off the waterside gallery,
was
full—mostly with ladies who had obviously gathered to watch the song’s player.
    It was one of Bishop de Quadra’s handsome new secretaries, Senor Gomez. He balanced an instrument in his hands that looked almost similar to the Andalusian guitar Kate had seen a few times, but this instrument was smaller, with a curved body and longer neck. From its six double strings, he coaxed the most amazingly sweet sounds.
    Kate lingered in the doorway, listening to the bittersweet song. It sounded like a slow, warm summer’s day, and seemed to push her out of the chilly, drafty winter palace into some distant, sunny grove, filledwith the scent of oranges and a balmy, salty sea breeze. It captured what she always hoped to find in a song, a certain mood, a place, a feeling. It was ever elusive, and she longed to reach out and grab it in her hand. She closed her eyes, hoping to hold on to it.
    The magical song ended in a long, curling note, and her eyes flew open. She was startled to find herself still in Whitehall, and even more to find Senor Gomez looking directly at her.
    He was indeed handsome, in an almost unreal way, like a painting, or like his own song. His eyes were dark and lustrous, unreadable even as he smiled. That smile widened, and she could see why the ladies gathered around him—and why even Lady Catherine Grey, who never lacked for admirers, might enjoy his company.
    â€œHola, senora! ¿Cómo te va todo?” he said.