— MARK SMEATON.
Panic rose within her chest, the shell of her palms sweating as she clenched them together in desperation. Before arriving at court she did not know what dangers lurked behind dark corners and even worse, what threats lay there in the light of day. The more time that passes, the more Jane had come to understand that palaces were not places of Utopia, but instead a playground for the cunning and belligerent.
Never in her life had she been confined to one area before, placed on lockdown without any knowledge of her family. That was the true worry, the one that led her to despair. A gentleman had died and she did not know the whereabouts of her family. Losing her father had been heartbreaking, but to lose another would be too much for her to bear.
Jane glanced at the man who she shared the confined space with, a familiar face that could be recalled alongside the memory of too many cups of wine. ❛ I do hope that they will allow us to depart from these quarters soon. My nerves have been shaken by this tragic occasion and I hope for the comfort of my family. ❜
@smeatonm
Though painstaking at conveying at least the semblance of comfort, Mark had very little solace in him. His head whirled with apprehensions of his own, though none of the people he held dear - except Anne, had her heart recovered, or Elena, had her wits dwindled - would be in shooting distance of the new king. Certainly not beset at his Roman elbow, awaiting the glass.
“Lady Seymour”, he began, and hitched one step closer to gather her by the shoulders, which shook like pinions under his feeble grip, “I shall try my best to steady them back in place, then. I could bet all my money - which is not too far-fetched, mind you, since we spend our every afternoon doing just so - that your family is safe. And they must fret over well-being as judiciously as you fret over theirs.” His smile was temperate, as if seeking reconciliation with the very turn of events. Faintly, he recalled some dalliance with the girl, some meddling to and fro on the delicate shell that was every debutante’s behavior, some touch upon the core. But these things were the day’s order, more in the old reign than in the new one (what with the king’s new circle overseeing them all like puritan crows, or perhaps spartan figures) and they hardly unsettled his thoughts. It was not cruelty that moved him to bewitch women so - and he couldn’t even vow it was bewitching that did it, and not a desire of their own, a chance to take initiative. It was simply love of life, one that could be delegated to any etiquette or risk-appraisal. In truth, he could not even remember if it was he who had wooed her, or Wyatt, or George.
