A fiercely needed sibling conference (sans spouses, and betrothed) was interrupted by the sudden arrival of a Howard messenger from Kenninghall, giving them advance warning that a slain deer was on its way from their forests, to Hever's kitchen.
By the time it is made venison, the manner of their conversation has mellowed to a sunny drunkenness.
"This is very good," George puts in, gesturing to his plate by fork.
"Does it not remind you of that stablecat we had? Before Mistress Anne's departure to L'Archiduchesse?"
A peal of Mary's laughter, and Anne's blush.
-
George remembers how fiercely she had defended the kitten, risking the green stains to her fine gowns by kneeling in grass to pet the molten gold, reciting stories and analogies: they should treat him like an orphan cousin, she remembers aloud the litter, and swears he's sweeter than his every white, silky sibling; the ones with only the dots of the flames that are his own entire coat.
He scratches.
Not me.
No one cares, he said, resolutely turning heel, stung and jealous and sounding like it to his own ears.
Anne was never the one that saw the mice left on the stone sundial of their garden, smeared red like some pagan, sacrificial altar.
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