The king had taken her as his ward.

That meant, from now on, the Crown would be responsible for looking after her. She’d have someplace to live, and food on her table, and clothes as she needed, until she got married.

I couldn’t believe it. Sally had been terrified about what would happen to her once we returned to London. Before we’d left, she’d been employed as a servant to one of the court ladies. With her hand injured, it was unlikely anyone would take her back.

While in Brighton, I’d asked Lord Ashcombe privately if he’d see that she be looked after. I’d only meant that he might inquire if anyone at Court would consider hiring her again. I hadn’t imagined this.

“Are you pleased, my dear?” Charles said.

She stood there, hands covering her face, and sobbed.

He laughed. “Excellent. Until tomorrow, then. Richard?”

Lord Ashcombe followed him out of the room.

CHAPTER 7

WE DIDN’T GET ANY TIME to celebrate. Tom and I had barely crowded around Sally to congratulate her when a pair of servants stepped in.

Tom and I were to be given a room at the palace. Sally was told, with many apologies, that they had been unable to find empty quarters suitable for her at Whitehall, so she’d be housed at Berkshire House instead, which was all the way on the other side of Saint James’s Park.

I was disappointed by that. I knew from my time in Paris that space in any palace was hard to come by. Nobles, courtiers, and other hangers-on measured their importance by how close they lived to the king. The lower rungs considered themselves lucky to receive even a closet turned into a makeshift bedroom, with nothing but a palliasse and a lantern to fight the dark.

Still, I liked Sally being around. I liked how cheerful she was, even when things weren’t going well. I liked how sometimes she’d sing, under her breath, not even realizing she was doing it. And I liked… well, I liked a lot of things, I guess.

It wasn’t as if she was gone forever, I knew. Nonetheless, I was disappointed—and maybe a bit worried. Because when the servants escorted her away, the guards went with her. It didn’t feel quite natural. Almost like they were protecting her.

Was I reading too much into it? Maybe. I still didn’t think it was anything good.

As for Tom and me, our quarters ended up much better than a closet. The room had clearly once been a parlor; the couches and tables that had occupied the space were still there, piled in one corner. In their place were two small beds opposite the window, which had an amazing view of the Thames. A log burned in the fireplace, filling the room with a smoky warmth.

In one corner was a bucket of water. I asked the servant who’d escorted us if this was meant for washing, and was told with barely restrained amusement that all the rooms in the palace had them. Apparently, Whitehall had a bit of a history of the buildings catching fire. If one broke out, we were to grab our bucket and rush to the blaze. I avoided Tom’s eyes as this was said.