Page 17 of The Rest is History
And most unsettling of all: her neck. That white, swanlike neck that men of paint and words celebrated and Henry once loved, before destroying it in the most sickening way.
The neck I worship every day at school is now beautifully on display, Anne’s famousBnecklace hangs a few inches above Elodie’s perfect (from what little I’ve seen) breasts.
Holy fucking Christ.
She’s nailed it. The posture. The gait. And something else—something intangible. She’s channelling Anne. I can see it already. I can see it in the flash of her eyes and the challenging tilt of her chin as she sees my gaze on her.
She can already feel the power that comes with this role. That comes from aligning herself with a woman who captivates the public as much today as she did her contemporaries north of four hundred years ago.
She’s the most fucking beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I put out a hand to stop Greta, one of the stewards, in mid-flow. I cannot listen to her drivel right now.
I walk to my queen.
‘Your Majesty,’ she says, but in a tongue-in-cheek manner. There’s a twist of her mouth that suggests she’s self-conscious, embarrassed, even, about playing along with this (admittedly) childish charade.
‘My queen,’ I say, with a tilt of my head and a touch of swagger. Henry would most likely have called Annedarling, which is how he addressed her in the love letters that exist, bewilderingly, at the Vatican of all places.
But I don’t want to freak her out too much.
Not yet, anyway.
Given the ice-cold shoulder I give her at school, I imagine she’ll need time to acclimatise to playing happy families with her seemingly hostile but really heartsick boss. She won’t be used to bantering with me at all, given I never engage when she attempts it.
I shut it down.
I shut her out.
And, in case I’m shooting up your what-a-dick scale at the speed of light, I’ll tell you this.
Every time I do it, every time I see the hurt and embarrassment and disappointment in her eyes, a piece of me dies.
‘Alright, lovely?’ Shelby asks. I wasn’t even aware of her until now.
My focus was somewhere else entirely.
‘My queen,’ I mutter again, with far less enthusiasm.
‘This is feeling more and more like a Tudor harem.’ Elodie’s gaze darts from me to Shelby.
I shudder. ‘God forbid.’
‘He wouldn’t have the stamina, would you darlin’?’ Shelby coos.
‘I wouldn’t have the stamina for you lot outside the Royal Bedchamber, let alone inside it,’ I assure her. A glance at Elodie shows those huge eyes of hers widening. This is a side of me she isnotfamiliar with.
Shelby squishes my jaw between her thumb and fingers. ‘Damn right.’ Her eyes narrow slyly and she jerks her head towards Elodie. ‘Nice Queen Anne you’ve found yourself, eh? You dark horse, you.’
The last thing I need is the spectacularly indiscreet Shelby stirring up shit.
‘Elodie is a colleague,’ I tell her stiffly. ‘She’s an excellent historian and she’s well qualified to bring the character to life for the visitors.’
Shelby winks at me. ‘You tell yourself that, you cheeky boy.’ She must be a decade younger than me, so how she makes me feel like a naughty schoolboy, I’m unsure.
Moving on.
‘Let’s go entertain some tourists.’ I hold my arm out for Elodie to take. She eyes me suspiciously before sliding her hand gingerly around the crook of my arm like I have scabies or something. Fuck’s sake.
