Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) by Thea Atkinson Page A

watered.
    For a moment she saw him as she had years ago, when he
informed her of her impending work abroad. The entire memory ran past her while
she studied him. The young Thomas smiled at her.
    "I selected you to go, my Nan." His finger wound
in her hair.
    "Me, My lord Father? But why not Mary?" She
couldn’t believe her good fortune. The Archduchess Marguerite—how exciting. She
gazed up into his eyes. They crinkled when he was pleased, and they crinkled
now. The tiny lines around the corners deepened, and her stomach fluttered to
know she had pleased him. He straightened instantly, sent a furtive glance to
the door that led to the parlor. Anne could hear Mary’s voice above George’s as
they argued over a honey cake.
    "Mary is a good girl, Nan. But she’s not as clever as
you are. She has not our wit, our intellect." He looked back at her.
Caught up in the compliments he paid her, she rushed to embrace him.
    "Now, mind you honor the Boleyn name." His voice
harshened, and she stopped just short of hugging his waist. She looked up into
his face. It had changed in the instant, so that the lines around his eyes
disappeared and the tight ones around his mouth returned.
    "Father, I shall do my best to show the Archduchess you
have chosen wisely."
    She'd stood straight, wanting to brush her hair behind her
ear, but dared not move.
    He'd given her a dubious look before smoothing her hair and
walking away. Now in the bower room nearly ten years later, she watched the
same face, make the same transformation. For a second her eyes burned, and she
ached to embrace him, tell him she wanted him to be proud of her. That she’d do
anything to please him, to have him love her. She wanted the crinkles, which
had deepened in the years to etchings, to lengthen as far as his ears in a
heartfelt smile. She couldn’t stand seeing his mouth crook in that tiny, wan
grin that made her want to sob.
    "Please, Father, I shall do my best." Her voice
sounded like the one of her teens, like an uncertain young woman and she hated
hearing it. She cleared her throat, spoke again.
    "I have done naught to encourage my fiancé. I have not
even spoken to him." The lines around his eyes lengthened, so much that
they disappeared into his hairline, became shadows of the gray halo that had
once been deep black. Anne smiled, was moved to touch his sleeve.
    "Always you have been the obedient daughter, Nan."
He touched her hair, smoothed the tresses down against her throat.
    She closed her eyes, savored the caress.
    "I don’t wish to give you up to him, yet the King is
determined." He sighed, snatched his hand to his side.
    "I can’t disappoint His Grace, but neither can I suffer
losing my inheritance." He was talking to himself, really, but it was an
insight she'd not understood before, and she wanted to hear more. So it was
more the King who'd wanted this, not her father.
    She hurried to the corner table, poured him a draft of warm
ale. She doubted it would soothe him—how could it, for it was urine warm. But
it gave her something to do, something to make her feel useful. In a moment she
had it in his hands and he was seeking a chair. She didn’t want to rush to get
him one, hated feeling so obvious. Eventually she decided to plump a few
pillows and arrange them on the seat next to the hearth. He took it, stared
down into the goblet.
    "If the gentleman seeks your audience, or asks to speak
with you, find a reason to ward him off. I may be able to dissuade Henry from
forcing the issue."
    She could barely contain her excitement. Perhaps her father
knew of Lord Percy. Perhaps even Mary had told him and he recognized the
opportunity as a more lucrative union. She dared not breathe, dared not ask
him. But surely this was it. He had been so set on the Butler betrothal, ’til
now. She knew her father well enough that he’d not let such an opportunity by.
Sweet Heaven, she began to believe she could be happy here. George, Mary, and now
Harry. And to think she