author's note: hello! okay so if you want updates more frequently i would recommend checking this story out on archiveofourown. it's under the same author handle that i have on here, boleynqueens, and the same title "whitehall university". and i update chapters on there as soon as i finish them. that's not me trying to be mean, i have a few reasons for it: 1.) formatting on AO3 in much easier than here, i can do page breaks, i can do block quotes for letters/texts/emails, i can write links, i can write excessive punctuation (people text message with excessive punctuation so i feel it's realistic, but it FF doesn't let me do so), 2.) i can easily reply to all comments, even guest comments, which i can't do on here, and i very much enjoy communicating with my readers, so that's important to me (for example i have 70 comments and 37 kudos on archiveofourown versus 14 reviews on here, despite having more views on ff than AO3), 3) it's a lot easier to edit after i've posted and i notice a typo…here i have to upload a whole other document but on archive i just have to click to edit the text, 4) i can post links for the songs/soundtrack to this story in both the beginning notes and end notes.
if you want to keep reading the story on here i still appreciate it, and i'll still try to update on here as well when i can. just a note that posting on AO3 is a priority for me, reiterating that it's not me trying to be mean/unfair to my readers on here, who i also appreciate, that it's only for the reasons posted above.
anyway, happy reading!
December 16, 2016, Friday
Anne's father comes back from the kitchen, takes a seat in his armchair again, crystal glass of what looks to be scotch in hand.
He swirls it around, smells it, but doesn't drink.
Instead he levels Henry with a stare and begins to tap against his glass with his fingernails.
Tap…tap…tap….tap…
The slow tapping is the only sound in the room, as Henry tries to pretend that it isn't, tries to pretend the older man isn't staring at him, his gaze fixed one the clock above the mantle on the fireplace even as he feels his eyes boring into him.
It's a test and he knows it, the Boleyn patriarch trying to psych him out, so he's not going to say a word until he's spoken to.
7:49 PM
"I can't be here for this," Mary says, crossing her arms, "sorry."
"What do you mean?" Anne asks, folding every single letter and putting it back into the drawer on her study desk, throwing the envelopes on top, and closing it hurriedly.
"I mean I don't support it. I think you should tell him to leave, actually."
"Why?" Anne asks, getting down on the floor and shoving the Little Mermaid bedspread, now all crumpled up on the floor, under her bed, all the way to the back until it's out of sight.
"He told me he just wanted to talk to you, but really…what could he tell you that you don't already know?"
"Well, I don't know," Anne says, pushing her chair into the desk, "but I'd like to find out."
"Look, Anne, I just…don't see how this can end well. And I don't want to see you get hurt, and you already have been…"
"Fine, Mary," Anne says, "go, then."
"I'll be in my room," Mary says, with a wounded expression, "get me when he leaves, I guess."
"Fine," Anne says, turning around and walking over the her window, back to her sister, observing the snow gather in clumps on the grass below, "I will."
Anne waits until she hears the door click shut behind her to give in to the feeling she's been pushing down since Mary warned her of Henry's arrival.
The feeling being: that she's folding up into herself, that she's a CD that keeps skipping a track, a song on repeat, getting caught on the same word, the same beat, over and over again. That she's a button hanging by a thread from a coat, hoping the next gust of wind doesn't make her fall…
Considering the impossibility of the situation before her, Anne takes a seat on the floor, then lies down on her back, looking up at the glow-in-the-dark star constellations still on her ceiling from the 3rd grade.
8:00 PM
"Forgive the tension, please," George says, finally, throwing Henry a verbal life raft, "there have been a lot of hashtag awkward family moments today."
Henry shakes his head, shrugs, smiles, and waves a hand, hoping this conveys "oh, no, I don't sense that at all, really, everything is fine" without him actually speaking those words.
"I don't feel tense," Thomas says finally, taking a careful sip of his drink, "George, could you do me a favor?"
"Sure," George says easily.
"Switch places with the boy…I have some questions for him. I like to be able to look at people directly when I'm speaking to them," he continues with a chilling smile.
"Sorry," George whispers as he gets up and trades seats with Henry.
Anne's father shifts in his seat, looking at Henry as soon as he's settled in to reclaim George's previous seat on the couch.
"What's your GPA?"
"Dad…"
"No, it's fine," Henry says to George, then turning his head back to Mr. Boleyn, he answers, "3.5, as of now, sir."
"As of now?" he drawls, "what does that mean?"
"Well, finals grades aren't posted till next Monday. When they are, I'll know what it is for sure."
"Mmhmm. And beforehand?"
"Sir?"
"What was your GPA at before finals?"
"3.5."
"Then I hope you did well."
"As do I," Henry says, resisting the urge to fidget, tug at this collar, tap his hand against his knee, anything, really, to distract himself from the scrutiny of this man.
Steadiness is a much-admired trait among older men. Or, at least, this type of older man: the head of the family, the patriarch, with a deep timbre to their voice and a certain seriousness to their presence. Henry knows this from his father, who loses his temper rarely (though he often has cause to), raises his voice even less often, but still commands a large number of people, and does so well.
Stoicism and stillness are valued, as they demonstrate maturity and self-control.
Of course, Henry doesn't think about this much. He fidgets his way almost all the way out of his seat in class sometimes, and he's never embarrassed by it.
But he's thinking about it now, as he keeps mentally checking that he's not slouching, as he tries to keep his face in a neutral expression or easy smile, as he tries to appear unaffected by this inquiry rather than intimidated by it.
"And how many languages do you speak?" Mr. Boleyn asks, swirling his drink in his hand again, Henry's gaze flits to it, distracted by the flashiness of the amber-gold liquid as it catches the light.
"I…took Spanish in high school. I'm taking French at the moment, but I only just finished French I, so-"
"Are you fluent?"
"In…?" Henry asks.
It's hot in the living room, and he feels his cheeks warm. Henry knows he still can't risk taking his coat off, and what might be found in the pocket, but he figures he can at least risk losing his scarf, so he tugs it loose from around his neck while he waits for an answer to his question.
"Spanish."
"Well, I'm pretty good, I-"
"If you were stranded in the middle of Mexico, and your phone had died, would you be able to ask for directions easily? And then be able to follow them, back to wherever it was you needed to go? Without getting lost?"
"No," Henry admits, "probably not."
"Then you're not fluent," Anne's father informs him, picking the remote up from the arm of his chair and flicking the power on to the TV, he flips through the channels before settling on a black and white movie.
Henry prays for a reprieve, but he doubts one is coming.
"Anne speaks five," he continues, confirming Henry's doubts but no longer bothering to look at the boy that showed up on his doorstep while he speaks to him, "did you know that?"
"I did, she told me. She's pretty smart, I-"
"'Pretty smart?'" he snaps, "is that what you just said?"
George tenses, his hand gripping the bottom of his seat cushion, throwing Henry a look that seems to say 'God help you'.
"I'm sorry," Henry says, "did I say something to offend-"
"Anne is brilliant; brilliant and dedicated to her learning. She takes after me in that way," Mr. Boleyn says, boastfully, "she was a National Merit Scholar, she was Valedictorian, she's won Speech & Debate awards, essay competitions…"
Anne's father jabs a finger towards the wall with the fireplace, still holding his scotch in his other hand, he points to the large picture frame filled with clipping and certificates above it and says, "Those are only her top recognitions: awards, newspaper articles where she's mentioned, honors she's received…there are more, but I couldn't find a large enough frame."
"I'm sure you're," Mr. Boleyn emphasizes the last word scathingly, draining his drink and pointedly slamming it into the coaster on the table next to him, "'pretty smart'. Anne is something more."
Well, I fucked that up quickly, Henry thinks as he nods dumbly.
8:05 PM
George feels so much second-hand-embarrassment at this moment that he winces, and he's not even the one that put his foot in his mouth, so he can't imagine how Henry feels.
"What are your intentions?" Thomas asks, taking his glasses off and setting them on his knee.
"Jesus, Dad," George says, "what do you think this is, we're not in a movie set in the 1800s-"
Thomas raises a hand to his son, holding him off, never taking his eyes off Henry as he does so.
Well, I tried.
"At the moment," Henry says slowly, carefully, "I would just like to speak with her."
"And in the future?" Thomas prompts.
8:06 PM
"In the future," Henry says, trying to swallow his pride and bring forth his bravery, "I would like to date her."
"Would you?" Mr. Boleyn says, cocking his head to the side.
"I would like that very much…sir."
8:06 PM
"Well!" George exclaims, laughing nervously, he pats Henry on the knee once, awkwardly, "well, I don't think she even knows you're here, yet, so I'm going to…tell her…make sure she's not sleeping or something, ha-ha!"
"She's too good for you," Thomas says, expression fierce.
"Oh," Henry says easily, "I don't doubt it. But I would still like to, all the same. Sir."
"I'mma go," George blurts out, voice breaking, all but leaping from the couch, "I'm gonna go do, the thing, so…don't kill each other, please," he mutters under his breath as he walks up the stairs.
8:07 PM
Anne hears someone knock on the door and feels like her heart's about to stop.
I'm not ready, I'm not ready, I'm not ready…
She goes up to her door, presses her ear against it and calls out, "who is it?"
"George."
"Are you alone?"
"Yes."
8:08 PM
George's younger sister all but yanks him inside her room once she opens the door, slamming it behind her.
"Okay," he says, dusting himself off, "first of all, chill-"
"I don't know what to do!" she says, eyes panicked, she bites her fist, "I've done nothing! I haven't gotten ready! I don't even know what to do first-"
"Do you know what 'chill' means?" he asks, watching her, bemused, as she starts to pace around the room.
"I don't-oh my God!" she exclaims, catching her reflection in the mirror above the vanity.
Anne rushes over to her bed and sits on it, pulling her sweatshirt up and over her head.
George takes a seat at her vanity.
"Oh my GOD," she repeats, yanking her sweatpants down her legs and trying to kick them off, "he's always doing this to me-"
"Doing what?" George asks, pushing different makeup selections around on her vanity.
"Dropping by unannounced! When I look like shit!"
"Okay, relax, I'll find you something," he says, leaving the vanity and walking over to her closet, he rummages through for a bit seconds, finds something reasonably cute and says, "here."
He shows her his choice, displaying it over his arm while he holds the hanger. It's a simple, scoop-neck black dress, fitted at the waist with a tiered skirt, covered in a pattern of pink and yellow wildflowers.
"I don't know, George," she says, standing in an oversize t-shirt and boy shorts, hands on her hips, mouth twisted to the side "it's awfully short, and-"
"And your legs are awfully long," he finishes, sliding the dress off the hanger and handing it to her, "so it'll look amazing, you're welcome."
"I don't know…"
"I know it's not the nun get-up you usually wear, but-"
"I do not dress like a nun," she insists, walking across the room and opening the door to her bathroom (to change, George assumes).
"Whatever, I'm burning all of your turtlenecks the second you leave the house! This isn't the '90s, Anne!"
"What?" Anne calls.
"Nothing," he trills.
Anne comes out in the dress, sighs and says, "I don't think this is a good idea, I haven't shaved my legs and-"
"I see nothing," George says, leaning down and squinting at her calves, "how long has it been?"
"Three days."
"Oh, please. It's fine."
"But I can feel it," she says, taking a seat on the end of her bed and running her hands over her legs, "and they don't feel smooth; I feel stubble."
"I'm sorry, were you planning on letting him touch your legs?" George quips.
"No!" she gasps, indignant and scandalized.
"Then it's fine. You do, however, need lip gloss, moisturizer, and mascara, which you have," he says, handing the items he just listed off to her (he grabbed them from her vanity while she was getting dressed), "so put them on, quickly, wear your black flats, and- oh, for God's sake," he snaps, "that's how you're going to wear your hair?"
"What's wrong with- hey!" Anne exclaims as he pulls the elastic out of her hair and finger-combs it down, swishing it around her shoulders.
"I'll take my sweet time coming downstairs to tell him you're ready, alright?" he asks, putting both hands on her shoulders, "but I can't take forever."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," he says, gently as possible, "that you kind of already have. The poor boy was still getting the third degree from Dad when I came up."
"Oh, God," Anne groans, rubbing her temples.
"Chin up, kid," he says, patting her knee, "you have a beautiful boy waiting for you downstairs. Most people can't say that."
"Wait, George," she calls when he goes for the door.
"Yeees?" he asks, turning back around to her.
"What…should I be doing?"
"Doing?"
"When he comes in, what should I be doing? Looking out the window, or…?"
George scratches his chin as he ponders this.
"Well, you can't just look like you're waiting for him."
"Obviously," she says, dabbing the lip gloss onto her mouth.
"Oh!" he exclaims, snapping his fingers, "be reading a magazine. It's cool, but plausible."
"Magazine," she mumbles, making wide eyes in the mirror as she starts to put on her mascara, "got it, thanks."
8:18 PM
Henry knocks on the door with a floral "A" decal on it (a pretty good tip-off, he figures), then unbuttons and shrugs his coat off his shoulders in relief (Anne's father had cranked up the heat while George was upstairs, smugly asked Henry again if he could take his coat for him, and he had had to refuse, again).
"Come in!"
He takes a deep breath, and reaches for the doorknob, but his hand slips off (nerves causing clumsiness and probably also perspiration). So he wipes his jeans on his hands, then wipes the sweat beaded on his upper lip off with the sleeve of his sweater.
Ready.
He opens the door.
Takes in the bed, a Queen size, covered in nothing but dark blue sheets. The picture windows, draped in yellow curtains, snow falling outside them. The oak floors, dotted with yellow throw rugs. Her walls, a light lavender color, covered in movie posters (Roman Holiday, Amelie, War and Peace, Casablanca, To Catch a Thief, Rear Window, Sabrina). Shelves, overflowing with books, stacks of books in towers on the floor.
Then he takes in the back of her head, her black hair, long and tangled, a perfect storm, trailing over the back of a wheeled office chair at the desk by the window.
Anne spins around in the chair, eyes trained on a page, an open magazine in her lap.
She looks up with a stunned expression, and languidly blinks, as if just waking up, as if trying to make out something hazy that's very far away, but still in her line of sight.
"Hello?" she says, softly.
It seems that time away has made her even lovelier. She's not prettier in memories(he had hoped for that, it might make talking to her easier, if he had just built her up in his head), in fact his memories don't even do her justice.
It's been twelve long days since he's been in the same room with her (he had ordered a delivery for her gift, same as he had for the shoes last month). Twelve days since this feeling, like he's drawn to her, a magnet, tugged by an invisible string; this feeling that he has to be closer to her, that he doesn't have a choice in the matter.
Anne tilts her head to the side, hair falling over her shoulder as she does, exposing her neck, unsmiling (though not frowning), as if she's trying to solve a puzzle.
They haven't been alone together before like this, not really, not outside of school, anyway. Or…they've been alone together, but usually with an excuse (studying), or else not really alone (at a party, or on campus, where anyone could come by).
He only wants to tell her things that are true and good, avoid telling her the things that are terrible but true, but he knows it won't be possible; not today. Not with his promise to her sister, and not with his promise to himself. He wants to look at her before anything changes, before he says anything that could possibly hurt her.
So he takes the chance to drink her in (who knows when or if he'll get the chance again?).
The details: a gold chain the falls over her collarbones, trailing down to the 'B' initial, over the expanse of her clavicle. Beauty marks that dot her jawline and the small expanse of her chest that's exposed, her arms. The taut muscles in her crossed legs.
The full picture: pale skin that glows like the moon at three am, eyes simultaneously dark as night and bright as stars, the sensual, full mouth, the proud little chin, aquiline nose, severely sharp cheekbones, somewhat softened by the waves that curl around her face.
She has a default severity to her expression, a sharp little face in general, so she usually looks serious. But when she smiles or laughs, it's transformative, and dimples peek out.
Her long neck, the small curves of her body: small bust sliding into a smaller waist, narrow hips, then impossibly, impossibly long legs (how anyone this petite has such long legs must be some sort of scientific marvel, he thinks) that end in black velvet flats, with little bows.
"Hi," he says, swallowing the lump in his throat.
"Do you want to put your coat down?"
"Oh, um," he fumbles with it, almost dropping it, "where?"
"On my bed is fine," she says, so he tosses it there, then, left with nothing to do with his hands, he puts them in his pockets.
"How did you get here?" she asks.
"I took the train," he says.
There's nowhere for him to sit.
Well, there's the bed, but he's not stupid and that might have connotations she's not comfortable with, so he keeps standing.
"You took the train?" she asks, teasingly, a corner of her mouth quirking up, eyebrows raised.
"Yes."
"From…New York to here?" she asks, closing her magazine and playing with the dog-ear on the cover, smiling a little.
"Yes."
"You took the train?" Anne asks again, laughing.
"Yes! It's less time than driving, after all."
"Which ones?"
"Amtrak and then the Metro, the Red line, from-"
"Union to Farragut?"
"Yes. It was very fast. The last part, anyway."
"Four stops, eight minutes," she says, nodding, "we have a good transit system in D.C. It's something I missed."
8:22 PM
You're something I missed.
Anne puts her magazine (an old copy of the New Yorker that was luckily on top of one of her stacks of books) down on the desk, searching for words, wanting to keep the train of conversation going, keep it light for as long as possible.
She doesn't want to hear things she…doesn't want to hear, she'd rather keep looking at him, rather make small talk that can be background noise while she imagines what it'd be like to trace the calluses on his hands, the curves of his mouth, trail a hand over the broad expanse of his chest, his shoulders…both of which are straining against the soft-looking royal blue of his sweater.
"Weren't you worried people would recognize you?" she asks.
"Ah…no," he says, "I mean, I wore sunglasses, and a hat. Besides, it's not like I'm famous."
"You're a little famous," Anne says, squeezing a tiny space between her thumb and forefinger.
"Oh?"
"I mean, I didn't really realize that, at first," she admits, chin in hand, "because my source of news is typically NPR and Wall Street Journal and the New York Times and…in retrospect, I guess I have heard and read about your dad, but not about you. But Mary's the one that reads tabloids and gossip magazines, and her primary source of information is E! News, and you're…in those. Sometimes."
"Right," he says, laughing a little bit, ducking his head, "sometimes."
8:23 PM
"Do you want to sit?" she asks, gesturing to her bed.
"Sure," he says, surprised at the offer, "wow," he remarks, nodding to the window, "it's really coming down, huh?"
Anne spins in her chair to face the window, where the flurry of snow falling is so thick it's almost a total sheet of white.
"It is," she agrees, turning back to him, "good thing you didn't drive. No traffic, no 'bad-bad-weather drivers'…"
"Yes, good thing."
They sit for a while in silence. She plays with the end of her skirt, crosses and re-crosses her legs. He leans forward, folds his hands, leaving them in between his knees.
"So," he says finally, "you're probably wondering why I'm here."
"A little, yeah," she says, giggling.
"Did you get my letters?" Henry asks.
"Yes," she says, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, "I did."
"Right…" he trails off, then reaches over for his coat, pulling it onto his lap, he begins to feel around the pockets.
"First, though," he says, pulling out the gift-wrapped box, "this is for you."
"I…I returned that, Henry," she says, squirming in her chair.
"I know. Why did you?"
"It's just…too much. It's too much for me," she says, shrugging.
"Says who?"
"Says me, I don't think…it's not…something you should give someone when you have a fiancée," Anne says, biting her lip.
Well, he knew that word was going to come up eventually, but it still smarts a bit: his reality, his…'wife-to-be'.
Katherine was his girlfriend, for a little bit, before he proposed. Fiancéeis a much heavier title. Girlfriend is so much easier to say, such an easier thing to end, really. He wishes he could rewind back to that, but everything's set in motion and it's just too late. Too late to reverse anything.
"I give my sisters jewelry for gifts," Henry says with a shrug.
"And I'm sure they love that…but," Anne says, putting a hand to her chest, "I'm not your sister."
"I hope not," he deadpans, running his thumb over the box, "or this would be awkward."
Anne laughs, covering her mouth with her hand.
"Please," he says, laughing with her, holding the box out, "please, take it. I had it made for you. I'm sure it'll look great on you."
"I'm sure it would, it's beautiful, I've seen it," Anne says with a sigh, "and I'm sorry, maybe you can return it, I'm sure it was very expensive, and-"
"It was, but that's not…why I want you to wear it."
8:27 PM
It would be so easy to get swept away by the gentleness of his voice on those words, to be lost in the captivating, stormy color of his eyes, ride away on those steely blue waves and ride out, and out, and not think about any consequences at all…
So that's why she needs to anchor herself. Against…him.
"Right," she says, clearing her throat, she rolls her chair back a little bit, figuring a little more distance between them won't hurt (but it does, it does, she thinks as she notes the hurt expression on his face as she backs away, and worse than that is that it smarts her, too), "well, I'm sure 'expensive' doesn't mean a great deal to you, so I could see-"
"You mean…a great deal to me," Henry says, hope shining from his eyes, piercing her through, and seeing his hope hurts because it's something she doesn't dare have.
But he still does. For her. For…whatever reason.
"You can't take it?" he asks, fiddling with the string on the outside of the wrapping paper, "even as a Christmas present? Between friends?"
Friends…she's not really sure how he can call them that with a straight face.
Friends who were unexpectedly given a stage direction to do a kiss would just do it, no problem, and laugh it off later. Friends do not send nine letters, over the course of three weeks, without breathing so much as a word about them, not letters that say "I want you", not letters that say "I wanted to kiss you tonight", and certainly not letters that say "I've never felt this way about anyone before". They do not fight in the rain, they do not stand close enough to kiss while staring at each other's mouths (so obviously wanting to close the distance between them), they do not run away crying when they're informed that the other friend is engaged, and has been, for some time…
"I don't know, Henry…"
8:30 PM
Thomas Boleyn has been pacing back and forth, circling around the kitchen and back to the living room, ever since George told Henry that Anne was ready to see him, ever since Henry went upstairs.
He'll go to the staircase, with momentum, like he's about to walk up them, then stops, scoffs or sighs, and circles back.
George is flipping through a National Geographic magazine (the only magazine he could find downstairs that wasn't in French, and of course it's a boring one…George likes elephants as much as the next guy, they're like, cute and whatever, but does he want to read a 10,000 word article about them? No, he does not. He makes a note to write the editor a suggestion to appeal to the Millennial crowd: a magazine that's similar to National Geographic, but all pictures, with a 150 character limit) while this occurs.
It's amusing, at first, but when his father begins to talk he realizes any ensuing conversation is simply going to result in a downward spiral.
"I do not like him. Do you think he got that?" Thomas asks.
"Yeah, I think you pretty much hit him over the head with that one."
"Little smarmy, pretentious…'sir' this, 'sir' that. What was that?"
"I think that was him trying to be polite, Dad."
"He wouldn't have had to call me 'sir' if he had bothered to learn my name…notice how he didn't introduce himself?"
"You didn't introduce yourself either, if you recall," George points out.
"I don't even know his name! This little punk-"
"He was wearing, like, a $2,000 coat, that might not be the most fitting description-"
"-is up there with my daughter, and I don't even know his name."
"Well, it's Henry Tudor, if that makes you feel any better."
"I know that name…where do I know that name from?"
"Red Dragon, if I had to hazard a guess."
"What, do his parents work there or something?"
"Own."
"What?"
"His dad owns the company."
"Oh, Jesus Christ, that's the last thing I need…"
"What? Maybe he'll buy us boats or planes…maybe even guest houses," George says, enjoying antagonizing his father immensely.
"Oh, stop that. This is very, very bad…even smart girls can be wooed by wealth…swept away…it changes everything."
"I don't really think Anne is like that, do you?"
"No, of course not," his father mutters under his breath, "but still…money can be very influential to young girls."
"Especially if their fathers won't help them pay for college?"
"What?"
"Nothing," George says, unable to hide his smirk, "just an observation."
"I should go up there," Thomas says, "I should go up there right now."
"Do what you want, it's your house."
"But then she'll think I don't trust her…"
"Then don't," George says, rolling his eyes.
"But of course I trust her…I don't trust him, she would realize that, wouldn't she?"
"Whatever you think best."
"Oh, for God's sake, George," he snaps, "the one time I need you to have an opinion and you're a placating church mouse. Have some input, you've certainly never had any problems with that before."
"I'm worried that if I give you my opinion, you'll kick me out."
"I won't kick you out."
"Promise?"
"Yes!"
"Pinky promise?" George asks, batting his eyelashes, extending his pinky finger.
"You can't be serious."
George shrugs, flips a page (now it's an article about monkeys…monkeys are not cuter than elephants, National Geographic is honestly so annoying, this one doesn't even have fold-out maps, which are at least somewhat interesting), and says, "Suit yourself."
His father sighs dramatically, but links his pinky with his son's, looking terribly pained as he does so.
"My two cents? Pay for her school," George says, simply, "and Mary's too, for that matter. Don't make them pay for my mistakes. Or at least supplement what their scholarships don't cover. Do that, and maybe neither of them will find the need to entertain rich suitors."
And with that, George gets up and leaves, closes the front door behind him, and steps out onto the front porch. He attempts to light a cigarette in the wind, cupping a hand over it, because even his tolerance for rambling has its limits.
8:30 PM
"Can I at least see how it looks on you?" Henry asks.
Anne knows that this is where she should shake her head, left to right. She knows that if she does, it'll be the last time she has to, that he'll put the box back in his pocket and they'll end up talking about something else.
But instead she nods, up and down.
"Can I see it first? Or, again?" she asks.
"Of course," he says, passing her the box.
She unties the string around it, rips the gift wrapping, and pops the lid open.
Anne stands up and walks to the other side of the room, then back again to the window, as she examines it carefully.
It's the same, of course, as it was the first time she opened it (the only difference was that it was in a gift bag, filled with tissue paper, that she had to sign for it): a white gold necklace on a delicate chain, the tiniest clasp, so pale it's almost silver, ending with a golden small envelope.
It has a sapphire where the stamp would be, the little triangle on the back has a sapphire in the center (as if to demonstrate a sticker put on the fold, as some letters have).
"How did you choose this?" she asks, feeling the smoothness of the envelope trinket.
"Well…for letters, which you miss. So you could always have one close to you. And then…sapphires for your birth month, and because you said you'd never want or buy diamonds, because of labor practices associated with them."
"I did?"
"Yes…you wrote it. On Facebook."
"You looked it up," she says, smiling.
"I looked it up," he admits, getting up from his seat on her bed and standing as well, "and I looked up the…purple doc martens. In case you had any doubts."
He seems to have a fondness for that phrase, Anne thinks.
"PS: I wanted to kiss you tonight (in case you had any doubts)," the words he wrote in one his letters to her, burn through her mind.
"I figured," she says, lifting the necklace out of the box. She attempts to open the clasp, struggling. It's impossibly small, and she cut her fingernails short yesterday.
"Need some help?" he asks.
"I guess…I don't have any nails," she explains, holding up her right hand.
The distance between them is short, so he bridges it, lifts the necklace from where it's hanging from her fingers with a gentle, careful touch, slowly (trying to prevent it from tangling or trying to touch my hand? Anne wonders). He opens the clasp easily, on the first try, holds the necklace by both ends.
"Turn around," he says, with a nod, and she does (and it's a little easier than facing him, she must admit, although knowing he's right behind her is a different kind of rush).
"Um," he says with a laugh, "can you lift your-"
"Oh!"
Anne fists her long, thick hair with one hand and twists it over her shoulder, holding onto it as he clasps the necklace from the back.
It feels cool against her skin, and she's still holding her hair when he traces his index down the length of her neck, down from the nape of it to the end of it, with agonizing slowness. Anne tightens her grip on her hair, still grasping it as she sighs.
"No idea why you want to cover up that pretty neck of yours," he had said…which letter had that been? Oh, the PS about the café uniform…
He traces it again, this time from the bottom of her neck to the nape of it before she remembers herself.
"We have to stop doing things like this," she says, suddenly aware, heat crawling up her neck as she spins around to face him.
His gaze falls to her chest, and she's about to be offended when she realizes he's just looking at the necklace, then back up at her.
"It's perfect on you," he says, "I knew it would be."
"Henry!" Anne says, "did you hear what I said?"
"Yes, you said, 'we have to stop-'"
"Yes! We can't do things like that anymore," Anne says, deciding on a present tense to make it more clear, both for herself and for him…because really, "we have to stop" implies future, and "we can't" is firmer, anyway.
No one does things they "have to do", no one does things they're "supposed" to do, but if you can't, you can't. If you can, you can. It's far more definitive.
"Things like what?" he asks, picture of wide-eyed innocence, hands tucked away in the pockets of his jeans like they hadn't just been caressing her neck moments ago.
"Like…like…" she struggles to find the right word for it, and settles on one of Anna's, "have 'moments'."
"'Moments'?"
"You touched my neck!"
"Did I? Huh. I didn't realize."
8:40 PM
"Sit, please," Anne says, gesturing to the office-chair by her desk, and he does, leans back into it, levels her with a challenging stare.
"Tell me about her," she says, taking a seat on her bed, smoothing her skirt over her legs, which draws his attention to them once again.
"Katherine?"
"Yes."
Henry shrugs a single shoulder.
"What do you want to know?" he asks.
8:41 PM
Thomas Boleyn knocks, once, on Anne's door, panics when there's not an immediate answer, and opens it, imagining the worst.
But all he sees is the Tudor boy, seated on the chair by her desk, a respectable distance from his daughter, who's sitting atop her bed.
There are roses blooming across her face, and while Thomas doesn't love that, nor what it implies, it's not the thing that startles him most about this picture.
"Dad?"
What startles him is not that they're kissing, or even sitting close, but that there's a different necklace around her neck, hanging above the "B" necklace she's always worn, ever since he gave it her for her eleventh birthday. What startles him is that the quality of the new necklace is unmissable even from across the room at the doorway, that it is likely at least ten times more than what he paid for her gift seven years ago.
It was her trademark, and she had always been proud to wear it, always answered the question from cashiers, other students, and dinner party guests alike the same way ("What does it stand for?"): "Boleyn, of course," with a laugh, a laugh that said "what else?" and pitied those that did not have such a fashionable signature.
There's a symbolism to it he doesn't like: one above the other.
And then, more so, what startles him is how the boy looks at her. Not lasciviously, as Thomas had expected, but with a radiance that transcends. He looks at her as if there is no earthly thing that could ever stop him from doing so.
Everything is much, much worse than what he had been expecting, all around.
"I didn't want to be a bad host," Thomas says, clearing his throat, he holds out the two water bottles he grabbed from the fridge downstairs, "here."
She walks over to him, thanks him and tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.
"Anything you need?" she asks with a smile, tilting her head to the side.
He had, truthfully, been planning on making some pointed comment about how dinner would be ready soon, but oh, what a shame, there really was only enough for four, if that…another one about how they hadn't been expecting company, after all.
But at the moment that seems a sad, futile attempt that he'd rather not embarrass himself with.
"No," Thomas says, "carry on."