Chapter 18: The Arrangement

Morning arrived with the sound of servants sweeping the courtyard and the particular gray light that came before the sun had fully risen.

Margot woke in Francis's bed, in Francis's arms, and for one brief moment she did not remember how to be careful. Then memory returned—the court, the Queen, the thin walls, the doors—and she sat up, reaching for the shift she had discarded the night before.

Francis stirred. "Don't go."

"I must. Before the household wakes." She found her shift and pulled it over her head. "If I am seen leaving your rooms, every negotiation we make from today forward will be conducted through scandal."

He propped himself on one elbow, watching her with an expression she could not entirely read. "Then we will be careful."

"We will be careful." She turned to look at him. "But I do not regret it."

The smile that crossed his face was worth every risk. "Neither do I."

She dressed, with his occasional assistance when a lace proved difficult to reach. He pulled on his shirt and breeches and moved to the window, watching the courtyard below.

"The door to the small gallery is unlocked at this hour," he said. "Turn left, then down the stair past the tapestry of Judith. It will bring you to the corridor near the chapel. From there, you can reach your own rooms without passing the main stairs."

Margot paused in pinning her hood. "You have planned this."

"I have planned everything except last night. Last night, I only wanted."

She crossed to him and kissed him, quick and fierce. "I will see you at court."

"You will."

She left by the route he had described, moving with the purposeful stride of a woman who had somewhere to be. She passed no one of consequence. By the time she reached her own chamber, her heart had slowed to something approaching normal.

Lady Helen was not yet awake. Margot rang for hot water and sat at her desk, looking at the cipher book that had become as familiar as her own face. She thought about the night, the letters, the man asleep in rooms near the Wardrobe. She thought about the future, which had once seemed like a corridor she must walk alone, and now seemed like something they might build together, one careful stone at a time.

The summons came three days later.

It was not from the Queen this time, but from Cecil. Margot was asked to attend him in his working closet at Whitehall, a small room lined with papers and maps and the faint smell of sealing wax. Francis was already there when she arrived, standing by the window in a dark coat that had been brushed clean of road dust.

Cecil sat behind a desk that seemed too large for the room. He did not stand when Margot entered, but he did set down his pen.

"Lady Ashford," he said. "Master Wren. I have a matter to put before you both, and I prefer to put it plainly."

Margot glanced at Francis. His face was perfectly neutral, but she saw the slight tension in his shoulders.

"Your work on Alderton's network was valuable," Cecil continued. "More valuable than either of you may fully appreciate. The Queen has noted it. She has also noted—" he paused, choosing his words, "—the manner in which the two of you conducted yourselves."

Margot kept her expression still. "I hope our conduct was not found wanting."

"On the contrary." Cecil's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "Her Majesty remarked that you trusted each other more than you trusted the machinery of her court. She finds that rare. She also finds it useful."

Francis spoke for the first time. "What is being proposed?"

"A permanent arrangement. You, Wren, to remain in London as deputy to myself in matters of internal intelligence. Your commission in the north proved your discretion and your reach. And you, Lady Ashford, to take a formal position reviewing foreign correspondence—reports from merchants, diplomats, travelers. Your eye for discrepancy is documented."

Margot felt the floor shift slightly beneath her feet. "A formal position."

"A quiet one. You would not sit on council. You would not be announced. But you would be paid, and you would be protected, and your work would reach the Queen's desk." Cecil folded his hands. "I do not propose this idly. Her Majesty suggested it."

Margot looked at Francis. He was looking back at her, and she saw in his eyes the same understanding she felt. This was not merely employment. It was permission. It was a structure within which they could be near each other without apology.

"I accept," she said.

"As do I," Francis said.

Cecil nodded, as if the matter had already been decided before they arrived. "Good. The details will be drawn up. For now, continue as you have been. Discretion serves the Crown."

He returned to his papers. They were dismissed.

In the corridor outside, Francis took her hand briefly—only briefly, where no one could see—and then released it.

"Did you know?" she asked.

"I suspected something. Not this." He glanced down the corridor. "Walk with me. Not together. Ten paces apart, toward the river."

She did. They moved through Whitehall like strangers, and when they reached the gallery above the Thames, they stood at opposite ends until the corridor emptied. Then he came to her.

"This changes things," he said.

"It does."

"We will be working together. Officially. The distance between us will be smaller, and the danger of being seen will be greater."

"I am aware."

"Are you certain?" His voice was low, urgent. "I would not have you trapped in a position you took only because it brought you near me."

Margot turned to face him fully. "Francis. I took it because I am good at the work. I took it because the Queen offered me a place to use what I have spent my life learning. And I took it because it brings me near you. Those reasons are not in conflict. They are the same reason, seen from different angles."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "You are the most formidable woman I have ever known."

"I know."

"I love you."

The words were small and exact, and for a moment she did not speak.

"I know that too," she said. "But I am glad to hear you say it."

"I should have said it before."

"You said it in ciphers. In roads traveled. In the way you came back." She took his hand, this time without looking around to see who might watch. "Words are good, Francis. But I have learned to read you in other languages."

He lifted her hand and kissed her fingers, a gesture so courtly that anyone passing might have mistaken it for gallantry. Margot knew better.

"We need an arrangement," he said.

"We have one. Cecil just gave it to us."

"A private arrangement. Rules. Times we can meet. Signals. Ways to protect you if this becomes known."

"You would plan our affair like a campaign."

"I would plan our survival." His eyes were serious. "I have spent my life watching people destroy themselves with carelessness. I will not be careless with you."

Margot considered this. "Then here are my terms. We meet when we can, openly when possible, secretly when necessary. We do not lie to the Queen. We do not embarrass Cecil. We do not pretend, when we are alone, that this is anything less than it is."

"And what is it?"

"A choice." She squeezed his hand. "That is all. A choice we keep making."

Francis smiled—the rare smile that changed his whole face. "I accept your terms."

"Good. Because I was not negotiating."

He laughed, startled, and the sound echoed slightly in the empty gallery. Margot found herself laughing too, for no reason except that the future had opened before her and she was not afraid of it.

They made their way back to court separately, as they must. But Margot carried the morning with her like a candle in a dark corridor.