Lord Edmund Ashford arrived during afternoon tea two weeks later.
Marie noticed him immediately, not because he was particularly remarkable, but because of how obviously *arranged* his presence was.
Her father had been too eager, her mother too carefully absent. Edmund was handsome in a practiced way, tall, well-dressed, with a smile that showed too many teeth.
Thomas had arranged for him to "accidentally" encounter Marie in the garden where she liked to read.
"Lady Marie," Edmund said, bowing with theatrical flourish that would have made a stage actor jealous. "What extraordinary fortune to find you among the roses. Though they pale to insignificance beside your beauty."
Marie set down her book, forcing a polite smile. "You're too kind, my lord."
*And too rehearsed.*
He settled onto the bench beside her, too close. He then launched into what could only be described as a monologue. His estates (vast, apparently). His hunting prowess (legendary, he claimed). His family's ancient lineage (traceable to William the Conqueror, naturally).
Marie made appropriate noises at intervals, her mind drifting. *Winter-blue eyes. A voice that made her shiver. Hands that had touched her with such careful restraint*
"...don't you agree, Lady Marie?"
She blinked, pulled back to reality. "I'm sorry, what?"
Edmund's smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "I said, a woman's primary duty is obedience to her husband. Don't you agree?"
Something cold settled in Marie's stomach.
She set down her tea with deliberate care, meeting his eyes directly. "I believe a woman's primary duty is to herself, my lord. To her own conscience and character."
She stood, smoothing her skirts. "Good day, Lord Ashford."
She left him sputtering among the roses, his face mottling with indignation.
Thomas intercepted her in the hallway. "Marie, Lord Ashford is a very eligible"
"He's a pompous bore who thinks wives are property,"Marie said flatly. "The answer is no."
She swept past him, missing the flash of panic in her father's eyes.
---
**THE SECOND SUITOR**
Sir Richard Pembroke was introduced at a court function three weeks later. This time, Marie was wary. But Richard surprised her. He was a soldier, scarred and serious, with steady eyes that held genuine intelligence. When he spoke of campaigns and strategy, he actually listened to her responses instead of talking over her. For the first time since Lorenzo left, Marie felt a flicker of... something. Not attraction, but perhaps possibility.
They walked in the garden, discussing the ethics of warfare, the responsibility of commanders to their men. Richard spoke of Lorenzo, "that Italian prince", with respect. "I saw him at court,"Richard said. "The way he carried himself... there's a man who understands what it means to lead." Marie's heart clenched. "Yes. He does."
Richard turned to her then, and something in his expression shifted. Became calculating. "I've heard rumors about you and him," he said quietly, leaning close. "I want you to know...I don't care what you gave him. A soldier knows the value of... experienced companionship."
His hand brushed her waist, possessive. "In fact, I prefer a woman who knows what she's about."
Marie's blood turned to ice. The respect she'd felt, the possibility, shattered like glass. "I gave him nothing but friendship and respect,"she said, voice shaking with fury. "Which is infinitely more than you deserve." She walked away fast enough that it was almost running, fighting tears of rage and humiliation.
Behind her, Richard called out, "I meant it as a compliment!"
He didn't understand why that made it so much worse.
---
**THE THIRD SUITOR**
William Carey arrived with fanfare and flowers. He was wealthy, charming, and immediately exhausting. Every sentence was a compliment, your eyes like emeralds, your lips like rose petals, your hands like dove's wings, your voice like silver bells.
Marie lasted fifteen minutes before developing a sudden, intense headache.
"I'm terribly sorry," she said, pressing fingers to her temple. "I'm afraid I'm unwell." Carey's face fell dramatically. "Shall I fetch a physician? Shall I—"
"No, thank you. I just need rest. Please excuse me."She fled before he could compose another metaphor.
Thomas watched her retreat with growing desperation. Three suitors. Three rejections. And the king's deadline loomed like an executioner's blade.
---
**THE LAST MEN STANDING**
Then came William Stanford, and he arrived differently.
Not as a suitor. Not announced or positioned or thrust into her path.
He simply... appeared. Marie first encountered him in the library on a Tuesday afternoon, buried in a book about Italian city-states. She'd been searching for anything about Lorenzo's home, trying to understand the world he'd returned to.
"That one's dreadfully boring," a voice said from above her. Marie jumped, nearly dropping the book. A man sat perched on the library ladder, surrounded by stacks of books like a scholar's nest.
Late twenties, she guessed. Spectacles sliding down his nose. Ink stains on his fingers. Clothes simple but well-made.
His smile was genuine, the first genuine smile she'd seen in weeks.
"Third shelf up, four books to the left,"he continued. "Machiavelli's commentaries. Much more interesting. And accurate."Marie narrowed her eyes, oddly charmed despite herself. "You've read them all?" "
Most of them. Occupational hazard." He climbed down with easy grace, extending an ink-stained hand. "William Stanford. I'm teaching your sister Latin. Though between us, I think she's teaching me more about court manipulation than I'm teaching her about grammar."
Marie laughed, a real laugh, surprised from her throat like something wild escaping. "Marie Boleyn. And Anne is... formidable."
"That's a diplomatic way of putting it."His eyes crinkled behind his spectacles. "You, however, seem refreshingly honest. Rare quality in this house."
She should have been offended. Instead, she laughed again. "What are you researching?" William asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.
Marie hesitated. Then, because something about him felt safe: "Italian political structures. City-states and their relationships with the Holy Roman Empire."
"Ah. Preparing for your sister's rise to power?"
"Something like that." William pulled down the book he'd mentioned, handed it to her. Their fingers brushed, a simple, uncharged touch. Nothing like the tension with Lorenzo.
"If you want to understand Italian politics," William said, "you need to understand that everything is personal there. Every alliance, every betrayal, every marriage. It's not about nations—it's about families."
They talked for an hour. Then two. About books, about ideas, about the difference between knowledge and wisdom.
When Anne's maid came looking for William for the next lesson, Marie realized the sun had moved halfway across the sky.
"Same time tomorrow?" William asked, casual but hopeful. Marie found herself smiling. "I'd like that." When she left, she realized with a guilty start that she hadn't thought of Lorenzo once during their conversation.
It felt like betrayal. It felt like relief. It felt like the first breath after drowning.
--- **ITALY - THE BATTLEFIELD**
Lorenzo stood on the ridge overlooking the rebel encampment, wind whipping her coat around her legs. Smoke rose from their fires. She counted silently, three hundred men, maybe more.
Poorly trained but desperate, which made them dangerous. And somewhere in that mess, they held hostages. Villagers. Children.
"We could wait them out," Marcello suggested from beside her. "Starve them into surrender."Lorenzo shook her head. "They'll kill the hostages first. Use them as bargaining chips. We go in tonight."She knelt, sketching the plan in the dirt with her dagger.
Three entry points. Diversionary tactics on the east side. Swift, surgical strike to free the hostages before the main force realizes what's happening.
"Minimal casualties! We fight to contain not to kill. These are peasant not trained soldiers" she murmured, more to herself than Marcello. "In and out. Clean." But as she drew the battle lines, her mind drifted somewhere dangerous. *Marie's lips, soft and desperate under hers. Marie's hands fisted in her hair.
Marie's voice, breathless: "Come back to me."*
"Commander?" Lorenzo blinked, realizing she'd stopped moving. "Yes. Send the signal at midnight. Full dark."Marcello studied her face. "Where are you right now?" "
Here," Lorenzo lied.
"Liar."
She didn't argue.
---
The battle was brief, exactly as she'd planned it.
Lorenzo moved through the chaos like death given form, blade flashing silver in the moonlight, body moving with speed and precision that bordered on inhuman.
A rebel lunged at her from the left.
She sidestepped without breaking stride, disarmed him with a twist of her wrist, broke his arm with controlled force.
No killing blow. Just incapacitation.
*Would Marie be proud?
Another came from behind—she'd heard his breathing change three steps back. She spun, drove her knee into his gut, used his momentum to throw him into two of his companions.
They went down in a tangle of limbs.
*Would she still look at me the same way if she saw this? If she knew what I'm capable of?*
An axe swung toward her head. Lorenzo caught the handle mid-swing, the rebel's eyes went wide with shock and twisted it from his grip. She used the flat of the blade to knock him unconscious. Efficient. Clean.
*Would she understand that this is mercy? That I could kill them all and barely break a sweat?*
Twenty minutes.
That's all it took.
The rebels surrendered when they realized they were fighting a man army.
The hostages were freed, terrified but alive.
Not a single one of Lorenzo's soldiers died.
Victory. Decisive. Clean.
Lorenzo felt nothing. Only the ache of distance. Of loss. Of Marie in another man's arms because she'd told her to move on. That thought—that image—made her want to tear something apart with her bare hands.
THE CAMP THAT NIGHT
Her soldiers celebrated under the stars. Wine flowed freely. Songs rose into the night, bawdy, triumphant, alive. Men clapped Lorenzo on the back, praising her tactical brilliance, her steady command, the way she'd moved through that battle like a fucking legend. She smiled. Accepted their praise. Shared their wine. Then slipped away when no one was watching. She found a clearing beyond the firelight, far enough that the sounds of celebration became white noise and began to train.
Sword forms. Basic ones first, building to complex combinations. Over and over. Pushing her body until her muscles screamed. But she couldn't outrun the thoughts. *Marie's body pressed against hers. The heat of her. The soft sounds she'd made when Lorenzo kissed her throat* Lorenzo's movements grew more aggressive. More violent. *Another man will touch her. Another man will hear those sounds. Another man will...*
She drove her blade into a tree trunk hard enough to bury it halfway to the hilt. The impact jarred her arm.
She left it there, pressed her forehead against the rough bark, breathing hard.
"You're torturing yourself," Marcello said from behind her.
"I'm training."
"You're bleeding."
Lorenzo looked down. Her knuckles were split, but the wound was closing already. She hadn't even noticed.
"It doesn't matter."
"It does." Marcello approached carefully, like she was a wild thing that might bolt. "The men notice. They worry about their commander."
"They have nothing to worry about." Lorenzo said dismissively
"Don't they?"His voice dropped. "When's the last time you fed properly?"
Lorenzo's jaw clenched. "I'm managing." "
You're starving yourself."He pulled out a flask—blood, she could smell it, fresh enough. "Drink."
"No."
"Lorenzo"
"It's not enough!" The words exploded from her, raw and ragged. "None of it is enough. I could drink a river of blood and it won't touch this hunger because it's not blood I crave" She stopped, breathing hard, horrified at what she'd almost said.
"It's her,"Marcello finished quietly. Lorenzo said nothing. But her silence was confirmation enough. Marcello moved closer, voice gentle. "You need to feed. The curse doesn't care about your heartbreak. It will consume you if you let it."
"I'm in control." Lorenzo snapped
"Are you?" He held out the flask. "Prove it. Drink."
Lorenzo took it with shaking hands. Drank. The blood was warm, rich, satisfying.
And completely inadequate.
She handed it back empty, tasting ash.
"See?" Marcello said softly. "It's not that hard! Look...I know The curse has chosen her but we need you here and focused Our lives depends on it"
"At least she is safe from all this"Lorenzo whispered.