Chapter 8
Lina
The day Jane Seymour married Henry VIII and became queen consort of England—less than a fortnight after Anne’s execution—Lina finally arrived home.
She wasn’t sure when she’d started thinking of St. Margaret’s as home, but when the carriage stopped outside the convent, she felt a swell of peace that only came when she stepped on these grounds.
The Totternhoe stone building stood outlined against the pale blue sky, stained-glass panes twinkling and the overgrown rosebushes dressed in their spring greens.
The convent was smaller than any place Lina had ever lived, and parts of the centuries-old building were long overdue for maintenance, but it always welcomed her like no palace ever had.
“Anne,” Lina said gently, touching the younger woman’s shoulder. “Wake up. We’ve arrived.”
Lina knew it was more than pain that made Anne’s lips press into a thin white line rather than a smile.
But Lina hadn’t dared ask: Was it that she missed her daughter?
That she felt she had failed the Sisterhood?
That Jane Seymour was now queen? That Anne’s entire life had been shaken, dismantled, and left behind on the bloody lawn of the Tower?
Anne needed time. Perhaps she even needed a friend, though Lina was not sure if she could provide both.
“This is it?” Anne croaked. She pushed herself up, leaning forward to look out the window. She stared at the convent for several long moments before looking back at Lina.
“This is it.” Lina tried not to take offense at Anne’s lack of enthusiasm. She’d felt the same once, when she was first shedding the trappings of royalty.
Anne nodded bleakly. “Very well. Let’s get out of this damned carriage, then.”
Together, they walked toward the front steps of the convent, the mullioned windows rising three stories overhead. The carriage driver followed behind with their meager luggage, and Lina wondered if Anne felt as far from life as a queen as she did in that moment.
Lina opened the doors, the familiar scent of stone, old books, herbs, and beeswax candles washing over her.
The entrance had been swept clean, with fresh rushes scattered from the front doors down the branching hallway of the convent.
Two of the nuns had stayed on to help tend the convent and gardens after Lina bought the property, and Lina could smell fresh-baked bread coming from the direction of the kitchen.
“It is pleasant enough,” Anne said. Her tone was polite, but she was looking around at the pale gray walls like they were just another prison.
“You’ll come to like it,” Lina replied, hoping it was true.
The dormitory where Lina and the nuns slept was on the third floor, but Lina had converted a few of the former prayer rooms on the main floor into spaces suitable for guests.
After paying the driver and collecting their bags, she settled Anne in one such room, then took the stairs to the third floor.
She deposited her own bags next to her humble cot and wardrobe and sat on the end of the bed, weariness sinking into her bones.
She hadn’t slept well at the inn, and she was looking forward to her own bed, rustic though it may be.
The quilt the nuns had made reminded her of sunsets at home, with its beautiful patchwork of ruby, goldenrod, and sunset orange.
She ran a hand over the fabric, parts of it worn from age but no less beautiful.
But it was not yet time to rest. With a sigh, Lina stood, making her way to the second-floor study.
Cozy chairs and footstools were scattered about the room, which housed shelves of books the former nuns had collected.
The windows at the back of the building looked out over the rolling English countryside, a mile between the convent and their nearest neighbor.
A garden was tucked along the back of the property, and Lina was surprised to find she longed to be out there among the green and growing things, her once-soft hands gaining new blisters from the trowel.
Tomorrow, she’d check on the garden and see which brave seeds had begun to grow.
It was in the study that any correspondence would be waiting, though Lina knew it was too soon for her letter to have reached Marguerite in France, let alone for her to have sent a reply.
Her final instructions from the leader of the Sisterhood were to bring Anne back to St. Margaret’s and wait until it was safe to travel.
Indeed, no letter waited on her beechwood desk, so Lina continued on.
As she descended to the main floor once more, she heard the soft voices of women in the kitchen.
There, Sister Edith and Sister Sarah were sitting on wooden stools at a table in the corner of the room, a loaf of bread baking in its clay pot in the oven.
They were a study in opposites: Sister Edith tall and lean and Sister Sarah petite and curvy.
Despite being younger than Anne, Edith had used a walking cane ever since a childhood accident had left her with a limp in her left leg. Edith raised the cane now in greeting.
“Welcome home, Sister Lina. We’re glad to see your friend has joined you.”
Both Edith and Sarah had adapted to the moniker with ease when Lina arrived.
They did not know Lina’s true identity—only Marguerite and Parr knew that the former queen lived—and treated her like an equal, which Lina had to admit was both a disorienting and refreshing experience.
Lina had told them she was traveling to London to bring a fourth nun to join them, grateful that the name Anne was so popular that no one would think twice upon hearing it.
“Sister Anne is recovering now—she had sustained an injury that delayed our journey,” Lina told them. “She looks forward to meeting you soon.”
“We put something together for her,” Sister Sarah said, pointing to a tray with a pitcher of weak ale and half a loaf of bread that Lina guessed was from the morning. “If you think she is ready.”
“I’ll take it to her,” Lina replied, grateful for their foresight. “Thank you.”
When Lina slipped inside Anne’s room, the curtains were drawn over the stained-glass windows, casting the room into murky purple and green shadows despite the afternoon sun. Anne was sitting up in bed, inspecting her bandaged hand. Her eyes found Lina’s in the gloom.
“Are you well?” Lina asked. She passed the mug of ale to Anne and sat on the end of the bed, hands resting on the worn cotton blankets.
“Well enough,” Anne replied.
This was how most of their conversations had gone in the last few days.
Brief, terse, and filled with things unsaid.
The tentative goodwill between them had chilled since hearing about Jane Seymour, if it’d even been warm at all.
Lina had preached patience, but didn’t Anne know Lina wanted the same thing?
Time had not dulled Lina’s anger, only sharpened it.
She had the Sisterhood now, which meant plans and resources.
She had Anne. They needed to secure their daughters’ safety and royal privileges.
Then, and only then, could they plot revenge.
Strained silence hung between them for several moments before Lina swallowed, trying once more to extend an olive branch. “I hope we can make a proper supper tonight. With Sister Edith and Sister Sarah.”
Anne hesitated, glancing down at her hand. “I don’t know how to cook.”
“Believe it or not, I’ve picked up a few new skills in the afterlife.” Lina smiled to soften the words. “You’ll be a quick study with the nuns, I’m sure. They help with the cooking and cleaning in exchange for room and board. If there is anything you need, you may ask one of them for assistance.”
Anne nodded stiffly but said nothing.
Lina stood and smoothed her skirts. She crossed the stone floor but paused on the threshold, a final question burning on her tongue, the one she hadn’t dared ask.
“I have to know: Would you kill Henry yourself?” she asked, only half expecting an answer. “Given the chance?”
Another long silence followed, and Lina wondered if Anne had even heard her. She had one foot out the door when she finally heard Anne speak.
“I will kill him,” Anne replied. Her words were cold, tinged with a brand of ruthless, glacial hate Lina recognized. Her declaration felt like a promise, like a prophecy, and Lina didn’t dare turn around to see Anne’s face.
“I will kill him,” the witch repeated, “and I won’t be sorry.”