Marie never spoke of the labyrinth. Not to Anne, not to Philip, not even to her mother.
But she never forgot the boy with the black hair, winter-blue eyes, and gilded sigil. The boy who vanished before telling her his name.
Years passed.
She searched for that sigil but never found it. The only similar one bore one eagle and two roses, the sigil of the King of Italy.
His had been an eagle and two red roses. Hers was one rose, blue.
The Boleyn children grew into themselves, each shaped by ambition, pressure, and their father's expectations.
King Henry VII was gone. Henry VIII had risen, indulgent, charming, and famously hungry for pleasure.
The court exploded into celebration.
It was Anne Boleyn's debut, and the crowd felt it.
She entered Whitehall as though she had been born beneath chandeliers.
She entered Whitehall as though she had been born beneath chandeliers.
She was magnetic, shapely, dangerously elegant. Her smile was calculated, her eyes sharp, her wit biting. Her skin was pale, her frame slender, her bosom generous, her hips full, a beauty with weight and promise, like something carved rather than born.
Philip moved like a man who understood power. He no longer drank just for fun, he drank to listen. He no longer flirted just to flirt, he flirted to gather secrets. His presence carved opportunities for Anne, ensuring every important pair of eyes fell on her.
Marie stayed close to the shadows of the hall.
Crowds drained her.Eyes drained her even more.
Yet she could not hide her beauty: voluminous ginger curls catching candlelight, soft dimples that appeared when she smiled, luminous green eyes that made people linger without meaning to. She was softer than Anne, rounder in all the right places, lips full and inviting, her smile gentle but irresistible, as though warmth itself lived beneath her skin.
Trumpets announced the new king.
Henry entered with boyish arrogance, fit, confident, hungry.
He laughed loudly, grinned widely, and let his gaze roam freely.
He noticed Anne…but when his eyes landed on Marie, they lingered too long.
Marie lowered her chin, heat rising to her cheeks.She felt exposed. Trapped.
The queen noticed too.
Then came the introductions.
Gilbert presented his son Matthew, now an officer in the king's forces. His posture screamed entitlement.
Thomas introduced Anne, newly appointed as a lady-in-waiting.
Matthew attempted to edge closer to Marie, but she evaded him with practiced ease — slipping behind relatives, shifting seats, pretending not to hear.
The hall quieted.
A procession of soldiers entered in deep Mediterranean blues and blacks, gold-threaded sigils gleaming.
They parted.
Between them walked a young officer.
Marie recognized him before her mind caught up. The way he moved, the command in his posture, the black hair, the blue eyes now older and sharper.
He had grown into something extraordinary.More disciplined. More dangerous. A scar cut through his brow.
"The Italian delegation salutes Your Majesty," the emissary announced. "His Imperial Highness, Prince of Aragon, Padua, and Napoli, Lorenzo Augustus of House Sforza, cousin to Alfonso II of Italy."
Gasps filled the hall.
Lorenzo bowed with controlled grace.
"I greet you, King of England," he said in soft, commanding English.
The king smiled sharply.
"I hear your brother is busy with rebels."
Lorenzo tilted his head. "If rebels are all a king has to fear, he lives a blessed life."
Henry laughed, unsettled.
As if sensing the only gaze that truly mattered, Lorenzo's eyes met Marie's. A smile touched his lips. Though he had grown taller and broader, his eyes remained kind, his presence still beautiful.
What a breathtaking man, Marie thought shyly.
"So your name is Lorenzo," she said, matter-of-fact, a trace of childlike giddiness slipping through.
"And Marie is yours," Lorenzo replied, careful not to betray too much beneath the curious glances around them.
"You have grown," he said quietly. "Beautiful… and wise."
Unconsciously, Marie leaned closer."I prefer you with short hair," she whispered. "It suits you, Signor Lorenzo."
His composure cracked. Desire flashed across his face.
Behind them, Matthew approached, stiff with jealousy.
"Signor Lorenzo," Matthew said loudly. "We met once. Strange circumstances. I was young and foolish."
He extended his hand.
Lorenzo looked at it and did not take it.
Instead, he bowed only to Marie.
"Lady Marie," he said. "Until next we speak."
Marie smiled, teasing—never breaking eye contact.
Lorenzo exhaled, his tongue briefly wetting his lower lip before he turned away, acknowledging Matthew only with the barest nod as Matthew bowed low.
Matthew swallowed hard and leaned toward Marie, voice low and bitter."I would advise you to stay away from him."
Marie's smile sharpened."I trusted you once, Cousin," she said softly. "It was a poor choice. I will not make the same mistake again."
As the great hall emptied and the music faded, Lorenzo approached Thomas Boleyn with the composed confidence of someone accustomed to addressing kings.
Thomas nearly tripped over himself.
"My lord," he said, bowing too deeply, "an honour...truly an honour."
Lorenzo's gaze drifted discreetly to where Marie stood speaking quietly with Philip.
He cleared his throat."Lord Boleyn… your daughter Marie."
A pause, carefully measured."Is she promised?"
Thomas understood instantly.
"No, Your Highness," he replied eagerly. "No betrothal. Some names have been suggested, but nothing serious."
"Then," Lorenzo said gently, "may I send her letters?"
Thomas nearly burst with joy."Your highness, you honour my family. Marie will be delighted."
Across the room, Matthew watched with a clenched jaw.
He slipped beside his father."Father, we should not mingle with these Italians. They bring trouble."
Gil snorted."Thomas may do as he pleases with his children. Anne is already turning the king's head. Marie is… sweet, but of little political use."
Matthew bristled."You know I care for her—"
"I know you desire her," Gil corrected sharply. "But she is your cousin. And beyond your reach. Forget her. If she can gain us the king's hostage prince, all the better."