Not a lot of people know what goes into playing quarterback, especially on this team.

I rise early that morning and dress in green and brown, my skirst the same colour as the forest floor. I include a cap copied from one of the duchess's, but set farther back from my face. She may be a bitch, but she does have style.

The walls loom, grey as the rain outside. LIke the sky of England itself. Everything seems colourless and humbled, despite the layers of velvets and tapestries, the peacock plumage of courtiers and ladies. Greenwich Palace feels like my father's disappointment made tangible.

Hand in hand, we climb the processional stair, rising in the celebratory uproar of a capricious court. As we enter the palace, we are blinded by the ascent from sunshine into darkness.

Thomas closes the gap between us and kisses me. Hard. This is not wet and sloppy like his playful kisses. Or dry and desperate like Percy's. Or teasing like the king's.

No. This kiss is eloquent and alive and speaks direcetly to my soul. My heart ruptures, and the spliters freeze and tumble all around us with the musical sound of broken glass.

I lean forward, pressing my lips to his, and it breaks me open. His hand leaves my face and traces notes up my arms, strikes chords on my throat and up into my hair. His mouth forms lyrics that expose my soul.

The kiss is like a song played only once. And forever.