The Boleyn Bride by Brandy Purdy Page A

block of solid wood, hard and unmoving, but good enough for a poor little girl to cherish and love; and more expensive, ornate models with wax, painted plaster, molded clay, or carved alabaster faces, dainty white hands and feet, with bodies of stuffed linen or leather, some even with jointed wooden limbs, with full heads of beautifully curled or braided human hair, and garments of silk, satin, damask, brocade, sarcenet, and velvet so fine that, had they been life-sized, would have been fit for the court. Some even had jewels; the more humble had a string of colorful clay beads, polished pebbles, or a wolf’s tooth on a leather cord to ward off illness—“a nice touch for a sickly child,” Remi shyly explained—and the more elaborate, and expensive, had glass or even carnelian, jet, or coral beads. Some even had pearls artfully woven through their hair and around their throats or stitched onto their dresses, and gold or silver pendants, crucifixes, or brooches studded with real gemstone brilliants. Perched on the highest shelf safely behind the counter I even saw one with high-piled golden curls, held up by pearl- and diamond-tipped pins, resplendent in a court gown of black velvet replete with a long train sewn all over with tiny twinkling diamonds.
    There were lady dolls and baby dolls, the princesses every little girl dreams of being. And, for the boys, soldiers and knights replete with full metal armor and weaponry, some mounted on horses; gentlemen in hunting leathers accompanied by hounds or with hawks on their arms; and that beloved rogue Robin Hood armed with his bow and head to toe in Lincoln green, from the simple stump dolls to elaborate wooden jointed figures. Some of these even came equipped with strings so that the lucky boys who owned them might enact their own jousts or battles. There was something for everyone and every purse; Remi, I would later learn, insisted upon it.
    On a table before the front window, there was an array of edible dolls, gingerbread figures adorned with edible gilt, sugared dough that when picked up gave a tantalizing rattle to reveal that there was a prize hidden inside, and bread dolls made in the likeness of various saints, the kind mothers liked to give their children in the hope that by eating them they would be blessed with the same virtues as that particular saint.
    There was even a small table artfully draped with silver-embroidered rose-colored silk arrayed with a variety of pincushion dolls and exquisite tiny dolls—I hesitate to call them rag dolls as that usually suggests a homemade plaything made of scraps, simple and cheap, and these were crafted only of the finest materials, and they also had slender wire skeletons secreted inside to stiffen them—that decorated beautiful needle cases, sewing baskets, and trinket boxes.
    Standing tentatively beside me, Remi silently picked up a red apple–shaped velvet pincushion atop which stood an exquisite little lady gowned in pearl-studded, gold-blossomed, flesh-colored brocade, her long, sleek black hair braided with gold and crowned with a coronet of exquisite tiny seed pearl flowers. There was a knowing, sensual look in her dark eyes as she held out a tiny ruby red–enameled apple in her outstretched hand while a serpent woven of gilt threads and emerald glass beads twined around her, embracing her limbs through her skirt. I saw the hesitation, the uncertainty and fear of rebuke or refusal in his dark eyes, but the battle he was fighting within himself passed quickly, and he conquered his fear and pressed the pretty bauble into my hands.
    “I . . . I would like you to have this,” he said haltingly as a blush set his cheeks aflame.
    I let my haughtiness fall away from me, like a gown of silk pooling around my feet, and simply said, “Thank you,” and held the beautiful trifle tenderly clasped against my breast, and, to give him time to recover himself, I continued browsing his shop.
    Besides the dolls, there were