Next to me, Mara Bancroft, Wolf Hall’s sweetheart, quirks an eyebrow, handing me the phone I just dropped. It’s six-thirty in the morning but she’s wearing a full face of makeup and not a strand of her jet-black hair is out of place; as always, she’s photo ready. “Whoa, girl. I was only asking if you were going home for spring break.” She smiles easily, because for her, going home means reuniting with her disgustingly wealthy family in the Hamptons. For me, going home…well, there is no going home. Wolf Hall, with its dusty corridors, endless, narrow staircases, macabre stained-glass windows
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