The maid indicates that we must continue and I let myself be dressed. I repeat to myself the confessor’s words of encouragement. In the end, it was no great wrench to leave the Church of Rome and join that of England. God is above rivalry; He sees into my heart and knows that I am truly repentant. I was glad to do something in return for Dr. Whiting’s kindness.

Barbara has sensibly chosen one of my cheapest outfits, of thin black baize, with loose sleeves; if I see my children, I will be able to hold them. I have always known how to dress for any occasion, a hanging included, and my daughter has learned well from me. The yellow collar and cuffs, in which I have taken such pride, I leave off.

The girl brushes and ties back my hair, pinning a black veil to it which she folds back, like a young groom about to kiss his bride. How far from that am I. I pick up the handkerchief embroidered by Mistress Bowdlery, now filthy and misshapen. I feared having her life above everything, but at this moment I would give my last farthing to be sitting on the doorstep in Paternoster Row with my children around me.

A knock at the door startles me. The alderman enters and a gush of bile rushes into my throat to see him dressed entirely in black: for my death.

“Will I be cut down with dignity? Do not let my body tumble, my children could not bear that! Who will lay me in my coffin? Do I have a coffin? Who has bought the coffin? Is there money for it?” The questions mist the air between us in the freezing cell. He puts his arm around my shoulders and holds me firmly within the dark folds of his cloak, perfumed by the sprig of rosemary pinned to it. The pressure calms me. I pray oblivion will be as comforting.

I give him the letter I have written for my children and, as he takes it, I see a fresh yellow collar and bands in his hand, of greater ostentation than I ever wore.

“Lord Coke orders you to wear these,” he says. I could picture Coke’s narrow lips spitting the words, knowing what a good spectacle I would make, tricked out in the yellow I introduced to the Court, too busy following fashion to follow the Ten Commandments.

“Can he?”

“I have never heard of it,” my jailer replies with the faintest shrug. I take the cuffs from him, automatically rubbing my thumb across the weave to feel its quality, and throw them from the window. The wind snatches and tosses them high before they skitter down to float on the dark face of the Thames. I look at the stiff, waxy lace and wonder why I once cared for it so much.

I turn to Alderman Smith, who is looking at me in surprise.