The great hall was lit with so many candelabra it was as if the sun’s rays had been caught and released inside. What first drew my eye was a stage at the far end of the chamber, on which was a golden throne. On it sat a woman, unmasked, her large white breasts entirely naked. From a distance, it appeared that her nipples were gilded. The rest of her body was encased in purple silk, shot with orange, her plump arms visible through the orange gauze of her sleeves. Short skirts revealed pretty ankles in gold stockings above high-heeled shoes. On her head was a jeweled crown and her face, round and attractive for her age, which I guessed was similar to my own, was carefully painted. Behind her throne stood three young women and two girls. The three were dressed in similar fashion to the Queane, although in different colors and with less ornament. All had naked breasts, with nipples unnaturally red. By contrast, the two girls wore ordinary country clothes. Their hair was loose and long, but their heads were covered with plain coifs. They looked like they were being brave.

“Come, let us pay our respects,” said Theo, leading us through the thronged room. Although masked, I dropped my head for fear of being recognized. Frankie did not. It took us some minutes to push our way, through clouds of smoke and perfume, past noble bodies trussed and swagged in every hue and stripe. My eyes, behind the mask, missed nothing.

“May I present Queane Donna Britannica Hollandea,” said Theo, gazing at the throne’s occupant. Close to, I saw that she was, in fact, old enough to be his mother, but that did not seem to bother him. She nodded at the Howard brothers, who executed the sort of bow one gave a real monarch. I was shocked at this treachery but around us people laughed and even clapped.

“Queane Donna rules here at Holland’s Leaguer,” he explained, indicating the walls. I only noticed then that they were covered in portraits, each with a gilded board beneath bearing a name: Rose Alba, Donatella, Laura, Phoebe, Daphne … It took me a few moments to grasp that these portraits were of the queanes on the stage and those moving between guests, pouring wine. Also prominently displayed was a sign: “King James Stuart slept here.”

Harry laughed when he saw me staring at it. “He likes Bess,” he said, nodding at a full-length portrait. The figure was seemingly that of a woman, but the gauzy cloth around her hips did not obscure the masculine nature of what lay beneath. Under the mask I could gawp as much as I chose, and I did.

“I thought this place was naughty. So far it is much like the Court,” Frankie said into my ear, sounding bored.