Rose always had to remind herself that the ladies were not drinking tea. Tea would not come for another one hundred years. So instead they were sipping something called sweet mead—totally gross! She dimly recalled she had taken a sip once. It was one of those half-baked memories that floated up to her, a ghostly feeling.

So she must suppose that she had in fact walked through this presence room before, toward the innermost private chamber of Elizabeth. As she passed between the women bent over their embroidery hoops, she caught scraps of the latest gossip. A fire was lit in the large fireplace and there was a chill in the air. Had summer advanced to autumn in her absence?

“They say that Jane the Bald was wooed by Princess Mary with promised shoes.”

There was a sniff of disapproval from a pug-faced young woman who looked alarmingly like Carrie, but without the neon-blue streak in her hair. “Word has it that Princess Mary’s stipend was increased and she promised to engage the royal shoemaker to produce six new pairs a year.”

But it was not her face so much as the gold pin she wore fastened to her bodice that attracted Rose’s attention. It was not exactly a Tudor Rose but some kind of flower, and the workmanship was very similar. She could tell even from this distance.

“What are you staring at, girl?” the young woman snapped.

“Oh, oh nothing . . . uh, just admiring your hairdo.”

“Hairdo?” she asked. Peals of laughter broke out.

“You mean dew? Like morning dew, girl?”

“No, sorry, I just mean the arrangement of your hair.”

“Aaah . . . coquillage.” She smirked. “But then again, I don’t suppose you know French.” It was all Rose could do to resist giving her the stink eye. She had become truly skillful since having to deal with her Indiana Mean Queens. Rose cast her eyes down and shook her head. “‘Coquillage’ is the French word for snails. See, little snails.” She touched the hair that arched over her brow, and indeed it did look as if a parade of teensy snails were marching across the top of her head. Yuck! Rose thought. But instead she curtsied and replied, “Lovely,” and then walked on quickly. She had to find the maker of that rose pin, the goldsmith. A goldsmith—possibly an artisan or a crafter of fine things!

The door swung open.

Mrs. Dobkins’s face was wreathed in smiles.

“Welcome—the princess will be so happy to . . .”

Then Elizabeth rushed toward her and grasped both of Rose’s hands.

“I can’t thank you enough. Look!” She pointed to her chin.

“Look at what, milady?”

The princess hunched her shoulders up and giggled. “That’s proof enough. No spots. I’m spotless. Your magical cream! And I used it on another one that was threatening!”

“Oh, I’m so happy it worked.”