“But Your Highness, you’re younger than both of them. You’ll live a very long time.” But he won’t! Rose suddenly remembered. She had googled Prince Edward and found that he had become King Edward VI in 1547 when he was only nine years old. He ruled for barely six years and died at the age of fifteen. But how could she tell him this? He was just a boy, a boy of only seven. A second grader.

“You’re nice, Rose. I like you. And you speak so well, if in a slightly odd way. You have the most peculiar accent I’ve ever heard. What do they call it?”

“Uh . . . Yank?”

“Yank—sounds Dutch almost. My father, the king, has a councillor named Horace Janke. But although it is spelled with a ‘J,’ it’s pronounced with a ‘Y’—like this Yank accent of yours.”

Time was slipping by. Rose knew she had to ask the question. “Your Royal Highness,” she started hesitantly.

“Oh, don’t call me that, Edward will do, or even Ned. Some call me Ned.”

“Edward, then. I do have a question.”

“Well, pop it out, Rose. Just pop it out.”

“Edward, you see Lady Margaret over there?”

“Oh yes, not one of my favorites. Did she do something awful to you? I can have her punished, you know.”

“No, nothing at all. She’s been very polite. But she is wearing a pin in the design of a rose, similar to the rose pendant your sister Elizabeth is wearing.”

“Yes, of course. The Tudor Rose. I wear one on my belt buckle.” He stood up and drew back his striped tunic, revealing his doublet. He then hiked up his doublet to reveal his cambric shirt, which appeared to be tied to his breeches with several bows. Clever, Rose thought. She would have to make a sketch of that in her diary. But there was the belt with a rose, seemingly identical to the one that his sister Elizabeth now wore. “And look, the top clasps on my boots are the same rose, only smaller.” Rose felt her heart beating wildly.

“So there is a jeweler.”

“Oh, not just any jeweler. A goldsmith.”

“And who might that be?”

“Nicholas Oliver. Why do you ask?”

“I’m just curious. Is he always at court, like right now? Is he here?”

“Not sure, most likely not. You see, there’s dozens of artisans connected to the court. But they don’t like to live at court. They’re artists. All the foolishness of the court distracts them. My father understands this. The painter Master Holbein only comes when the king commands a portrait. Holbein did one of my mother the year I was born. I think Oliver lives near Hatfield actually.”

“Near Hatfield.” Rose had to suppress her excitement. “And when might he be coming to court again?”