“I don’t know. Perhaps if my father has ordered some jewelry for my stepmother, Catherine Parr, or a medallion for a councillor.”

“I see,” Rose said as the prince pulled his cloak tighter around him.

“Are you cold, Edward?”

“Oh, I always get cold at summer’s end.”

“Summer’s end?”

“We’re a week into September. September tenth. Officially summer ends in another twelve days.”

“Oh,” said Rose softly.

“Oh what?”

“Nothing, really.” But she began to calculate quietly in her head. So here it’s September 10, 1544, and at home it is October 31—my two worlds are shifting again.

Chapter 24

A Cruel Game

Following the quoits game, Elizabeth had dismissed her and said that she would not be needed until later that evening to help her prepare for a grand banquet. She was free to wander. Wander and wonder about this jeweler, Nicholas Oliver. When might he be coming to court again? This palace was so vast. She wondered where visiting artisans stayed. Were there special quarters for them? She should have asked Edward. As she passed by the many-walled gardens, she heard squeals of laughter coming from one. It sounded as if some game was taking place. Then she spied one of the palace gardeners peeking through a crack in the wall. He heard her footsteps on the gravel path and turned around, beckoning her with a nod.

“What’s going on inside there?” Rose asked.

“Just a game of tag that the ladies-in-waiting to Princess Mary like to play. Come take a look. They call it Slap Dash.”

Rose walked up to the wall. She pressed her face to the crack. Of course, the first thing she saw was Snail Head dashing by.

She was holding something in her hand as if she was about to throw it. Rose turned to the gardener.

“I thought you said it was just Princess Mary’s ladies-in-waiting?”

“Oh, some of the others joined in as well,” he said. “But not Elizabeth. She doesn’t care for this sort of thing. Take another look.”

So Rose peeked through again. She gasped as she saw the shining bald head of Jane the Fool.

“What are they doing?”

“Chasing the fool.”

“But they’re throwing things at her!”

“Just eggs—nothing that can harm her. Her head—like an egg itself—makes a great target, don’t you think?”

“No!” Rose turned toward him. Her eyes were blazing.

“You’re a little spitfire, ain’t you?”

“You bet I am!” she shot back, and stomped off.

It was not long after the terrible scene that Rose was climbing the spiral stairs of the turret when she heard a familiar singsongy voice. “Taa da ta da . . . lad dee da at ya da da da ya dee dat.”

There ahead was Jane sitting on the stone steps. Her head was still splattered with egg yolk. She was holding a cloth and dabbing at one of the shoes.