“Oh no, dear. I’m not the keeper of the king’s calendar. Seems like whenever he has a new bride, Nicholas Oliver comes quite a bit. You know he’ll dress her out in precious jewels and gold. They say no jeweler can set a sapphire like Nicholas Oliver. He is a true artist, just like . . .” Jane’s eyes seemed to grow misty. “Just like my Sidney.”

“Your Sidney?”

“Sidney Garston, the royal cobbler.”

“The one who died?”

“Indeed.” Tears had begun to stream from one of her eyes, the one that didn’t jitter. “And you know what?”

“What?”

“I can’t even cry enough tears for him. Only one eye works for tears.”

“Oh dear” was all that Rose could think to say.

“Oh, don’t ‘oh dear’ me, sweet girl. I cry sometimes all night with this one eye to make up for the other eye. A crying fool! Ever heard of such a thing?” She giggled, then jumped up and began to dance a barefoot jig.

Chapter 25

When You Made Me the Rose

In the tiny hamlet of Stow-on-the-Wold, a few miles off the old Roman road, the goldsmith had put away his tools for the day. Scissors, pliers, cutters all lined up, slanting against the rack like tiny soldiers at ease. But Nicholas Oliver was not at ease. He was haunted by what he had seen when he was called to Hatfield a few days before, summoned to deliver a piece of jewelry the king had ordered for his bride, Catherine Parr. There had been a small royal progress setting out with Princess Elizabeth. He had arrived shortly before the progress left. The princess was already mounted on Aureole, a roan pony whose coat matched her own red hair. She sat erect and proud and looked every bit the Lion’s Cub, as she had been called, since she resembled her father in so many ways, in particular her hair and coloring.

Nicholas was just approaching Master Parry, the royal treasurer, when a blade of sunlight struck the princess’s bodice. For a moment he felt as if he were caught in a quivering spiderweb of golden light. He felt a dizziness beset him and staggered a bit before he recovered himself. Princess Elizabeth was wearing a pendant, and not just any pendant—a locket, the locket that he had made for his beloved Rosemary. Within that locket was his picture—rather a photograph that Rosemary had taken with a bizarre device called a camera. The other side of the locket held a picture of her and their darling little Rose on a beach, both of them dressed in the oddest and most immodest costumes he’d ever seen. From the wrist of the little girl, a pocket purse hung by a strap with the picture of a peculiar sort of mouse that had enormous ears.