“I have an idea,” Queen Catherine offered brightly. “Perhaps we could have atop it the badge of the Tudor Rose? Wouldn’t that be wonderful, Thomas? If we are to wed in May, the damask roses are in full bloom. Only symbolic, of course, as in truth there is no such red rose with a white center.”

No, thought Nicholas. She’s wrong. At dawn on the first day of its bloom, it can have for a brief few moments a white center. Rosemary had taught him that, and for that reason he had created the locket. The center petals were not the darker gold of the outer ones but pale gold. And now it seemed every time he came here, he caught glimpses of Princess Elizabeth wearing it. How had she come by it? She had not even been born when he had made it for Rosemary. Perhaps a better question was how had Rosemary lost it?

The goldsmith and his clients concluded their conference. It was decided that the design for the wedding ring would have elements of both families’ badges—the wings, the coronet, the rose. To Nicholas Oliver it seemed a rather overwrought design, but he would do it. He picked up his drawings, packed them into his portable case, and set out winding his way through the knot garden and into the rose garden. Though it was still a month from full bloom, it was lovely any time of year. He found the damask roses, their buds still tightly sealed. He reached out his hand and touched one. At that same moment, he heard the giggling of young girls coming down a path. Through the thick tangle of rose vines he saw a flash of gold, gold and red. Princess Elizabeth out for a walk with her ladies-in-waiting. Their gowns grazed the pebbled walk. He watched them for a minute, then heard the sound of feet running up the path toward them. “Your Highness! Your Highness. A message from your brother, His Majesty the King.”

He did not have a clear view now, as the princess’s companions drew close around her. The figure in a servant’s black dress handed her the dispatch. “It came from Hampton Court.” The voice intrigued him. An odd accent, yet like a distant echo that was vaguely familiar. He could not see the servant clearly, but as she walked away, there was something about her posture, her gait, that made his heart skip a beat. Nicholas Oliver began to walk as quickly and quietly as possible. Like iron filings to a magnet, he was drawn to this figure. The sky suddenly clouded over, the air turned chilly, and a light drizzle began to fall. He quickened his pace. He heard the princess and her entourage squealing.