Nicholas Oliver could not help but remember Rosemary at a similar celebration at Greenwich. All seemed joyous that day, but the very next day Queen Anne Boleyn, wife of Henry VIII, mother of Princess Elizabeth, was arrested and taken to the Tower of London. Seventeen days later, on Tower Green, her head was chopped off. The king, in his unending thoughtfulness, had imported a French swordsman. They were said to be quite skilled, and the sword rather than an ax was said to be more humane. Those were dangerous times, and by summer Rosemary left.

He had not seen her since then. Rose would have been six, for she was born in that world of Rosemary’s three years prior to Princess Elizabeth. And now the princess was older than Rose. For in that peculiar flow of time between these two distant centuries, those of his century aged while the travelers, the visitors from that future time, never did. Would his Rosemary have some gray in her hair now, as he did? So much time had elapsed. The princess was now close to twenty, but Rose would only be thirteen at the oldest. Nicholas kept track of such things. Early on, Rosemary had brought him a calendar from her world. In her world it was now the twenty-first century. Five hundred years ahead of his world and the Tudor Court.

He put these thoughts aside. The only intention he had now was to meet his daughter. He would make himself scarce for the rest of the day until evening, when most of the people were well into their cups and might not notice if he carefully approached her.

He watched her, followed her discreetly. Rose seemed to be constantly in the accompaniment of a slight, blond girl who walked with a limp and often used a crutch. From the girl’s clothing he guessed she was a kitchen worker.

He lost both the girls just as darkness began to steal the daylight. They had seemed to go separate ways, with the blond girl headed for the kitchen yards. But where was Rose heading? Was this going to be like the first time he spotted Rose at Chelsea Manor, when she seemed to magically dissolve into the fog? He continued searching. The palace was huge. He was unsure of where Princess Elizabeth’s apartments were in the vast complex. He was now alone in the gallery that was said to be haunted by the late queen Catherine Howard. With some sixth sense he had developed as a spy, he became acutely conscious of someone following him. He heard a scuttling sound. Not a rat. But shoes. Small shoes on small feet. He wheeled about. There was nothing.