“Are you deaf, girl? I command you to take your hand away.” Rose slid her hand slowly to one side. The princess’s eyes narrowed. “You dare wear the Tudor Rose!”

“The Tudor Rose, milady?” Rose asked weakly. “My mother gave it to me,” she lied.

“I don’t care who gave it to you. It’s a Tudor Rose. Only a Tudor can wear it. I command you to give it to me this instant.”

Rose’s heart was beating wildly. She began to take it off but fumbled with the latch.

“Sara, help this servant take off that necklace.”

But it’s mine . . . mine . . . mine. The words screeched in Rose’s brain. And at that moment she knew the image in the locket was not simply that of the man in the ruff but was actually her father. She was certain of it now. So much had been taken from her. Why now this too? She shut her eyes tight. Within the locket, not only had two centuries collided but history and destiny as well—and they were hers, hers alone. Not the Tudors’, not this princess’s, but hers! Rose Ashley of Indianapolis and Philadelphia.

Rose’s hands dropped to her sides. She felt helpless. What would she do if the princess discovered the pin for the locket? If she opened the rose and saw the picture of her mom and herself in her Disney bathing suit and pocketbook and . . . and her father?

Rose was quaking inside as she watched Sara fasten the pendant around the princess’s neck. Had this imperious little snot of a princess just ripped her father from her life? Should she have fought harder? She had just stolen what might be the only picture of her father, and Rose had willingly submitted to this . . . this . . . hijacking!

“Perfect!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “The utter simplicity is lovely. Rather timeless, I think. Don’t you?”

Timeless. The word seemed to vibrate in Rose’s head. Does she know what she’s talking about? Are we in a galaxy far, far away? Rose squeezed her eyes shut as if to extinguish the sight of the princess’s reflection in the mirror with the burnished locket hanging around her neck. And yet the image inside the locket burned brighter in her mind’s eye. She saw it all now. The things that she was unwilling to see that night when she had peered in the mirror as the shadows played through the tree outside the window. This man had her high forehead. The bridge of his nose was very narrow like hers. And, thought Rose, he’s not a butcher—but perhaps a merchant or an artisan? Or crafter of fine things? Just like me.

Chapter 11

“Princesses Aren’t Supposed to Steal”

“What? She took it?” Franny said. They were in the dairy, as Franny was churning butter.

“She stole it!”

“But why?”