“What might that be?” Sara asked, holding one of the princess’s shoes in her hand.

“Why do the two princesses fight? Why do they hate each other so much?”

Sara sighed. “Well, Princess Mary does have some cause not to like Princess Elizabeth.”

“What could possibly be the cause?”

“She was born,” Sara said, and slapped the sole of the shoe against her palm.

“Born? It’s not a crime to be born. How can Elizabeth be blamed for her own birth?”

“It’s very sad, really. You see, when Elizabeth was born, her mother, Anne Boleyn, insisted that the king strip Princess Mary of her title. This little baby was called Princess Elizabeth, and Princess Mary was denied her own title and was merely called Lady Mary. She was put aside entirely. Given the worst room in the palace. It wasn’t until the king chopped off Queen Anne’s head that Mary got her title back.”

“That’s sad. Very sad,” Rose said. She thought of the older princess’s grim, gray face. It reminded her of a tombstone. It was as if grief and anger had been permanently engraved there. Did her eyes ever light with laughter? Did her pursed mouth ever draw into a smile?

Rose thought of a guessing game that her mother had taught her. She had called it Animal, Vegetable, or Mineral. One could only answer yes or no, but through deductive questioning one could usually guess the answer. Is it a four-footed animal? No. Is it two-footed? Yes. Is it human? No. Is it a bird? Yes. In Rose’s mind, Princess Mary was all mineral. She was made of stone. The hardest stone.

It took several hours to pack up. Rose and Sara were to report to the stables when they finished packing the princess’s wardrobe.

Wagons and coaches were already lined up to begin the procession.

Rose spied Franny. “Franny.” She waved. “Over here!”

“This is so exciting for you. There will be so many parties and tournaments and masque balls. Even for a servant it can be fun.”

“You’re going too, aren’t you?”

“No. Who’d mind the dairy, churn the butter, do the milking?”

“Oh, I’m so disappointed. I’ll miss you.”

“And I’ll miss you too, Rose, and our scriving lessons. We only just began.”

Franny clasped her hand. Rose looked over the array of wagons and coaches. “I wonder which one I’ll ride in.”

“Ride in? More like ride on, Rose.”

“On?”

“On a horse, of course. Had the king or queen been in residence, conveyances would have been sent to collect us.”

“Conveyances?” Rose asked.

“Not royal coaches, mind you, but livery wagons. This is much nicer.”

“Of course,” Rose said meekly. And then she saw Andrew leading a dark bay horse toward her. It had the most peculiar contraption strapped to its back.