It’s October 27 here in Indianapolis, she thought. So, her visit tonight to Hatfield had been days after her previous one, and yet no one at Hatfield seemed to notice that she had been gone. Not Franny. Not the princess. Not Mrs. Dobkins, the head housekeeper. And when Rose had returned to Hatfield, she knew exactly what to do. How to wake up the princess in the morning and where the princess kept her dresses. There had been a few minor errors, yes—like the bedroom slippers—but otherwise she had learned all her duties. Her last memory was Andrew—cute Andrew giving her a tip on how to ride sidesaddle as she set off with Mrs. Dobkins for Greenwich Palace. Yikes! Hope that went well. Who knew? She could return to 1544 and discover she’d fallen off the horse and broken her leg. She didn’t even want to think about medical care back then—leeches and bleeding. Weren’t those the favorite remedies?

But why had no one in that world noticed her absence? What did they do or think when she was gone? It was almost as if she had a double, a kind of stunt double, who cleaned the princess’s chambers, was well versed in her wardrobe, and rode sidesaddle perfectly.

Time at Hatfield House in 1544 must proceed at a very different rate. It was still summer there, but here in Indianapolis, winter was just around the corner. It was hard to disentangle past time from present time. She stared down at the diary, which was turned to today’s date. Thursday, October 27. At Hatfield it was Tuesday, butter-churning day. A Tuesday in some lost summer month, perhaps July of 1544.

There was no need to go back any further in this diary. Everything before August 15 was too painful. She was tempted to tear up all the pages of the months before. But there was a violence in tearing up a book, even one with blank pages. The pages ahead lured her. They seemed to implore her to write. Her pen hovered over the date of this third visit. Six weeks before, on September 17, her secret life had begun.

October 27. Thursday. Neatly above the date she wrote “Hatfield, Tuesday, Summer 1544.” She was determined to record everything that had happened to her in 1544 in the service of Princess Elizabeth. And more important, she was determined to get back what was rightfully hers, the locket, and to uncover its secrets. Franny’s words echoed in her head. Why not try to find your father? The real man, not just the picture in the locket. . . . Anything’s possible, Rose.

She would try to find her father—her father, the crafter of fine things, as she thought of him. I shall find my father if it’s the last thing I ever do.

Chapter 13

Nasty Ice