What a great scriver you are! You’re right, Greenwich Palace is so grand. The wobbly just-born-baby-lamb letters danced into my heart.

Rose set down her pen briefly and tried to decide what to write next. There was so much that had happened during those first few days she had been there. She wondered how much time had passed at home. What this would add up to in what she thought of as her “home century,” the twenty-first. Ten minutes, perhaps? But she had better write fast, as Elizabeth would be arriving in a few days with her half sister, Mary, and there would be no time for scriving then. Writing with a quill was fun. She looked at the feather —possibly from an owl?

I have glimpsed the king from a distance. He was in the tilting yard. He’s quite fat.

She quickly decided to cross that out. It might be treason to call the king fat. She closed her eyes and recalled the scene. They were actually using a sort of crane to get him on top of the horse, and Andrew, along with three other attendants, had to help. She’d heard that in full armor the king weighed nearly three hundred pounds!

She went on, enjoying the scratchy sound of the quill.

I haven’t found the tree with the hollow yet. But I plan to try to look for it today. There are so many servants here.

Not just servants, Rose thought, but all sorts of people purely for the amusement of the king and his court. Minstrels sang, dwarfs tumbled. It seemed incredibly mean to Rose that people thought people with dwarfism were a source of “amusement.”

There were also comedians called “fools,” who told jokes and recited stupid rhymes. It seemed like the court had to be constantly entertained. She had not seen these fools perform so far, but when she passed them briefly in a corridor or crossing one of the many courtyards, they always seemed a little bit odd to Rose. There was one called Jane who was completely bald.

Do you know of that woman, Jane the Fool? She’s bald—sometimes they call her Jane the Bald. Anyhow, one of her eyes is a bit peculiar. You can never tell if she’s looking at you or not. But I guess she can mimic any birdcall. That’s her talent. She goes about clucking and cooing, or hooting like an owl or screeching like a blue jay. And people just crack up. I think the whole thing is really odd.

She wasn’t sure if Franny would get the expression “crack up” but wrote it anyway.

I have to tell you, Franny, that I am trying to do what you told me—find the real man, not just the picture.

Rose hesitated to come right out and say, “the man in the locket.”

You know who I mean. The man with the ruff.