A frail boy was standing over her. He was dressed in a purple velvet doublet, a kind of fashionably fitted, padded jacket, with ermine cuffs. Beneath was a satin vest embroidered in gold thread. The boy appeared to be about seven years old and a living violation of the sumptuary laws. So Rose quickly calculated he must be a prince. In fact, Prince Edward.

“What’s MacAncheese?” the prince asked. “A Scottish friend, I suppose.”

Rose nodded.

“Well, I’ve heard of MacIntyres, and MacKenzies, and of course MacIntoshes. Edna MacIntosh was a nursemaid for me. Called her Tosh. Very jolly. But I never heard of a MacAncheese.”

“Yes.” Rose nodded again and got up. “I’m to curtsy, I suppose.”

“Yes, but for the moment—I have escaped.”

“Escaped? Escaped what?”

“My guardsman. He is an incredibly boring old sot. He supposedly protects me.”

“Supposedly?”

“Yes, but he likes his drink and falls asleep all the time. So escaping is easy.”

“Do you plan to return anytime?”

“When I meet with Master Cox, my tutor. He’s much more interesting. He protects me from ignorance. You see, I plan to be a wise and informed ruler.”

“Sounds good to me,” Rose said, and brushed off her dress.

The prince giggled. “You have a funny way with words. I quite enjoy it. Like ‘yuck’—what the devil does that mean?”

“Uh . . . kind of disgusting.”

“Unpleasant.”

“Yes, definitely unpleasant.”

“From the Shetland Islands, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” Rose replied cautiously.

“Now where are you from? The Shetlands?”

She was about to blurt out “No, Indianapolis,” but caught herself. “Hatfield.”

“Hatfield!” The prince clapped his hands in delight. “Then my sister Elizabeth truly is coming.”

“Yes, and so is Princess Mary.”

“Ugh.” He groaned and made a sour face.

“Yeah, she is kind of a jerk.”

At this Prince Edward hooted with laughter.

“What’s your name? Will you play with me? You know, Elizabeth and I play here all the time. On the other side of this tree, there’s a hollow where we take refreshment sometimes. Come, I’ll show you. What’s your name?”

“Rose Ashley.” She studied him. He was a fragile child with none of the vivid coloring of Elizabeth nor the sallowness of Mary. His gray eyes reminded Rose of a calm sea on a misty day.

“Oh, so you must be related to Elizabeth’s tutor Kat Ashley.”

“Distantly, perhaps.” Rose paused. She mustn’t let this moment pass. Would there be any chance that this coddled prince would know anything about her father? She took a deep breath and began, “You know, I’m a sort of orphan.”

“You can’t be a sort of orphan. You either are or you’re not,” Edward replied crisply.

“Well, I suppose you could say I’m kind of a half orphan. My mother is dead.”