She wished that she could see hermetically into the workshops where Master Pye and all his guild allies were building their secret weapon. She wished that she could understand the progress of the plague. She wished that she could leave the responsibilities of being queen, and go north to save what could be saved, as a potent user of magik.

She wished her husband were alive.

She walked from the window to her son’s cradle and she watched him for a long time. He lay sleeping; a small being who was intensely curious, who surprised her every day. She had never expected a baby to have so much personality, but he had; jolly, joyous, inquisitive, eyes so wide he almost expected her son to speak.

She wanted to crush the small form to her breast, but she was an experienced mother by then and she had no intention of waking him. Delightful as he was, his demands were endless.

She sighed. Everyone’s demands were endless.

She walked to the door of her solar and there was Ser Ranald, with his axe.

“Your Grace,” he said. “She’s here.”

“No one is to come in,” she said. “I mean it, Ranald.”

“Yes, Your Grace. May I say . . .”

“No,” the queen snapped. “You may not.”

Ranald bowed.

The queen nodded. She walked down the passage, to where her guards had taken Lady Jane.

She opened the oak door. It was a good room, and had once been her husband’s library and his private study. The tapestries were gone, but the scrolls and books remained. She thought, briefly, of helping him with his armour in this very room, so long ago that it seemed a different world. She was so lost in the moment; the warmth of his response . . .

“Your Grace,” Lady Jane said. She curtsyed.

She was quite young—perhaps seventeen—and very pregnant. She had long, straight blond hair, and she looked more than a little like Blanche Gold.

Desiderata looked at the woman who had been her husband’s mistress and tried to imagine what had happened. She could not, really.

“You sent for me?” Lady Jane asked. She was terrified, but she bore it well enough, although her beautiful skin was splotchy with fear, as if a cat had left footprints on her cheeks.

“I sent for you and you ran,” the queen said.

“My father . . .” the lady began.

The queen shook her head. “Never mind your father,” she said, suddenly resolute. “Listen to me, Jane. Did you love him?”

“Oh God,” Jane said, and she burst into tears so suddenly that she startled both of them.

Desiderata felt a strange urge to weep with her.