But I do remember that Queen Kateryn was happiest in the mornings when Thomas Seymour came bare-legged out of her rooms. I know that my mother relishes her time with my father, and Lady Dudley is obviously ludicrously devoted to my father-in-law. Perhaps it is something I will grow into when I am taller and stronger. Perhaps, as a pleasure of the flesh, you have to have a lot of flesh to feel the pleasure. If I did not feel so sick in my belly and so feverish, it would perhaps be better. But I cannot imagine being so fat and so healthy that I would long for Guildford’s clumsy thrusting, or giggle when he slapped my bottom.

This is the only time I have ever found that my books fail me. There are some Greek papers about the conception of children but they are all about the phases of the moon. There are some terrifying pictures of a baby being cut from a dead mother, and a lot of theology Our Lord being conceived by the Holy Ghost on a virgin—and there are some thoughtful writers who question how this could be. But nobody seems to have written anything about a real woman. It is as if I, and those of my sex, exist only as a symbol. The books say nothing about the strange mixture of pain and shame that Guildford and I suffer wordlessly and awkwardly together. They say nothing about how a baby is made from this painful coupling. I don’t think anyone exactly knows, and, of course, I cannot ask.

Guildford talks to me in the morning, he tells me that the king’s illness has been announced to the parliament and the churches are praying for his recovery. Princess Mary and Princess Elizabeth have been invited to court, and they are both waiting in their country houses for news.

“Will they come?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” he says. “My father will know.”

“What is going to happen?” I ask him.

“I don’t know. My father will know.”

“Can’t you ask him?”

He gives a funny little scowl. “No. Do you ask your father what his plans are?”

I shake my head.

“He talks to John and Ambrose or Robert.” Guildford names his older brothers. “They all talk together, they know what’s happening. But they’re much older than I; they have been at court and they’ve been in battles. They can advise him, he listens to them. I am just...” He trails off.

“What are you?”

“Bait to catch you,” he says, his voice hard as if he is insulting us both. “A fat fly for a stupid trout.”

I hesitate, ignoring his rudeness and the hurt in his voice. “But how will we know what we are to do?”

“Someone will tell us,” he says. “When they want us, they will send for us. Dead fly and trout together.”