“I don’t want to know,” I say simply.

“I can tell you. All you know is stuff in books.”

“Stuff in books,” I repeat the words of an ignorant child. “Indeed. I do know ‘stuff in books’ but if I wanted to know worldly news, I would ask my father, who would tell me the truth. I would not go round eavesdropping on my parents and listening to servants’ gossip.”

She jumps up on my big wooden bed as if she is planning to stay until dinnertime, and then props herself up against the pillow as if she is going to sleep here. The monkey makes himself comfortable beside her, and runs his skinny little fingers through his own silky fur.

“Does he have fleas?”

“Oh, yes,” she says indifferently. “But not lice.”

“Then get him off my bed!”

In reply, she gathers him onto her lap. “Don’t fuss, because it is so exciting. They’re coming for your betrothal!” she announces. “There! I thought that would make you jump.”

I am jumping so little that I keep one steady finger in the book to mark my place. “And where d’you get that from?”

“Everyone knows,” she says, which means that it is servants’ gossip, as I predicted. “Oh, you’re so lucky! I think Ned Seymour is the most handsome young man in the world.”

“Yes, but you like anything in hose.”

“He has such kind eyes.”

“Certainly he has eyes, but they do not have the power of emotion, only of sight.”

“And a lovely smile.”

“I imagine that he smiles like anyone else, but I have not bothered to look.”

“And he rides beautifully and he has beautiful clothes and he is the son of the most powerful man in England. There is no greater family than the Seymours. No one richer. They are wealthier than us. They are even closer to the throne than us.”

I think, but I don’t say, that the greatness of the family was no protection for Thomas Seymour, who was beheaded just a year ago because of Elizabeth, and not even his older brother could save him. Then the brother, the lord protector himself, was disgraced, and is now trying to scrabble back into power.

“The handsome son of the lord protector,” she breathes.

As usual, she is in a muddle. “He’s not lord protector anymore; his post has been abolished,” I correct her. “The council is run by the lord president, John Dudley. If you want an alliance with the coming men, it’s the Dudleys.”

“Well, he’s still the king’s uncle, and Ned is still Earl of Hertford.”

“Edward Seymour,” I correct her.

“Edward or Ned! Who cares?”

“And does everyone say that I am to be betrothed to him?” I ask.