“Well, I miss you,” she says boldly, and she comes into my arms and puts her wet face into my neck and sobs loudly into my ear. I don’t repulse her, I hold her tighter. I don’t say, “I miss you too,” for what would be the point in both of us crying? And besides, I am living my life as a disciple of the Lord. I should miss nothing. If I have my Bible, I need nothing else. But I hold her tightly, as if I am holding a puppy: it is comforting though meaningless.

“I have a secret to tell you,” she says, her damp cheek against my ear.

“Go on.” We are not alone but my lady-in-waiting is seated at a little distance, beside the window for the light on her sewing. Katherine can whisper into my ear and the woman will think that we are crying together.

“Father is raising an army.” It comes to me like a thread of sound.

I can hardly hear her. I make sure that I keep my face hidden. “To rescue me?”

I look as if I am weeping on Katherine’s rounded shoulder though I have to control myself not to jump and scream with delight. I always knew that my father would not leave me here. I always knew that if my lady mother could not persuade Queen Mary to release me, then my father would fetch me by force. I always knew that they would, neither of them, just leave me here. I am their eldest daughter, and the heir to the Queen of England. It’s not as if I am a nobody who could be easily forgotten.

“Is it not terribly dangerous?” I ask.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” my sister whispers back. “Nobody wants Queen Mary any more. Not now that she’s marrying the Spanish prince.”

My mind is whirling. I didn’t know any of this.

“She’s marrying?”

“Philip of Spain.”

“There will be an uprising against him? They will put me on the throne in her place!”

“I think so,” Katherine says vaguely. “I think that is the plan.”

“It’s not an uprising for Elizabeth, is it?” I ask, suddenly suspicious.

“Oh, no,” she says. “Elizabeth has become a papist. She has asked the queen to send her crucifixes and chalices for her own chapel, and she has put her chaplain in a surplice and cope.”

Not even a featherhead like Katherine could misunderstand signs like this. “Are you, at any rate, sure that Father is coming for me?”

She nods. She has grasped this fact at least. “I am certain.”

We pull apart and her eyes are shining and her cheeks are flushed.

“Take the bird when you go,” I warn her. “You know I don’t like them.”

* * *