Three mugs of coffee were waiting on a low table, up to which Simon had pulled some chairs. Roland produced a knife from the kitchen and handed it to Lucy. She started to cut the tape on the packet while he and Simon talked together, but she was completely immersed in her own thoughts and physical actions, unable to follow their conversation. Her hands were almost trembling when she sliced through the seals, and began to pull back the brown paper and bubble wrapping. She could smell the scent of roses.

MARCH 25, 1609, MORTLAKE

IT IS NEAR DAWN, KATE DEE PERCEIVES, AS A SERVANT COMES IN TO TEASE up the fire in the half-empty grate; but she shakes her head gently, waves him away. Her father looks comfortable enough on the cushioned sofa, dozing peacefully after a lack of sleep these three nights running. He’d refused to go to his bed chamber at all on this last, feeling, she knew, that he may never come out of it again if he submitted to sleep. The room is paneled and warm enough; she would rather let him rest while he can.

She bends her head away from the light of the candle to avoid the shadow falling across her work. Her fingers are numb from long hours of stitching, though her needle remains sharp: she is hopeful of letting him see her design for the burse progressing as quickly as she may. Neither she nor her brother, Arthur, will speak of it, but both know he should not be with them many days more. And Kate, like Arthur, sees it will be a blessing. Though well past eighty, the marvelous, childlike, learned man is only now becoming scattered in his mind, fretting over the household items he feels he has “missed”; his precious silver-gilt salt has been worrying him, and his apostle spoons will not be found. She has no heart to tell him Arthur has been obliged to sell them, to meet the expenses for their necessities.