And now, suddenly, he is here, walking into my rooms as if he could ever be an invited guest, bowing to me, and to the princesses, his hand on his heart, his dark eyes veiled and secretive, as if I have summoned him with the passionate thudding of my pulses, as if he can feel the heat of my skin burning his own, as if I had shouted aloud that he must come to me, that I will die if he does not come to me.

“I have come, Your Majesty, at the command of the king, who asked me to bring you to him, through the privy garden, on your own.”

I am already on my feet, the precious royal jacket fallen to the floor, the thread whipping out of the needle’s eye as I walk away from it, the needle still in my hand.

“I’ll bring the princesses,” I say. I can hardly speak. I cannot breathe.

“His Majesty said you were to come alone,” he replies. The tone is courteous, his mouth smiles, but his eyes are cold. “I think he has a surprise for you.”

“I’ll come at once then,” I say.

I can hardly see the smiling faces of my ladies as Nan silently takes the needle from my hand; Thomas Seymour presents his arm to me, and I put my hand on his and let him draw me from the room and down the broad stone stairs to where the doors to the sunlit gardens stand open.

“It must be a trap,” I say in a hushed monotone. “Is this a trap?”

He shakes his head at my question, then nods to the guards, who raise their pikes and let us out into the sunshine. “No. Just walk.”

“He means to trap me by sending you to me. He will see... I shouldn’t go with you.”

“The only thing to do is to behave as if nothing is out of the ordinary. You should come, and we should go without delay, taking exactly the time that it always takes to walk through the gardens. Your ladies are watching from your windows, the noblemen will be watching from the king’s windows. We are going to walk along together without pausing, and without looking at each other.”

“But you never look at me!” I burst out.

A sharp pinch of my fingers reminds me to keep steadily walking. I think this is like some sort of purgatory. I have to walk beside the man that I adore, match my steps to his, and take no pleasure in it, while my heart hammers against my ribs with all the things that I want to say.

“Of course I don’t,” he says.

“Because you have stopped loving me.” My voice is very low, strained with pain as I accuse him.