I bow my head. “It was a sorrow,” I say. “But my lord had his heir and his daughter; he never reproached me.”

“And then His Majesty honored you with his favor.”

It is such a bleak story told like this that I feel a sudden rush of self-pitying tears and I turn away from the table and the papers before I start to weep, which would be sheer folly.

“And now we see that your spiritual life begins,” the old astronomer says gently. “Here we see the sign of Pallas—wisdom, and scholarship. You are studying and writing?”

I hide a gasp. “I am studying,” I admit.

“You will write,” he says. “And your words will be of value. A woman writer—a novelty indeed. Nurture your talent, Your Majesty. It is rare. It is precious. Where you lead other women will follow, and that is a great thing. Perhaps your books will be your children, your legacy, your descendants.”

I nod. “Perhaps.”

“But it is not just study for you,” he says. “Here”—he points to the recognizable symbol of Venus—“here is love.”

I look in silence. I dare not ask him what I want to know.

“I think the love of your life will come home to you,” he says.

I grip my hands tightly, and I make sure that my face is blank. “The love of my life?”

He nods. “I can’t say more.”

Indeed, I dare not ask more. “He will be safe?”

“I think you will marry again,” he says very softly. With his ivory pointer, like a wand, he shows the later years, my fourth decade. “Venus,” he remarks quietly. “Love, and fertility, and death.”

“You can see my death?” I ask boldly.

Quickly he shakes his head. “No, no. It is forbidden. See your chart, it is just like the king’s, it goes on and on, it never ends.”

“But you see love?”

“I think that you will live with the love of your life. He will come home to you.”

“Of course, you mean the king, home from the war,” I say quickly.

“He will come home safe from the war,” he repeats. He does not say who.

* * *