He commands that we invite the former queen Anne of Cleves for Christmas, and she comes to court plumply good-humored, as greedy as the king himself, and as merry and as sweet-tempered as any woman could be who has escaped danger with her life and come out with a royal title, a fortune, and her freedom.

She is wealthy. She comes with a train of horsemen, bringing rich Christmas gifts, carefully chosen to please all of us. She is three years younger than me, fair-haired, dark-eyed, and with a calm untroubled smile. Her rounded prettiness draws admiring glances from people who have forgotten why the king rejected her. She was the Protestant princess and she fell with their leader, Cromwell, when the king turned against reform. She comes to court as if to remind me that there has been a queen before who worshipped in her own language, served God without pope or bishop, took bread and wine not body and blood—and lasted less than six months.

She smiles warmly at me, but she keeps her distance, as if there is no advantage in friendship with a wife. She knows everything there is to know about Tudor queens, and has concluded that there is no point in becoming my friend. They tell me that she was loving with Queen Katherine Howard: she bore no grudge when their roles were reversed, and the lady-in-waiting walked before her queen; but with me she behaves as if it is hardly worth getting to know me. Her cool glance tells me that she doubts I will make three years, perhaps I will not be here next Christmas.

Nan embraces her without hesitation, falling into her arms as if they are two survivors from a secret war that only they remember. Anne hugs her tightly and then holds my sister at arm’s length to read her face.

“You are well?” she asks. Her accent is still German, like the cawing of a crow, even after all these years in England.

“I am well,” Nan says mistily, as if moved by a kiss from this ghost. “And my sister is Queen of England!”

I can’t be the only person to think this rather awkward, given that this rounded, smiling woman was queen one reign before mine, and dismissed from the royal bed and the throne faster than anyone else has ever been. But Anne turns, still holding my sister close, and smiles at me. “God bless Your Majesty,” she says sweetly. “And may your reign be long.”

Unlike yours, I hope; but I incline my head and smile back at her.

“And is the king in good health?” she asks, knowing that I have to lie, for it is illegal to suggest that he is ill.

“He is in very good health,” I say stoutly.

“And inclining to the reform of religion?” she asks hopefully.