“Good night, Kateryn Parr,” he says, biting off his words. “Don’t you think it odd that every one of your predecessors called herself by her name: Queen Katherine or Queen Anne or—God bless her—Queen Jane? But you call yourself Kateryn Parr. You sign yourself Kateryn the Queen KP. P for Parr.”

I am so surprised at this ridiculous challenge that I reply before I can think. “I am myself!” I say. “I am Kateryn Parr. I am my father’s daughter, educated by my mother. What else should I call myself but by my name?”

He looks across at Stephen Gardiner—who uses his name and his title without question—and they nod at each other as if I have revealed something that they long suspected.

“What can be wrong with this?” I demand.

He does not even answer me, he waves me away.

* * *

When I wake in the morning the privy chamber outside my bedroom is oddly quiet. Usually there is the low reassuring buzz of my ladies arriving for the day and then the tap on the door by the maid-in-waiting for that day bringing in the hot water. As I get up and wash my face and hands in a golden bowl of warm water, the ladies bring my gowns drawn from the queen’s wardrobe for me to choose what I will wear, and the sleeves and the bodice and the hood and the jewels. They will offer something to eat; but I will not taste anything or drink until we have been to Mass, for I am uncertain, as everyone is now uncertain, as to whether we are to fast before Mass or not. It may be well known as a meaningless ritual, or Gardiner may have restored it to the court as a holy tradition. I am not sure. It is a sign of how ridiculous the times have become that I—a queen in my own rooms—do not know if I may eat a bread roll or not. It is ludicrous.

Ludicrous, and yet this morning I cannot hear the noise of the baker’s boy bringing bread from the kitchen. It is so eerily quiet outside my private chamber that I don’t wait for the arrival of my maids-in-waiting; I get up, pull my robe over my nakedness, and open the door to look out. There are half a dozen women outside, three of them holding gowns from the royal wardrobe. They are oddly silent, and when I open my door and stand wordlessly, looking at them, they don’t exclaim good morning and smile. They drop into silent curtseys and when they rise up they keep their eyes on the floor. They will not look at me.

“What’s the matter?” I demand. I scan the half dozen of them, and then I ask, more impatiently, “Where is Nan? Where is my sister?”

Nobody answers, but Anne Seymour steps reluctantly forward. “Please allow me to speak with you alone, Your Majesty,” she says.