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of large wooden eating bowls affixed to the side of Frances’s head.
    “I wasn’t spying. You woke me up with your chatter,” Frances said. “But if you want to know the queen’s mind on anything, ask Walter Ralegh.”
    Frances’s advice startled me. “But I’ve never even spoken to him!” I said.
    “Perhaps you should,” said Frances. “The queen’s cats are bold creatures.”
    I decided Frances was taunting me. “No, this Cat is heedful,” I said. “Now good night.” I pulled the coverlet over my head and tried to sleep, but the queen’s words kept coming back to me: Nothing escapes my eye.
    I was less certain that her nickname was a gift. But I would be true to it: sly and wary, but fearless.
    One April morning, Emme, Frances, and I were airing out the queen’s wardrobe and sprinkling the clothes with scented powder to keep them from growing musty. My arms ached from lifting the heavy skirts to hang where they would catch the breeze from the open windows
    “Cat! Frances!” came the queen’s commanding voice. “You will accompany me to Durham House within the hour.”
    Flushed with exertion and excitement, I appealed to Emme. “Please help me get ready. I am hardly fit to be seen.”
    She set down the muddy pantofles she had been cleaning. “You must wear my yellow satin bodice. It makes your dark hair stand out,” she said. She helped me dress, combed my curls, fitted my cap, and plaited some of my hair around it.
    Frances had put on a dark blue gown over her best petticoat, her gift from the queen.
    “Are you going to be a bold Cat today and speak to Master Ralegh?” she asked.
    I glared at her. “Perhaps.”
    “This may be your chance,” said Emme. “Listen well and observe the queen’s disposition. If she invites you to speak, choose words brief and fitting, uttered in a moderate voice.”
    But I was full of doubts. “Tell me what I should say,” I pleaded. “I know Ralegh wants to sail to North America, but I don’t even know where that is.”
    Emme bit her lip. “You look too lovely. Perhaps you should remain silent. Speak only if the queen is absent, or she may become jealous.”
    Looking in a glass, I saw that my bodice was too revealing. I arranged the lace-edged partlet to cover more of my breasts.
    “Don’t do that,” Frances said, tugging my partlet downward again. “No one will bother to lay eyes on you if there is nothing to see.”
    Seeing how Frances relished my discomfort, I was determined not to show any. So I let the air chill my bosom as we walked the short way to Durham House. Frances and I held up the queen’s train, while our own skirts were left to brush the dusty cobbles. I knew Frances was silently fretting about her treasured petticoat.
    Walter Ralegh himself met us at the gate, attended by a dozen or more gentlemen. I thought him resplendent in a doublet of bright blue taffeta with wide, slashed sleeves, matching trunk hose, and a buff-colored jerkin. Gold buckles shone on his shoes. He led the way through halls and stairways hung with Flemish tapestries as richly hued as any in Whitehall Palace. The queen stopped often to admire them, which seemed to please Ralegh.
    On the topmost floor of Durham House was the library, a room filled with books, maps, strange instruments, and a globe of the world. The windows were open, letting in the cries of hawkers in the streets and wherrymen on the river. As Elizabeth entered the library, three men waiting there dropped to their knees.
    “Thomas Harriot at Your Majesty’s service,” said one of them to the floor. He had wispy hair and a beard to match and wore the long black robe of a scholar. The queen bade him rise.
    “Thomas and I were at Oxford together,” said Ralegh. “He is a scholar of languages, a conjurer of numbers, and an expert in navigation.” Then he introduced the other two men, captains of the ships he would send to North America. One was dark and of small stature, while the other was tall