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slid over the charred insect one by one, until all traces of its fate were obliterated.
    A prickling sensation swept my spine and I was overcome by a need to be rid of the wedding clothes. To rid myself of the reminder of a marriage that had been thrust upon me. If I could remove the stiff ruff around my neck and rid myself of my corset, then I could pretend that I was a maiden once more and that none of indignities that had assaulted my person had taken place.
    I pulled at the ruff, grasping at one of the hundred pins that held it in place, but it stuck into my flesh. I pulled my finger away and watched a droplet of blood rise from my skin. I sucked at the blood, unwilling to let it mark my clothes.
    Pulling at the ruff with the other hand only resulted in pricking those fingers as well. Turning, I meant to release the laces that fastened my gown at the back, but I could not place my hand to them. I could not free myself from anything.
    I stood then, turning and pulling, tugging at my gown, desperate to rid myself of its constraints. I heard lace tear and jewels fall but could not rid myself of the desire to be free. Finally, reason prevailed and I stopped, panting, wrapped in the shreds of a marriage gown that had cost a veritable fortune. A gown that was part of my dowry.
    What had I done?
    And more importantly, what was I to do?
    Had I not curtsied soon enough? Had I not curtsied well enough?
    There in my chambers, I closed my eyes and bent in reminiscence of the homage I had paid the Queen.
    I had done . . . just . . . so.
    I opened my eyes and my gaze fell on the same stretch of hem that it had in the Presence Chamber. I closed my eyes again, reliving the audience with the Queen. The earl had urged me to curtsey further. And that I had done.
    I closed my eyes and bent again in imitation. Opened my eyes to survey my form as well as I could with the ruff still fixed about my neck.
    It was perfect.
    I rose and curtsied again. And again. And again. It mattered not that the front of my gown flopped open, giving plain view of the corset beneath. It mattered not that my forepart dangled drunkenly from my kirtle’s skirt. I was searching for some flaw, sought some sign of betrayal in my limbs, searched for anything, any reason to explain the Queen’s ire.
    But I found nothing.
    I closed my eyes and curtsied once more. And then I remembered that at the last, the earl had forced my hand to the ground, urging me to bend further. But I had not done it. Had thought it impossible to bend further. But perhaps . . .
    Bending forward, I felt my busk strain. And then it snapped. The sudden absence of restraint pitched me forward and I fell to the floor.
    It was evident that I could not have done more. And lying there alone, with my face to the ground, I cried.
    By and by, Joan returned. I heard the door scrape, heard her steps cross the floor. And then, a pause. “Marget?” She soon knelt at my elbow, gripped my forearm to help me up. “What has happened?”
    “It was . . . horrible. The Queen did not like me. Everyone . . . laughed . . . at me.” My voice caught on the last word and my eyes overflowed once more.
    “They cannot have laughed! Why would they have laughed?”
    “She called me a gypsy.”
    “The Queen?”
    I could only nod.
    Joan helped me to a stool. She removed the French hood that adorned my head at a tilt, then pretended to smooth my hair, succeeding only in wiping away my tears. When she left my side to pour me a glass of wine, her work was ruined, for new tears issued to take the place of the old.
    I tried to save what remained of my ruff when it became apparent that the tears were flowing from some font that would not be stopped. I scrubbed at them furiously, but it made no difference. I succeeded only in chafing my cheeks and my neck, making me look even more like the gypsy Her Majesty had called me.
    “Stop pawing at that ruff. Let me get a chambermaid to help you.”
    “Nay! Please. I have no wish for