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my face to good effect, though the first time I wore it, Cristiana insulted me.
    "Your neck is so short, you resemble a bulldog!" she said mockingly.
    "And you have spots on your face you have neglected to paint over," I countered, which made her fume silently. I had no need of paint, for my cheeks and lips were naturally bright, my skin softened by Mechtild's strawberry water. This pleased me, and I became a little proud, but I believed that a measure of vanity was required of me as a woman of the court.
    I was now thirteen years old, an age at which many young women commenced courtships and some were already betrothed. Curious, I watched how men and women acted in each other's presence. I practiced turning my head and shoulders in the manner I had seen one of the queen's ladies use while conversing with a young lord. I wondered if Hamlet would find such a movement appealing. Seeing my reflection in a bowl of water or a looking glass, I thought how amazed Hamlet would be to see me transformed from a wild girl into a lady. But we had not met since the long-ago day by the brook. Hamlet had left for Germany to study at the university in Wittenberg. Surely his mind was too full for thoughts of me, and I had only a few idle minutes each day to think on him.
    Moreover, I was reminded daily that my favor at the court of Elsinore was unlikely and precarious.
    "Your father is a nobody, and you are nothing, Ophelia," Cristiana taunted me. "I cannot fathom what the queen sees in you. Ha!" She laughed lightly.
    I said nothing in my defense. I was still angry that my father seemed careless of me, and I was ashamed of our family's poor estate. Why indeed should Gertrude keep me?
    The answer soon came to me. When the queen learned that I had been schooled in Latin and French, she bade me read aloud as she and her ladies worked on their embroidery. One of Gertrude's favorite books was The Mirror of the Sinful Soul, which, she told us, was written by Margaret, the queen of Navarre in France. Reading aloud and translating as I read, I was glad to exercise my mind and tongue again. Though I still performed my lowly duties, I dared to hope that my status at court was improving.
    Gertrude knew that her other ladies disliked these pious exercises. They would frown at me for reading prayers and meditations when they preferred to gossip. But when Gertrude recited the devotions, they bowed and crossed themselves and seemed to pay close heed.
    "We shall observe our likenesses in this mirror and reflect on our sins," she said, touching the book lightly. "I would be remiss in my duty, I fear, if I did not look after your spiritual welfare." Her words and tone almost conveyed apology.
    I soon discovered that Gertrude's piety hid a secret pleasure. One evening she called me to her chamber. Her hair was loose, and its ripples shone in the candlelight. She wore a nightgown clasped at the bodice with jeweled buttons. Kneeling as if for prayer, she dismissed Cristiana, who set down the basin of scented water she earned.
    "My tired eyes hinder my devotions," she said. "Ophelia shall read the scripture to me."
    Cristiana glared at me like the proverbial green-eyed monster. I was struck at that moment with the unbelievable thought that she was jealous. I had no time to dwell on the discovery, however, for the queen was demanding my attention. Cristiana slipped out, closing the door, and I stood by, waiting. Gertrude rose to fetch a small book from a high shelf and returned to a cushioned settee, motioning for me to sit at her feet. I sat, as noiseless as a cat. The book she handed me resembled her other devotional books. It was called the Heptameron, and I saw that it was also written by the pious queen Margaret.
    I opened the book to where a ribbon lay between the pages. I began to read aloud and found to my shame that this was no book of prayer. I blushed and my voice was barely above a murmur as I read the tale of a noble woman seduced from her foolish