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in possession of something otherworldly. “Take care of its power, my good lord,” she tells me in an eerie tone suggesting that she speaks not by choice but at the command of some higher being with which I have never become familiar.
    â€œWhat are you about?” I snap, trying to quell my trembling.
    She is unaffected, unafraid. Her full, claret-colored lips curve into a slow smile. “There is always a chance for redemption; no fate is ever certain,” she hisses in urgency, and the incongruity of her seductive expression and harsh tone causes me to start.
    â€œAttend your charge at once, woman!” I cry, snatching my hand from hers and backing away, stifling the urge to make the sign of the cross and run in terror.
    Tsura the Gypsy dips into a curtsy, then returns to my wife’s bedside.
    I stand outside the chambers, studying my hand a long moment. I clench it into a fist.
    Take care of its power indeed.

    It is a boy! Another bonny boy! We call him Henry after the king and his son. He is a delight, so blond and rosy. His eyes are lighter than his brother’s; their silvery blue gaze penetrates the soul as he studies me, his little face earnest as a judge’s. I find myself particularly attached to this wee mite, perhaps because I was here when he was born, and I love holding him, caring for him. It touches me to feel his tiny hand curling about my thumb and I marvel at his perfect small feet, an example of God’s attention to the finest details.
    I never knew I could love like this.
    The princess and I spend many an hour in the gardens with the children. She laughs more now. Our toddling Little Thomas brings her delight as he discovers his world; he is everywhere at once and it takes a great deal of energy to keep up with him, but it is energy we are happy to spare.
    When Thomas is out of his swaddling bands and put into short pants, assembling words into short sentences, following me about wherever I permit him to go, my princess tells me I should begin considering names for our third child.
    I stare at her in wonder. How is it a man can be this happy?

    The princess is eight months gone with child when the nurse tells her our baby, our Henry, was found dead in his cradle one spring morning.
    I have never heard my princess raise her voice, but now she is screaming. The sound rips from her throat, raw and terrifying. She sinks to her knees before our lamb’s little cradle, thrusting her long arms skyward, bidding the Lord to answer for His decision. When at last she has collected herself, she turns to me, staring, large green eyes filled with questions I cannot begin to answer.
    Tears stream down my cheeks unchecked as I approach the cradle. He does not look dead at all, his tiny head lolled to one side, eyes closed, fists curled by his chin. He is so still. I reach out to touch him, then draw back in horror. The warmth I had treasured when cradling him so close is gone. He is cold; the breath of life has departed.
    I sob, great gasping, gulping sobs of despair.
    There is no reason. There is no good reason.
    I turn to the nurse, hot anger replacing the tears that I now wipe away in disgust. “Why was he not attended to?” I seethe.
    The woman backs away in horror. “But he was—he was as he is every night, my lord. We checked on him right good, sir.”
    â€œIf that were so, he would be here with us!” I cry. “You are dismissed! This whole nursery staff is to leave this instant and I do not care where you go! May God rot your souls for your negligence!”
    The woman retreats with the two rockers and nursery maids. I hear them fleeing, their voices raised in panic.
    â€œPray you make it out of here before I reach the door!” I shout.
    I turn once more to the cradle. What do I do now?
    â€œHe was perfect,” I tell the princess in softer tones, shaking my head in agonized wonder. “I do not understand. . . . He was perfect. How can he be