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to love her while seeking nothing other than the restoration of his traitorous family, whereas I … I confess, I was developing a tendresse for Elizabeth. The thought of her touch and scent … the smooth skin of her supple neck … and most particularly of her taste quite overwhelmed me at times. Call me foolish, but I have always believed in love.
    The ever-intrusive Cecil sidled up to her as the banquet was ending. I was glad to see that she sent him on his way with short shrift. I had considered removing her Spirit but had left him alive, judging that he could be useful to me in years to come.
    At length and at last, she withdrew. I watched her maids strip her of her raiment, garment by garment until at last her pale skin was revealed in all its glory. Her legs were long and tapered, the thighs sleek with muscle. The soft nest of fire between them drew my gaze. I imagined touching her, feeling her respond, feeding from her. Passion warred with amusement as I watched her wiggle her toes in the thick carpet. Still, I was not fooled. Her eyes were shadowed with fatigue. She was living on her nerves. When her ladies had gone, she opened the window and looked out toward the river. Her expression was pensive and, I thought, filled with yearning.
    As was I. The time had come; I would wait no longer.
    “Elizabeth,” I breathed, and sent her name as a prayer out into the night.

Night, 15 January 1559

    I turn, expecting to see Robin emerging from the hidden passage, but there is no sign of him. Nonetheless, the sensation that I am not alone grows stronger, becoming impossible to ignore. Slowly, I move toward the concealed door set in the paneled wall. At the touch of a hidden lever, the door swings open on hinges that are always kept well oiled. Beyond lies only darkness. I wait, scarcely breathing, thinking to see the flicker of light heralding Robin’s approach, but there is nothing.
    I resist for several minutes as the lure grows stronger. Finally, telling myself that I am merely curious, I take a lamp from a nearby table and step into the passage. At once, I am engulfed in darkness just beyond the small circle of light in which I move. The passage leads deep within the south wing of the palace. There are, so far as I know, only three entrances—one in my own rooms, another in the apartment I have arranged to be given to Robin, and a third to be found down a flight of steps, along another, older passage that may date from the time of Edward or even earlier, and finally through an iron gate concealed behind a false wall that leads out into an ancient, walled garden near the river.
    It is madness to go as I do, clad only in slippers, a nightgown, and robe. Worse yet, I am without a single guard despite the constant threat to my life from innumerable sources. Never in my wildest imaginings would I have behaved in such a way. YetI proceed along the passage, through the gate, and out into the winter garden.
    I can smell the river—chill but dank, moving sluggishly at that late hour—vying with the pall of smoke hanging over the city. In honor of my coronation, and to induce my people to love me, a generous measure of wood and coal has been provided to every household. Even the poorest tenement dweller is warm that night, but not their queen. The cold ripples up from my feet, causing my muscles to clench. My breath frosts in the chill air. I shiver and, determined to cast off the madness that has seized me, turn to go back inside.
    A shadow moves at the edge of the garden, shifting out of darkness, devoid of light, blacker than night. I stand frozen, observing it take form. Too swiftly for my mind to grasp, it resolves into the shape of a man—tall, broad-shouldered, cloaked. My throat closes, preventing me from making the slightest sound, far less a cry for help. I can only watch helplessly as he strides toward me, no sound of his footfall on the gravel path interrupting the silence. As he nears, the lamp I hold flickers and