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about—reformists, heresy.” He paused. “She is simply too great a risk to your crown.”
    I supposed they were talking of the Queen’s sister, Elizabeth. The rebels would have put her on the throne with their uprising.
    “She is so very young.” All the joy seemed to drain from the Queen then, and she began wringing her hands, rubbing and rubbing, as if washing ink from them. “She spent many happy days with us at Beaulieu.”
    I remember thinking, I know Beaulieu well; we used to go there often to visit Mary before she was queen. I remember her greeting us always as “My most favorite cousins.” I remember Jane refusing to curtsy before the sacrament in the chapel there. “She will grow out of it,” they said.
    We all must take the greatest care to appear as Catholics, now Mary is queen, so Maman says all the time.
    “Renard.” The Queen’s voice was twisted out of its normal shape. “We cannot.” She stood then, her Bible and rosary slipping to the floor with a clatter. “You do not understand. We love the girl. We cannot see her executed.”
    The Queen dithered back and forth, turning one way and another, while Renard followed her with his eyes. They seemed to forget I was there. “The husband’s execution we can stomach. Those Dudleys are traitors to the core. But she  . . . She is our cousin, our child cousin.”
    It was only then that understanding came to me, like a shadow in the side of my eye. It wasn’t Elizabeth they were talking of; it was my sister Jane and her husband, Guildford Dudley. A gasp escaped my mouth. The Queen and Renard turned to me together; her face was smudged with despair, Renard’s with . . . What was it; was it shame? I hope it was shame.
    “ Her sister,” hissed the Queen, pointing towards me. “ Her sister.”She crumpled into her chair, dropping her face into her hands. “We cannot.”
    “ Her sister,” repeated Forget-me-not.
    Renard was kneeling at her feet then. “The Emperor . . .” he began. “The Emperor would see it as a sign of commitment to his son.”
    “What are you saying?” Her eyes flashed angrily. “That it is a condition . . .” She paused, taking a deep, wavering breath. “Prince Felipe or Jane Grey?”
    I wanted to shout at them, remind them I was there. But I found myself struck dumb.
    “There are no conditions, as such.” Renard’s voice was smooth as silk velvet. “The Emperor— also Your Highness’s own cousin—wishes nothing more than the security of your realm. You are a ‘formidable queen,’ as he says.”
    “But . . .” she began. Then said nothing.
    “The Prince Felipe, pardon my turn of phrase, madam, he itches for this wedding. He thinks of the match, of you , my dearest Queen, as”—he seemed to search for the word—“peerless.”
    She twisted the emerald on her finger. It seemed to me a grotesque thing. I was hollowed out by the thought of it; I still am—my kind sister, who never hurt a soul.
    The Queen leant forward and grasped my underarms, pulling me up onto her lap again, clasping me tightly to her, so tight I struggled to find my breath. She hummed a low note close to my ear, a kind of sob or moan; I could smell the sharp neroli oil she likes to dab on her breast; her stiff golden gown scratched at the skin of my face. I wanted, desperately, in that moment to feel the arms of my own Maman about me. It is only Maman’s touch I can bear.
    “You may leave, Renard,” the Queen said.
    Only when he was gone did she release me from her grip. “Oh, little Mary, the Lord asks much of us.” Without looking at me she took up her rosary, flicking the beads through her fingers,murmuring a prayer. I wanted to jump from her lap, run from the room, from the palace, away from her.
    “May I be excused?” I whispered, in a break in her prayers.
    “Of course, Mary dear, run along,” is all she said. There was no mention of my sister, who was about to be executed, not a word. As I reached up to the