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the servant and entered the room. It was a little boy, his dress strange but clearly a uniform of some sort. He had dark eyes, curling dark hair, a bright smile. How old? Perhaps four. There was an air about him that was unmistakable; she would have wagered her life this child was royal.
    “Who are you, little one?”
    He answered her with an outpouring of a language she did not know. The servant scrambled to some device on the wall; in a moment Culhane stood before her.
    “You said you didn’t want to see me, Your Grace. But I was closest to answer Kiti’s summons…”
    Anne looked at him. It seemed to her that she looked clear through him, to all that he was: Desire, and pride of his pitiful strange learning, and smugness of his holy mission that had brought her life to wreck. Hers, and perhaps Elizabeth’s as well. She saw Culhane’s conviction, shared by Lord Director Brill and even by such as Lady Mary, that what they did was right because they did it. She knew that look well: It had been Cardinal Wolsey’s, Henry’s right-hand man and chancellor of England, the man who had advised Henry to separate Anne from Harry Percy. And advised Henry against marrying her. Until she, Anne Boleyn, upstart Tom Boleyn’s powerless daughter, had turned Henry against Wolsey and had the cardinal brought to trial. She.
    In that minute she made her decision.
    “I was wrong, Master Culhane. I spoke in anger. Forgive me.” She smiled and held out her hand, and she had the satisfaction of watching Culhane turn color.
    How old was he? Not in his first youth. But neither had Henry.
    He said, “Of course, Your Grace. Kiti said you talked to the Tsarevitch.”
    She made a face, still smiling at him. She had often mocked Henry thus. Even Harry Percy, so long ago, a lifetime ago… No. Two lifetimes ago. “The what?”
    “The Tsarevitch.” He indicated the child.
    Was the dye on his face permanent, or would it wash off?
    She said, not asking, “He is another time hostage. He, too, in his small person, prevents a war.”
    Culhane nodded, clearly unsure of her mood. Anne looked wonderingly at the child, then winningly at Culhane. “I would have you tell me about him. What language does he speak? Who is he?”
    “Russian. He is—was—the future emperor. He suffers from a terrible disease: You called it the bleeding sickness. Because his mother, the empress, was so driven with worry over him, she fell under the influence of a holy man who led her to make some disastrous decisions while she was acting for her husband, the emperor, who was away at war.”
    Anne said, “And the bad decisions brought about another war.”
    “They made more bloody than necessary a major rebellion.”
    “You prevent rebellions as well as wars? Rebellions against a monarchy?”
    “Yes, it—history did not go in the direction of monarchies.”
    That made little sense. How could history go other than in the direction of those who were divinely anointed, those who held the power? Royalty won. In the end, they always won.
    But there could be many casualties before the end.
    She said, with that combination of liquid dark gaze and aloof body that had so intrigued Henry—and Norris, and Wyatt, and even presumptuous Smeaton, God damn his soul—“I find I wish to know more about this child and his country’s history. Will you tell me?”
    “Yes,” Culhane said. She caught the nature of his smile: relieved, still uncertain how far he had been forgiven, eager to find out. Familiar, all so familiar.
    She was careful not to let her body touch his as they passed through the doorway. But she went first, so he could catch the smell of her hair.
    “Master Culhane—you are listed on the demon machine as ‘M. Culhane.’”
    “The…oh, the computer. I didn’t know you ever looked at one.”
    “I did. Through a window.”
    “It’s not a demon, Your Grace.”
    She let the words pass; what did she care what it was? But his tone told her something. He liked