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count all the stars?”
    “No, Nell. Lord Thomas had more dangerous gifts. He was handsome and charming, a bold adventurer and skilled at seduction.” Father’s voice turned suddenly raspy. “You must never fall prey to a man like him, my Nell. I could not bear to think of you at the mercy of that kind of villain. Thomas Seymour destroyed every good and decent thing he ever touched.”
    Father gathered me close, understanding without words my fear of going to back to bed alone. We watched the sun rise together like an astrolabe of gold over the Thames.

    S IX MONTHS AFTER we left London a messenger rode between the stone lions that guarded Calverley’s gatehouse, then into the main courtyard framed by turrets and great redbrick walls. Hearing the commotion, Father and I crossed to the library window. The stranger’s livery was unrecognizable, dark with filth from the road, the cloth threadbare beside Father’s well-garbed servants in their silver and blue. He was so thin that Mother would have ordered the man to the kitchens to be fed before he so much as spoke. But she was off with Eppie delivering the miller’s babe.
    “Perhaps it is just as well your mother is afield,” Father told me. “Please God it will be our copy of Copernicus from Dr. Dee and you can find more theories to test with your favorite plaything.” I had carried the astrolabe about as other girls carried dolls until Mother put a stop to it. But the chance to experiment once more with the beloved instrument delighted me as nothing had since our return to Calverley. After all the excitement in London my home in its quiet Lincolnshire weald seemed quite tame. Father scooped me up and hastened to the courtyard, but the messenger was not from Dr. Dee.
    “The man wears royal livery,” Father told me as we approached the man and his sweaty roan horse.
    “What is your business with Calverley,” Father demanded.
    The messenger smiled. “I bear a message I am to deliver into the hand of Mistress Elinor de Lacey.”
    “I am she,” I said. The messenger placed a rolled piece of vellum into my hand.
    Father ordered Jem to see to the messenger’s comfort, then we went back up to the library to read the letter. Father took the missive, broke the seal, an official-looking blot of red wax deliciously bumpy where a ring had pressed into it. I opened the page, but the writing was full of curls and elegant swirls.
    “Father, it is the first letter I have ever gotten,” I enthused. “Who is it from?”
    “The Lady Elizabeth. It seems your princess has left London with her head still attached to her shoulders.”
    “But how, Father?”
    “Her enemies could find no proof she was in league with Wyatt’s rebels, so Queen Mary had to release her from the Tower. Who knows what may happen now. Queen Mary’s mother had difficulty bearing one living child when she was young. Mary is old. Elizabeth might one day be queen if she is wise and patient.” Father considered for a moment. “She would make a fine one, from what my friend Roger Ascham says. Twice she braved great peril, refusing to desert her servants to save herself. She shows great love to those who are loyal to her. People like you.”
    “Like me?”
    “That is what this letter is about, sweetheart. She is grateful for your attempt to free her from the Tower. Someday, when you have a daughter of your own, you can show this missive to her, and tell her of the day brave Nell de Lacey tried to rescue a captive princess. Perhaps it is time I show you a secret place I found when I was a boy. A nook where my father and his father before him hid precious things.”
    Father carried me to my nursery and showed me how to wriggle a brick near the hearth until it came loose. Behind it lay a piece of blue glass, a lark’s nest, and an iridescent peacock feather. I placed my letter in the space beside them.
    “Mother would not like this secret place or what I have put in it,” I said solemnly.
    Father