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“Very much. All my ladies tease me about it.”

Boleyn goes to her own trunks, which have been stacked in one corner of the room, and pulls a prayer book from one of the smaller cases.

She pauses over it, wondering whether she can bear to part with it to someone like Howard.

Rochford would say yes; Mary would say no.

She thinks of how cruel Mary was towards Seymour, and makes up her mind.

“I commissioned this when I was eighteen,” she tells Howard, handing her the book.

“Oh, how beautiful,” Howard says, stroking the leather cover, which is embossed with the antlers of Cernunnos, and has gold gilt around the edges.

“Open it,” Boleyn says.

Hesitantly, Howard does so, running her fingers over the calligraphy and illustrations.

“It’s my gift to you,” Boleyn says.

Howard snaps the book shut, and hands it back to Boleyn. “Oh, thank you, sister, but I cannot accept it.”

Boleyn laughs. “Are you so good at giving gifts that you can never receive them?”

“Please don’t think I’m ungrateful,” Howard says, taking Boleyn’s hands. “It’s only that – I have no use for it.”

Boleyn frowns, unable to work out this odd creature. “It’s a book. It isn’t meant to be used . It’s meant to be enjoyed. If you have too many of them then place it with your other books and simply pretend you have read it.”

“I don’t have any books,” Howard says. Her voice is carefree, but she draws her knees into her body.

Boleyn’s disbelieving laughter is on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows it when she sees Howard’s expression. The lap dragon nestles into Howard, sensing his mistress’s discomfort.

“You were never taught to read?” Boleyn asks.

“They tried,” Howard explains. “My cousins’ tutors did try to teach me. But I can’t… I’m not clever, like you or the king. The letters all mix together on the page.”

“But what about my letters? You read those, don’t you?”

“One of my ladies reads them to me, and then takes my dictation.”

Boleyn stands under the pretence of walking to the other window, unwilling to let Howard see her shock.

It is constantly a surprise to her when high-born ladies, from families with means, are not educated.

Her parents had been so forthright about the importance of all three of their children being taught to the same standard.

Howard follows her. “Please can we still be friends, sister? I know I’m stupid and silly…”

“Don’t say that,” Boleyn snaps, even though she was thinking it herself only moments before.

“It’s true though. Henry says so all the time.”

The blood that was thundering through Boleyn’s head goes quiet. She feels herself go very still, as though she is on the precipice of those falls outside her window, clinging to the edge.

“He says what?” she whispers.

Howard falters. “It’s all right,” she says, hands outstretched. “He doesn’t mean it as an insult; he’s just being truthful. He says lots of lovely things to me as well.”

Boleyn can’t answer her. She has never denigrated her husband.

She has only ever worshipped him. She loved him, she married him, because she thought he was different to most men.

He reminded her of her father, the way he admired her bookishness and the way she enjoyed hunting, the way he laughed when she teased him instead of becoming angry.

But this man, this man who insults one of the women he is supposed to love – this is not the man she thought she had married.

“How old are you?” she asks Howard.

“I’ll be sixteen soon.”

Boleyn sinks onto the bed, one hand clutching the post, one cradling her stomach. Henry is thirty-three years old. He married Howard when she was thirteen, and he thirty-one. She is the same age as his daughter, Princess Tudor.

“People say I’m very mature for my age,” Howard adds, sitting beside her.

“Do they?” Boleyn replies faintly.

The baby stirs. Boleyn reaches out a foot and pushes the side of the cot. It rocks gently. She can’t think clearly.

“Can some wine be brought?” she asks. Howard runs to the door and calls for the best wine in the palace. It is brought in a pretty silver cup and jug. Boleyn sips at it as she thinks.

“I will understand if you wish to return to Brynd,” Howard says, hovering over her, pulling at her lovely hair.

“Why do you say that?”

Howard smiles brightly. “No one stays at Plythe very long. When I heard Henry stayed with you for a sennight the other month, I nearly fainted with jealousy.”

“Does he not stay that long with you?”

“No, never. Normally, he rides in at sunset, stays the night.” At this she raises an eyebrow coquettishly. “Then rides off again after breakfast.”

Boleyn supposes she should take this as a sign that Henry does love her after all, but she cannot feel any satisfaction. She pats the bed beside her and puts an arm around Howard’s shoulders.

“The first thing we must do is help you to read and write,” she tells Howard.

When the girl opens her mouth to protest, Boleyn holds up a hand.

“Everyone can do it if they are schooled right. Sister, there are so many wonderful worlds to be discovered in words. There is so much joy to be found in reading a pretty poem or a clever letter. Now, my father once told me of a tutor from the great libraries in Uuvek who was able to teach anyone, no matter how their mind worked. I will enquire with him. Let us see if we can tempt him to Plythe.”

Howard stares at Boleyn. “You would do such a thing for me?”

“It is hardly a difficult task,” Boleyn says, but Howard throws her arms around Boleyn’s waist, and kisses her cheeks again and again until Boleyn pushes her away.

“Enough of that. I can see we’re going to have to discuss how a queen behaves, and what she should expect from those around her. But we’ll take one thing at a time.”

Howard laughs. A proper, full-throated laugh, unlike her usual coy, high-pitched ones.

“You’re going to teach me how to act like you?

” She sits very upright, her chin raised, and places one hand on her stomach and one on her forehead, the picture of affected femininity.

When she speaks, it’s in an uncanny approximation of Boleyn’s Capetian-flecked accent.

“Oh, sister, you are so very young, and I am so worldly and fertile…”

“Enough!” Boleyn says, smiling despite herself. “Don’t make me regret my offer.”

“I won’t,” Howard says, dropping her hands. The women smile at each other.

“Now I must rest,” Boleyn says. “But tomorrow there is someone I think you should meet.”

“Who is it? Are they coming to Plythe as well?”

“Not exactly. First, we must look for something. I know it must be somewhere in this palace.”

“What is it?”

“A sunscína , sister. One of the ancient mirrors of Elben’s queens.”