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Syndony strides beside her into Brynd. Elizabeth’s nurse is waiting there, Urial at her feet.

Boleyn plucks the child from the woman’s grasp, burying her face in the squirming body for an instant and no more.

She rocks her as she issues instructions – which doors are to be blocked, which horses to be saddled and which provisions to be packed.

With that done, she takes one last inhale of Elizabeth’s scent and hands her back to her nurse.

“You’re to go with Syndony through the tunnels to Pilvreen, do you understand?” she tells the woman. “Take whatever wealth you need from the vaults and my rooms to purchase yourselves transport.”

“Where are we to take her?” Syndony asks.

“In the first instance, get to your family. Then if it is safe to do so, take her to Queen Howard or Queen Cleves.”

“Not Queen Seymour?”

“She will soon be in my position, I fear. And my family will be watched too closely for you to take her to Mary.”

“And what about you?”

Boleyn smiles at her. “I’m going to be the distraction that allows you to escape.”

Syndony shakes her head. “No. No, you come through the tunnels with us. We’ll all go.”

“No, Syndony, that cannot happen.”

“Why not?” the woman juts her chin like a teenager.

“You know why.”

A hush settles over the castle. Outside, the army amasses beyond the gates.

“He’ll never stop until he’s found you,” Syndony says.

“That’s right. So I’m going to let him find me.”

Elizabeth begins to cry. Boleyn does not let herself comfort her, or her resolve will crumble. She forces herself to turn away as the nurse soothes her and Urial nuzzles her feet.

“You know there are some people here who’d die for you. That masque got people talking.”

“They think I’m a witch.”

“Not all of them. Not any more. You have loyal followers in this castle.”

“I will not allow another massacre to blight these people. Besides, Elben needs people to die fighting for the truth, not for me. There’s a difference, Syndony.”

Boleyn opens her arms, desperate for an embrace from this woman who helped her to birth her child, who stood by her when she didn’t need to, who put her trust in her when she had no use for trusting queens.

But instead of stepping into Boleyn’s arms, she curtseys.

A full, floor-deep curtsey as she has never before offered any noble.

“My queen,” she says. Then she rises, and leads the nurse away to the tunnels, without looking back.

Boleyn kneels and strokes Urial’s scaled neck, letting the dragon’s warmth comfort her.

“Protect her,” she tells the dragon. He licks Boleyn roughly, then twists into the air, following Syndony, the nurse and Elizabeth into Brynd’s depths.

Alone, Boleyn walks towards the stables, all the aches and pains of her journey and imprisonment filling her muscles once more.

Fauvel is waiting for her, saddled up and jittery from lack of exercise.

Boleyn runs her hand along the mare’s neck before swinging up into the saddle.

The sun is almost at its zenith. It’s time.

She asks the groom to fetch her something from the guardroom, and slings it over her shoulder.

Boleyn urges Fauvel out into the courtyard, where guards and servants mill nervously. Some of them clutch kitchen knives or gardening tools, pointing them inexpertly towards the closed gates.

“You don’t need to do that,” Boleyn calls. A semicircle forms around her.

“Raise the white flag,” she instructs a guard.

“But, Your Majesty, we can fight.”

“Remember you said that,” she says, pointing at him. “Remember you offered to fight for a queen of Brynd. But for now, retreat. Tell them you despise me. Tell them all the rumours about me are true. Tell them you are pleased I was taken.”

They stir, indignantly, uncomfortably. No one likes to know the truth and not shout about it.

“Do as I say – raise the white flag.”

Someone brings a bedsheet from the castle and thrusts it on a pole, so that it is visible over the gates.

“Open the gates if you surrender!” the king’s herald calls.

The guards look to Boleyn.

“Do as he says.”

They fall back behind her as the guards ease the gates apart. They creak open slowly. The last time they were closed, another queen accused of treason was mistress of this palace. Another queen who had discovered the truth and paid for it dearly.

As soon as the gates are open enough for Fauvel to fit through, Boleyn urges her into a canter and flies through the gap, leaning low over her neck to avoid any arrows.

She takes the army waiting outside by surprise, as was her intention.

Henry is at the front, as Boleyn knew he would be, and he is the first to spring into action.

“After her!” he commands, whipping his stallion into a gallop. The bulk of his army follows, streaming after Boleyn as she races towards the orchards and into the shelter of the trees.

“Boleyn!” Henry roars. There is no joy in his voice now. There is only the hunt.

Fauvel weaves between branches, her light hooves keeping ahead of the king’s charger. Boleyn steers her this way and that, always away from the castle, towards the outskirts of the orchards, towards the smell of the sea and the cries of the gulls.

They burst out of the cover of the trees and mount the hill that leads up to the folly. Boleyn halts Fauvel just as they reach the cliff. Henry and his army close in around them.

“Well done, girl,” Boleyn whispers, stroking her neck. Boleyn dismounts, and chases her beloved horse away from her, urging her to flee down the slope. She does not want her in the line of fire.

Henry dismounts his horse too, as Boleyn knew he would. His notions of courtly behaviour mean he cannot sanction anything else. It would be unseemly for an entire army to advance upon one weak woman. She takes the bow from her shoulder and notches an arrow into the string.

The distant bells of Pilvreen chime, the sound carried all this way on the wind, just for her. She edges around the side of the folly. One hand on her bow, she presses the sunscína , then springs away as Henry rounds the corner, his sword drawn.

In the corner of Boleyn’s vision, Seymour’s face appears. Then Howard’s. Then Cleves’s. And finally, the two queens she thought would never join them. Parr and Aragon, their expressions taut, lips pursed. As soon as they see Henry, and Boleyn’s arrow pointed directly at him, they are silenced.

“Boleyn,” Henry says, his voice deep and full, his eyes dragging over her body. The memory of their first meeting has filled both of them. “You’ve led me on quite a chase.”

“Well, you know how much I love a hunt.”

She keeps her arrow trained on him.

“You know what happens when the prey is cornered,” he says. “There’s always that moment where you see it in their eyes. The acceptance of their fate.”

He peers at her, and he has the audacity to smile in the way he knows used to make her weak. “I don’t see that in your eyes yet, Boleyn.”

“Maybe I’m not the prey.”

Henry laughs then, throwing his head back, exposing his neck. She takes the shot.

Her aim is true, but the arrow flies wide, disappearing into the cover of the orchard. Henry raises his sword.

“How unlike you to miss, Boleyn. Perhaps you don’t truly wish me dead.”

Boleyn knows the real problem. She needs five queens to defeat him, and neither Parr nor Aragon have pledged to join her yet. She just needs one of them to say the words, then she can shoot, then she can end this.

“Oh, Boleyn,” he says. “I do love you, you know. You’re so different from other women.”

Aragon hisses, almost inaudibly. Henry neither sees nor hears her – any of them, in fact, for the mirrors are for queens alone to use.

“I no longer find that a compliment, Henry,” Boleyn says. “I am exactly like other women, and I am proud to be one of them.” She’s lying, of course, but it must be said. She is nothing like the others, or she would not be here.

Henry laughs again, and Boleyn chances another shot.

She aims at his chest this time. The arrow flies true, but at the last moment a sudden gust of wind, unnatural in this alcove of the folly, blows the arrow off course.

It embeds, not in his chest, but in his thigh.

Henry roars in pain and throws his sword towards Boleyn like an axe.

She ducks out of its path, darting towards the sea.

As she crests the cliff, only just in sight of the folly, she realises that while the sword missed her, it has broken her bow.

She discards the weapon, raising her hands in surrender as Henry stumbles towards her, cursing.

He pulls the arrow from his thigh and tosses it to one side.

The goddess’s magic flows down his body to the wound, healing it, leaching life and strength from the six queens to mend the broken skin.

The oracle is right. Five queens are needed, not one, not four.

Five . Boleyn must unite them somehow. She glances towards the sunscína .

They are all still watching, Howard and Seymour through hands clasped over their mouths.

Aragon is more circumspect. She arches an eyebrow, curious to know what Boleyn will do next.

Henry collects his sword from the ground.

“You’ll pay for that.”

“I found a way, you know,” she says.

Henry sneers, recognising the stalling tactic.

“I did. In More’s books. I found the truth. I found a way to make the magic even stronger.”

That makes Henry pause. “You’re lying,” he says.

“Am I?”

His two desires – to put her in her place, and to empower himself – are at war inside him. Eventually, one wins out.

“How?”

“Ah-ah.” She shakes her head. “I want assurances, Henry.”

“You’re hardly in a position to make demands.”

“And yet I am. Don’t you love that about me?”

He lowers his sword, and limps towards her. She backs away, until she feels the crumbling edge of the cliff beneath her feet. She holds out the knife Clarice left in the crate. It’s a pitiful weapon compared to his, but it has the right effect.

“What are your demands?”

Boleyn glances towards the sunscína . All five queens are still there, leaning forward to hear her. She raises her voice above the wind.

“I want to be your queen again, Henry. Your true queen, raised above all others. When you go into battle abroad and conquer the world, and you will, with my help, then I will rule as regent in your place.”

“Anything else?”

“Elizabeth will be named heir of Elben, no matter how many other children you have, or their gender.”

“You ask too much.”

“Not if what I have found could make you ruler of the known world. And it could, Henry. You will work your way through dozens of other queens, use them up in a year apiece, and you and Elben will prosper. But I will too, by your side. Unharmed. What is your answer?”

The wind reaches inside her clothes, the sea spray flying up towards her from hundreds of feet below as she teeters on the edge of the cliff, on the edge of destiny. She dares not look at the sunscína , to see the effect of her betrayal.

“All right. I promise,” Henry growls.

“Words are cheap, husband. Swear it on this.”

She pulls her wedding ring from her finger, the fairy still trapped inside it, fluttering for eternity, and throws it to him. He stares down at it.

“Is my word not enough, my love?” he says.

“No.”

Henry smiles again, rueful, and Boleyn realises that if he does this, if he swears on the ring, compelled to do all that he has promised, that they could be happy.

Even after everything that has come to pass, they could fall in love again.

She could scour More’s books to find the right words, or she could work to trick the goddess into helping her.

She could will herself to forget everything he has done, to her and to others.

They could be the perfect match once more. She could have everything.

“I swear it,” Henry says, and repeats the oath, word for word. The fairy inside the jewel spins and spins until it becomes an impossible, pulsating light. The victory is in Boleyn’s grasp. But it is not the victory that she desires.

“It is done,” Henry says, lifting the ring up, passing it back to her. “Now tell me what I need to do.”

“Thank you for the assurance, my love,” she says, and she turns fully towards the sunscína . As Wyatt did only yesterday, she lifts the wedding ring to her chest and she bows to the watching queens. As she straightens, she catches Aragon’s eye.

Until you can prove to me that you truly work for all the queens, I will die before I join your cause.

That’s what Aragon had told her. She hopes that this is proof enough.

When Boleyn speaks, she knows that the queens will know she speaks to them.

“Tell Elizabeth – tell Elizabeth that I wanted a fairer world for all of us. And whatever else happens – spin her a happy life.”

Her arms open of their own accord, the wedding ring, bright as a star, falling to the grass as she steps back into space. The sea calls to her, the deep cry of the ocean currents offering a cool embrace.

Five queens are all that are needed, and five queens remain.

Let the krakens take her.

Hredsigor.