Midnight. Darkness, but for this single candle. By first light I must be ready. I am very afraid; my hands tremble, and my throat aches with stifled sobs.
Silence, save for the wheezes of Sir William Kingston, the constable of the Tower, and his wife, who sleep outside my door. The ladies assigned to watch over me toss restlessly on pallets on the floor.
I shall not sleep. I sit now in the chambers prepared these three years past by King Henry for my coronation. My gown is ready, gray silk damask opening upon a petticoat of white silk. Over it I shall wear my crimson velvet mande trimmed in ermine—a queen's robe—and I shall put my hair up in a net of gold.
For the next hours I have little to do but to pray and to remember the events of my life and the people who brought me to this place: King Henry, whose ardor turned to hatred. My father, who encouraged my ambition but hardened against me when I learned my lessons too well. My sister, whom I envied above all others. My brother, who was condemned to die because of me.
And my child—what will become of her? Will she be told that her mother was once queen of England? Or will her father try to erase all remembrance of me? If I could be granted but one wish (other than the wish for life itself) it would be that my daughter know the truth about me—Anne Boleyn, the doomed queen.