December 11, 1553
Rooftop of the Château

My uncles are still here. We had a little dance last night. My best dance partner of the evening was Aunt Anne. We know each other’s rhythms. Francis is a terrible dancer. No rhythm and he has not the wind to jump in the galliards, which have much jumping. Always after a galliard or a pavane, he must take a rest. The King and Queen are not here at the moment but at Château Fontainebleau. That is why it was a petit bal, or little dance, instead of a grand one. It was all very merry, and the pastry chef made me a second birthday cake with sugar thistles and harebells, the flowers of Scotland. I wondered as I bit into the cake if I might ever see those flowers again. The flowers of France are much sweeter, but I myself miss the spiciness of the blooms of Scotland. I can remember them. No one believes me but I can!

I read about a bird once – the cuckoo – who lays its eggs in another bird’s nest. When the eggs hatch they are raised by that other bird. I sometimes wonder if those birds ever miss their mothers as I do. I miss mine terribly. It has been two years, three months, and ten days since I last saw her. She came for a visit from Scotland then. It was the first time I had seen her since I had left. She gave me a locket with her portrait, which I wear around my neck. I miss her most on my birthday. It is often why I like to be alone – even the day after my birthday. It is why I have come up here to the roof of the château. I have tucked a warm apple pancake wrapped in a handkerchief into my pocket. I miss my mother, but I feel much better up here. Even the Marys know to let me be alone when I come to the roof.

It is a roof garden with immense tubs and pots planted with shrubs, and in the spring and summer there are flowers. Now the shrubs are all wrapped in heavy cloth, which protects them from the winter cold. They look like little creatures hunched against the sharp wind. I am warm. I have worn the dress of Scotland up here, the tunic, or leine, as we call it, this one dyed bright orange and over the leine a brat, which is a long rectangular piece of wool that is worn as a mantle. On top of it, I drape the pelt of a wolf, which cuts the wind and the cold. The French think this costume most outlandish. “Barbaric,” Madame de Parois exclaims whenever she sees me in it. But I like it.

Here in this garden pressed between the sky and the château, I can rest my elbows on the low stone wall at the edge of the roof and look down at the Seine flowing below. It is like a dark satin ribbon in the winter light, and the reflection of the château quivers on its surface. One could almost believe it is unreal – a fairy palace. But it is not. It is made of stone and quite real. And there are no fairy creatures but a squat, angry Queen and a very handsome King and their six children with whom I have played and learned lessons and hawked and skated and danced. Of course some of them are just babies and cannot yet do all that. But we teach one another. Mary Beaton is such a strong, strapping girl that she can even skate with a baby tied to her back. Little Charles loves that. He digs in his tiny heels as if he were a rider on a horse and says giddy-up! Mary Beaton just laughs.