Later

Dawn creeps in to chase out the night. But no pink tints my Mary’s cheeks. Her breathing is hoarse like the north wind that rasps on the copper sheathing of the roof’s edge. Diane de Poitiers comes to sit with me. She is the only one I shall allow. The other Marys beg to come, but I will not let them. It is too harsh a sight. Robust Mary has grown old before my eyes. Her eyes seem to sink into her head; her skin draws tight over her cheekbones. She already looks skeletal, her head like a skull. Diane holds my hand.