16. June 13, 1505 Lancaut, England
Beatrix knows something is wrong. She can tell by the way Isabella is looking at her and by the way Alice won’t.
“The baby?” she asks weakly from her bed. She thought she’d never bring her into the world.
“She’s perfect,” Isabella whispers, pushing a strand of sweat-tangled hair away from Beatrix’s face. “Don’t worry.”
“I want to see her,” Beatrix murmurs. She can’t keep her eyes open. She is so tired, and her eyelids are so heavy. She shivers under her blanket. Isabella pulls it to her chin.
“She’s with William,” Isabella says, “so you can rest.”
“Please,” Beatrix begs. Her eyes drift closed again.
“Rest now.” Isabella’s voice sounds strange: choked and distant, and not at all like hers.
Alice’s whispers reach her ears as the darkness closes in around her. “I’ll fetch the priest.”