Epilogue
Marguerite d’Angoulême
I finish the writing of this story—the story of my dearest, bravest friends—as winter steals into France.
Lina would like, I think, that I am sitting here in my rooms at Chateau de Navarre with a chill in the air.
She tried to believe the lies she told herself about her cold heart, but you and I know better.
Still, I like to imagine she is with me when winter comes, that the first lacy curtain of snow is her way of saying hello from the beyond.
I miss her still, almost three years later. Would that I could have stopped it all or changed the course of that awful day.
But she is with us, and not just in snowfall.
She is with Gisa d’Arc, forever tattooed in prophecy on the mystic’s skin.
She is with Katherine Howard in Madrid, where she now teaches at the convent.
She is with Anna von Kleve, who travels throughout England using the considerable sums bequeathed to her by Henry to bestow patronage on women in the arts.
And she is with Anne Boleyn, always.
Anne remains at St. Margaret’s, taking the odd bit of work from the Hellebore Sisterhood here and there when I can convince her of it, but mostly tending to Lina’s garden, collecting obscure spell books, and watching the throne of England.
I do not know how often she slips into London or finds her way to one of the royal residences.
But I know she watches over Mary and Elizabeth like a guardian angel, one who has lost her wings in the fires of hell and grown all the stronger for it.
Soon, I think, her waiting will be over. Soon, she will be ready to fight again.