I whirl, and see the Queen’s advisor emerging from behind an enormous tapestry next to the main doors of Saint George’s Hall. He dusts himself off as he strolls through the piles of draped furniture and artwork, pointedly not looking at me. I assume this is to give me time to compose myself after my scandalous interlude, but I find that my utter embarrassment is still not enough to quell the sudden and horrible realization of what I must do next: I have terrible news to share with Walsingham. I cannot afford to dither over a kiss. Even if it was my very first. Nevertheless, as Walsingham draws near, I cannot find a way to begin. I must tell him of the vision, of the man whose bedside he will attend, broken and grieving, but I am suddenly awkward, flushed and ill at ease. They seemed to be friends, after all. How do you announce to a man that his laughing, robust friend is about to die? Walsingham’s abrupt words take the opportunity away from me.
