I could hear our apprentices, who had cots in the storeroom overhead, beginning to stir. More than once, I had ripped through my clothes coffer, in a fret about what to wear to the palace. Something plain and dark, though not black, to show I knew my place as a merchant of mourning and funeral goods? Something with a bit of flair, to suggest I was an artist and not just a waxmonger? Father had told me once that white was the mourning hue in France, but that would hardly do and might get smudged. Indeed, whatever I wore, I was still in mourning for my son. I had finally decided on my tawny gown with brown piping and an edging of squirrel along the shoulders. The bodice was the newly fashionable square cut to show more of my gathered lawn chemisette beneath. My hair was gathered in a netted snood under a small green-and-white hat—Tudor colors. My best girdle dangled about my waist, the one of silver chain links, Will’s wedding gift to me. My skirts swished as I walked back and forth, with my cape rustling too.
