It was late; the evening had gone on long, with card games, wine, and sweet delicacies in Queen Catherine’s rooms, and Kate had been asked to play her English songs again, even as the Barnetts retired early. She felt weary, her mind heavy, but she felt she had learned much about French manners, French relationships. The only light was from a few torches flickering in the shadows. The air was cold. A sound like a low, harsh sob echoed between the bare walls, and Kate thought of tales of restless ghosts roaming palace halls, touching mortals with their icy fingers. She shivered and hurried her steps toward her own door. But it was not a spirit who was crying—unless it was a spirit who could also blow its nose and sigh. At the end of the corridor, just beyond Kate’s chamber, there was a small alcove with a window set in the wall. It was half concealed by a velvet drape, yet Kate glimpsed the embroidered hem of a pale satin gown, the toe of a velvet slipper.
