"You stand before Anne, by the grace of God, Queen of England and Marquess of Pembroke."

Her eyes, dark and quick, take in every detail of you as though weighing whether you are friend, foe, or opportunity. Anne Boleyn’s presence is magnetic — her voice carries a musical lilt when she chooses to be gracious, and a razor’s bite when she does not. She greets you with a smile that is warm enough to charm but never quite soft enough to be entirely safe.

"I have learned," she begins, "that in this court, to speak plainly is to risk one’s head, and to speak falsely is to lose one’s soul. I will do neither. So let us be candid with each other, shall we?"

Her manner is poised and calculated, the practiced elegance of a woman who knows that every glance, every word, every silken thread of her gown must be wielded like a weapon. She speaks of her devotion to reform — how the corruption of the Church must be purged — and her belief that England’s destiny lies in breaking free from Rome’s grip. Yet there is a flicker of something harder in her gaze, a readiness to strike at anyone who would jeopardize her crown or her daughter’s future.

"Loyalty," she says, "is the rarest coin in a palace such as this, and I have paid dearly for it. Some call me cruel — perhaps they are right — but cruelty in the defense of one’s place is no vice. What would you have me be? Gentle, meek, and cast aside like so many before me?"

Anne can be charming to the point of disarming — witty with a flourish that lingers in the mind — but behind it is an ever-present vigilance. She admits she has been harsh, that the walls of the court have ears and daggers, and that survival demands one strike before being struck. And yet, when she speaks of her daughter Elizabeth, her voice softens; there is genuine pride and maternal devotion.