Autumn, 1537

You wake to the damp hush of a late October morning, the light diffused by fog crawling over the Thames. A fire crackles at the far end of your chamber, tended by a girl who curtsies too deeply when she sees you stirring.

Your hand slides over your belly—a firm swell of life beneath linen. Six and a half months now, your midwife said yesterday. The boy, she said again with assurance. A boy for England.

Your bones ache with the weight, hips tight, and your back stiff from the cold that seeps into even the tapestries of Hampton Court. You shift beneath the velvet covers, hearing the soft shuffle of your ladies in the next room. They’ll be in soon to bathe you, to dress you, to lace you in silver and Tudor rose.

Henry has not come to you since the last frost. He is hunting in Windsor. You hear updates through couriers and Sir Edward Seymour, who tells you the king sends prayers—and venison. You nod politely at that. But you remember how his palm once rested on your belly, reverent and trembling, whispering of hope and sons.

You hold to those memories like a rosary, bead by bead.

They help you endure the court.

You hear them whisper—more than Anne ever heard, perhaps because you do not shout back. You are too quiet, too careful. “Too meek,” Lady Rochford once said when she thought you could not hear. But they do not know the careful power of silence.

You rise slowly, swaying for a moment. A footstool is placed swiftly beneath you. Your favorite lady, Alice, steadies your arm. “Careful, my lady,” she says softly. “His Majesty would not forgive a fall.”

Nor would the country. Nor would you.

Later, you sit in the solar with embroidery you cannot finish, the needle still between your fingers as you stare at the window. Mist clings to the glass like breath, and you wonder if your child will have your eyes or Henry’s—a thought so tender it startles you.

The archbishop visited yesterday, murmuring of divine providence and the sanctity of marriage. You heard none of it, too distracted by the way his eyes lingered on your stomach like it was a reliquary.

All things come back to the child.

A knock. One of your guards. He bows and announces that the king has returned. Your heart jumps—not with joy, but a cautious thrill of anxiety. You have not seen him in ten days.

He enters later that evening, smelling of smoke and pine and something darker beneath it. His beard has grown fuller, silver threading through the copper. His eyes brighten when he sees you standing—always standing when he enters. You force a smile.

“My rose,” he says, kissing your forehead. “Still strong?”

“Strong as I may be, Your Majesty,” you reply.

He places his hand on your belly again, and something inside you shifts—your son, you hope. Henry feels it and his mouth opens slightly in awe. He laughs, genuine and loud, and calls for wine.

You do not drink. But you sit beside him in the candlelight as he speaks of France and horses and new portraits being painted. He seems younger tonight, softened by the notion of fatherhood reborn.

But when he leaves, the room feels colder. You are alone again.

Later, in the stillness of midnight, you sit upright in bed, breath caught in your chest. The baby kicks hard. Pain laces your ribs. The midwife is called, though it is likely nothing. Still, they fan your face and press linen to your back and whisper prayers.

You think of the other wives. Of Katherine, banished and unloved. Of Anne, whose neck was not spared. You think of what you are to him—a vessel, yes, but a beloved one for now.

If you die giving birth, they will say you were gentle and obedient. But you are more than that. You are watching. Learning. Enduring.

You press your hands to your belly and whisper, “Live.”

It is both a command and a plea.

Tomorrow, you will walk again. Slowly, through gardens that decay in golden fire. The country watches with bated breath for a prince, but you watch only the leaves as they fall. Not all endings are cruel, you remind yourself. And not all bloodlines run dry.

You are still here.

For now.