Two hours past midnight, Jane and Elizabeth sat on the floor, folded over one another. They watched the fire in a numb trance, a twilight between sleep and wakefulness.

"You should go back to your rooms," Jane said over the crackle of the fire. "The longer you hide in here, the worse it will look. Besides, Lord Cromwell never sleeps, so he probably is not even there."

"I should stay with you," Elizabeth replied determinedly. "Just in case—"

"In case the Tower guard comes for me? And what would you do, little Lissie? How would you protect me?"

"Edward is head of our family now. He would speak up for us."

Jane did not answer. She just twisted Elizabeth's strawberry blonde hair around her fingers. Between them was the unsayable fact that neither sister trusted her brother. Cromwell had told her that he would defy king and country if their children were at risk. Now, as the scaffold loomed over Elizabeth's horizon, she had to wonder if he would protect her as he often promised. Or if the volatility of desire, betrayal, and desperation would lead him to devour her himself.

"Lissie, you need to go back to your own rooms," Jane said smoothly, but firmly. "How will we explain why we have been cloistered away?"

Elizabeth stood, shaking the wrinkles out of her skirts. She took Jane's hand in her own and squeezed it hard, as if to give herself strength. Jane stared up with pleading eyes; another one of Henry's frightened queens would have to face the uncertain night alone, a pensive vigil before the fire place.

"I will come to your rooms as soon as I am able tomorrow," Elizabeth said firmly. "If I do not…" Her voice trailed off. "Well, if I do not, you know the cause of it."

Elizabeth navigated her way back to her rooms through the series of secret galleries and passageways; she was too afraid that she might be seen on one of the main stairwells and arrested on sight. As she turned the key to hidden door that led directly in to her bedchamber, she opened the door as slowly and quietly as she could. Once she edged it open enough, she furtively peeked her head around to survey the fight in store for her. On initial glance, the room appeared exactly as she left it that morning. All the gowns that she had tried, and decided not to wear, lay exactly where she tossed them. Her new fur stole rested on the bed, curled up so it looked like a live animal coiled for the strike. Cautiously, she eased herself inside the room, still alert for an ambush. Only when she was sure that Cromwell was not lurking somewhere, behind a bedpost or obscured by a tapestry, she closed and locked the door behind her.

She breathed a sigh of relief to see that nothing indicated her husband had even returned to their rooms that night. Which, of course did not foreclose the fact that he might be bent over his desk in his offices, drawing up the charges of treason against the queen and her sister. The relief soon flooded out of her and dread sank into her chest as she took a closer look at the room. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Elizabeth realized that the gowns she'd left strewn about had actually been shredded, as if someone had run a jagged knife through the fabric. She crossed the room and gasped as the pads of her fingers ran over the ripped silk. She caught a flurry of white out of the corner of her eye. At first sight, she thought that snow must have escaped through the window and landed on her bed. When she approached the mattress, she saw the sprinkling of down feathers where her pillow had been eviscerated. In bleak amusement, she observed that even in his passionate rage, that magpie, Cromwell, had left the priceless furs untouched. She poked her fingers in the holes that were gouged into the mattress on her side of the bed. Bile lodged in the back of her throat.

He will kill me tonight, she thought. I will never see the inside of the Tower because he will kill me himself tonight, she realized. He will throw my body in the Thames or make his lackey, Richard Rich, dig a shallow grave. I will never see my family again, and my kin will not even have the decency of a corpse to bury. She shoved her hand in her mouth to stop herself from crying for help. If she was quiet, she might be able to tip-toe out the way she came.

"Elizabeth."

The sound of her name on Cromwell's lips made her chest speed up; her heart pounded so fiercely she feared it would crush her ribs. The voice drifted into the bedchamber from his study down the hall. He knew she was here, and there was no going back. She demurely folded her hands together, so the long French sleeves hid them completely. So he would not see her hands shake and sniff out her fear.

Elizabeth drew in a ragged breath, and pushed open the usually locked door to his study. He sat with his back to her, playing himself at cards.

"What's kept you?" he asked disinterestedly. He deftly flipped the cards, chided at the hand he had dealt himself, then reshuffled the deck.

"Her Majesty was ill. I sat up late with her." Elizabeth could barely form the words, her lips were so numb with dread. By the dying light of the fire, the jewels on Cromwell's dagger sparkled sinisterly from where it lay on the desk. Next to the pack of cards, her letter to Robert Aske bearing the seal of her first husband, rested as if it were just another of Cromwell's dispatches.

His head drooped. "I loved you. Like a fool, I believed you when you told me that you loved me. I had begun to trust you," he said softly. Elizabeth's stomach sickened at the past-tense. After tonight, she would be no more to him, a thing that was, but no longer existed.

She dared a few steps toward him. "I do love you. And, you have no reason not to place your trust in me." She was talking for her life, and she was not above blaming that letter on someone else. Anyone else. As usual, she had said exactly the wrong thing to Cromwell, because he vaulted from his chair, flinging it to one side like a bundle of sticks. In a single fluid motion, he snatched up the letter, his dagger, and closed in on her. On instinct, she dropped to her knees.

"For pity's sake, Thomas. Don't kill me," she gasped. The cool sharp blade settled against her neck, where her pulse pounded.

"Why should I waste money on a trial when you are a liar and a whore of the worst sort?" he snarled. He pushed the blade against her neck, breaking the first delicate layers. A small tear of blood snaked down her neck.

"For the love of Christ, Thomas! Don't kill me. Please. I'm pregnant," she panted. Elizabeth decided she would say or do anything to not have to die this night. She would make another dark pact with herself, like the one she made when Cromwell hauled her in for questioning about Anne Boleyn.

"You lie," he growled, intuitively suspicious about the convenient timing of this new life. He pressed the blade to her neck again. Her hands flew out, and she gripped his sleeves.

"Thomas, please. I'm pregnant. I swear. Have mercy," she pleaded. Elizabeth told herself that she was not telling an outright lie; she did not not know if she was pregnant. At least the idea would buy her time. And her conviction must have sparked some doubt in Cromwell, because he took a step back from her. Elizabeth remained prostrate on her knees, and from her eyeline, she saw him tuck the dagger into his belt. But, she did not dare rise.

"I can explain everything," she mumbled.

He gripped her bodice and roughly hauled her to standing. "Explain! What is there to explain?" he shouted, his face only an inch from hers. He shook her violently. "Have I not loved you? Have I not been a good husband to you? I mean only to please you, yet you repay me with this? You would stretch your neck for the sake of a mutton reeking ingrate—but when I offer you my heart, you throw it beneath your horse's hooves. Explain that to me! You would serve Robert Aske above your own husband. Explain that. You love others above me when you are my everything. I should snap your neck here and now, but you are still alive. Explain that to me."

She tried to keep her voice low and soothing. "Thomas, I only meant to help a friend. It is no collusion with traitors, just a piece of advice." Desperately, she tried to remember what exactly she wrote. She took his angular jaw in one hand, while the traced his ear lobe—a gesture that usually soothed him. But then, she had never seen him like this. He slapped her hands away, but continued to crush her to him.

"Thomas, for God's sake! What, you think that if I hold others dear, then I necessarily love you less?"

"Yes!" he shouted. Dripping sweat and tears, he looked like man who was no longer concerned with rationality or reasonability. He looked like a man who was capable of anything. "By the blood of Christ, why can you not be mine, completely mine? I knew I had to share you with your friends, your brothers and sister. But you expect me to resign myself to sharing your heart with traitorous villains?"

"Thomas, please," she whispered. There was no pulling him back from the dark abyss he was sliding towards. Terrified, Elizabeth realized that the treasonous implications of her message to Aske were not the real cause of Cromwell's vicious rage. No, the real reason she'd had a knife at her throat was because his obsessive love would rather see her dead than love anyone else besides Cromwell.

He throttled her like a rag-doll. "Oh, don't bat your eyes and whimper, 'Thomas,' at me. Shall I show your own stupid, loopy writing? Shall I point to where you observed that, 'king and minister lie as they breathe'? You have besmirched your king and your husband. I could drown you in one of the garden fountains, and every man at court would call it justice well done!" His hands relaxed their grip on the slippery silk of her dress. He almost released her, only to pull her into his arms again.

"And yet," he groaned. "And, yet I love you. I want to strangle you, but I want to make love to you. I want to see your blood running off the scaffold, but then I want you to bear my children. I hate you for making me fall in love with you in the first place." He tried to kiss her full on the lips, but she ducked. Undeterred, he pressed his lips to every inch of her skin that he could get to.

Elizabeth squirmed in his violent embrace. She had not fully realized how frighteningly strong Cromwell was until now. He still had the sinewy, lethal strength of a hardened soldier hidden under the sober robes of a lawyer. Still, she managed to free an arm. Disgusted by the hardening between his legs at a time such as this, Elizabeth slapped her husband hard across the jaw. Even though the slap thundered across the room, even though she braced herself for an even harder blow in return, Cromwell did not so much as glance up. Instead, he suckled along her neck.

"I need to feel your skin against mine," he whispered, his lips brushing her flesh. "I need to make love to you, to know that I haven't lost you. I need to know you are still my dove." With the force of his weight, he tried to pull them both to the floor, but Elizabeth defiantly steadied her balance. It made little difference, because he kicked her feet out feet out from underneath her. They crashed to the floor together, with Elizabeth taking most of the blow. The sharp crack to the back of her head left her dazed for a few moments. When she recovered some sense of self and place, she slapped Cromwell again for trying to make love to her while she was on trial for her life. The blows bounced off his cheek with little notice, and he made no effort to restrain her hands.

"God damn it, Elizabeth," he whispered into her hair. "Why did you have to go and do a thing like this? Why will you not let yourself be happy with me?"

She had no answer for him; it was more than she knew herself. Their limbs entangled one another as he hiked her skirts over her knees, while she slapped him again with one hand and untied his laces with the other. As she lay there, waiting for him to take her, she thought that perhaps they were not meant for happiness, that they could never conjure up the sweet simplicity of other marriages. Sharp desire and razor-like jealousy would just return again to snuff out whatever fragile connections they made. Now, as they cooperated in what Elizabeth imagined to be the saddest act ever committed between a man and a woman, a great ocean sprang up between them in spite of their joined bodies. It was such a distance that she had no idea how they could ever bridge it.

Cromwell rolled off of her, panting and wiping his face with the back of his sleeve. The only parts of them touching were the backs of their hands, resting indifferently against each other.

"At dawn, I am sending for the physician, and we will see if you are lying to me about being with child. God help us both if you are lying to me about that," he said. He pulled himself to standing and offered her his hand. She merely rolled over on her side in response. Apparently too tired to rebuke her, he sighed and laced up his breeches.

"I am placing you under house arrest in our rooms while I investigate this matter further. You will not leave here, will not send or receive messages, will see no one—except your maids and myself. Until I decide otherwise." He spoke in a distracted, business-like tone while he straightened his robes.

"Thomas, you can't do that." She sat up on her elbows. "You can't just make me disappear for a spell, with no explanation."

"Oh, I think you will find that I can," he replied coolly. He gazed down at her, his large eyes the only thing that broke up the impermeable blackness of his outline.

"This is not love, Thomas." She shook her head. "This is not love."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "How would you know? How would you even begin to know?"

Elizabeth burrowed her cheek against the Persian rug, while Cromwell reseated himself at the table to resume his hand of cards. They waited for the dawn together, but in complete silence.

Cromwell was not at all surprised to learn that Edward had completely disregarded his summons.

Rich shrugged, as if to apologize on Edward's behalf. "Our Viscount Beauchamp sent word that he would be hunting with the king, and he will not be able to see you until mid-morning."

"I'm not a vain creature; I am not above going to see him myself." Cromwell felt through his pocket and traced the outline of the damning letter.

"If you were really determined, I'm sure you could find him at the stables, seeing to his horses." Rich looked askance at him. "Thomas, are you sure you're well? You seem…unhinged."

Cromwell wiped his hands over his face that was peppered with the stubble of a missed shave. He rubbed his eyes, bleary and red-rimmed from lack of sleep. "I'm perfectly fine, Richard," he mumbled. He didn't need to Rich to believe him, he just needed Rich to stop asking.

"I'm off to see Edward Seymour. Start drawing up bills of attainder for Aske, Darcy, and Constable," he said. Rich looked at him questioningly. "Oh, stop staring at me like that Richard, I'm perfectly fine," Cromwell repeated. He brushed past Rich without another word of explanation. As he rounded the corner out of his offices, he nearly walked right into his son, Gregory, who was just approaching as he was leaving.

"Well, I'm here to present myself to the queen's sister," Gregory said impatiently without so much as a "Good Morning." Gregory crossed his arms and tried to set his face into a scowl. However, Cromwell observed that Gregory had his mother's mild, kind eyes, and therefore he could seem no more imposing than a lamb. Unlike his father, who could send the most cynical courtiers running with a hard stare and a raised eyebrow.

Cromwell wiped at his face again, wishing he had sent for his barber that morning. "Gregory, now is not the time. Elizabeth is….indisposed. And I am very busy."

"You are always very busy," Gregory shot back. His soft voice belied the harsh resentment behind the words. "You were always very busy. God only knows how Grace and Anne knew you were their father. Mother probably had to remind them. Perhaps you should have just moved in with Cardinal Wolsey and saved us all the confusion of who was this man who occasionally ate supper with us."

Cromwell flinched under his son's merciless judgment. If another man said the things to him that Gregory did, Cromwell would smash his teeth out. But for the longest time, Gregory and his infrequent letters was all Cromwell had. So, he bore Gregory's emotional lashings without so much as sharp look.

"Anyway, what do you mean she is indisposed?" Gregory continued conversationally. " Is she so ill that she cannot shake hands? Your new family won't have a very strong constitution if the mother cannot even sustain so much as a 'how do you do.'"

"Gregory," Cromwell began slowly, patiently. "You have been in London for weeks. You have had weeks to present yourself to her. You can hardly fault Elizabeth or myself for not waiting with baited breath for you to make an appearance at court." He tried to step past Gregory, but his son directly matched his step and blocked him as if they were pairing up for a dance.

"What is she, a year or two older than me? Can I just call her Lady Cromwell, instead of Step-mother?" Gregory said mildly. It always surprised Cromwell that a boy with such a sweet face could spew such harsh words.

"Gregory, shouldn't you be back at Cambridge, attending to your studies? " Cromwell sighed. "Come back to London for Easter: you can flagellate me then. But right now, I am very busy earning the salary that pays for your schooling." He pressed his palm flat against Gregory's rib cage and gently, but firmly, moved Gregory to the side.

"Well, who am I to slow you from your daily collection of bribes? God knows your wife's gowns and jewels do not pay for themselves."

" 'Bribe' is naughty word: we call them gratuities around here. And you have it all wrong. I use them to pay for all of my gambling and debauchery." He breezed past his son without a backward glance. That was enough of Gregory until Easter.

Once in the stables, Cromwell waved away the grooms that were saddling Edward's hunter. He scratched the horse's jaw and tried to imagine ways to tie the treacherous letter to Edward instead of Elizabeth. He wondered if Henry was out of love with Jane even just a little bit--perhaps enough to warrant her disposal? A treacherous, Catholic queen without an heir in her belly was worse than useless.

"Why good morning, my Lord Cromwell! Shall you be hunting with us this morning?" The overly boisterous voice of Tom Seymour at such an early hour snapped Cromwell out of his scheming.

"Good morning, Master Seymour," he replied coolly. "No, I shall not be joining you. Someone has to stay behind and run the Commonwealth while the king hunts."

"I suppose that's why everyone calls you 'the other king.'" Tom Seymour smiled, completely oblivious to Cromwell's narrowed eyes.

"Tom, I wouldn't go around repeating that if I were you. I am only the king's servant."

"The king's richest servant," Tom qualified. "Anyway, happy tidings finding you here. I've been meaning to ask you. The thing is, as the queen's brother, with my brother holding the title of viscount, I was thinking it was time I have a title. I don't mean to be an earl, or anything. Maybe a baron, though?"

Cromwell stared incredulously at Tom. In his pocket was a letter that could make a short, bloody end of the whole Seymour family, yet here was Tom Seymour asking to be made a lord.

"Master Seymour, have you somehow distinguished yourself in royal service recently? Some way that I have not noticed?" On another morning, Cromwell might have laughed.

Undaunted, Tom babbled on. "Well, then there is the small matter that my sister is your wife, and you show generous patronage to your associates."

Not for the first time, Cromwell wished that Elizabeth had been an only child. He started to unsaddle Edward's hunter. Brother Edward would not be going anywhere today.

"Wait, what are you doing?" Tom exclaimed. "Edward is supposed to hunt with the king."

"I need your brother here with me today. Run along, Master Seymour, and check that the hounds are ready." At Tom's crestfallen face, he relented a bit. "And, I shall see if I cannot cobble together a knighthood for you."

As Tom pattered away, his frantic steps were replaced by Edward's slower, heavier pace.

"Master Cromwell, you are either sabotaging my saddle in the hopes I break my neck this morning, or you do not mean me to go hunting at all?"

"Edward, why would I wait for chance to break your neck when I could just take your head clean off?" Cromwell turned slowly and pulled out Elizabeth's letter. He passed it to Edward, disdainfully holding it between two fingers as if it were a filthy rag. Edward's smirk evaporated when he saw the handwriting.

"I disown them both utterly. They deserve the full punishment of the law." He said quickly. Edward stared Cromwell dead in the eyes as he offered up his sisters.

" 'They?' So, you knew the queen was involved?" Cromwell wasted no time in pouncing on Edward's words.

Edward sucked in his breath, retracing his words. "Well, Lissie's conscience is more malleable. She can be bought off easily enough—you're proof of that. But put the queen next to her and watch Lissie remember she has principles beyond dresses and dancing." Edward straightened his shoulders. "I don't suppose you have already arrested them?"

"That depends. Your sister protests to me that she is with child again."

"Christ, Cromwell. You just can't leave that field fallow, can you?" Edward snorted. "If you go after the queen, you will find that you have overreached yourself. The king does happen to love his queen. He won't allow you to lock her up."

"Correction, Edward. The king is not out of love with the queen. But, his patience is wearing thin. Eight months of marriage, and we are no closer to a child in Queen Jane's belly than when she was a maid. Your family's position is not as strong as you think. This collusion with traitors is all I need to push you all off the ledge. Don't think I cannot find another queen if I have to."

Cornered, Edward gave in. He passed the damning letter back to Cromwell. "How is this all to end? You must have some angle in mind, otherwise you would have arrested them already."

"I think to keep this letter safe and tucked away for a while. See if you and your family behave yourselves. Let us see if your family whispers behind their hands against the Reformation. Let us see if you and the queen try to obstruct me in my personal business. Maybe if the queen is soon quick with child, I will just toss this letter into the fire. Or, perhaps I won't. Every night the Seymours will rest their weary heads having lived through one day, but unsure if I will change my mind the next day and show this letter to the king."

Edward swallowed hard. "And where is Elizabeth in all of this? You haven't harmed her, have you?" he dared to ask. Cromwell arched an eyebrow at Edward's sudden interest in his sister's well-being.

"I'm pulling Elizabeth out of the queen's service and shutting her away. In her seclusion, let us hope she engages in some form of reflection, some repentance. Don't worry, Edward. She's not dead, if that is what you are asking."

"I'd like to keep all my siblings alive, if you don't mind. So what kind of tribute are you going to exact from the Seymours? How many thousands of pounds will it cost to keep the axeman away?"

Cromwell half-smiled. At least Edward thought like him, pricing out every transaction, every favor, to the exact ounce of gold. "My lord, you can keep your gold to pay your brother's gambling debts. Instead, impress me by doing the things I now find are beneath me, such as getting Constable to talk. God only knows what you'll have to resort to, in order to make a man like him name names. You have a cruel imagination, I'm sure you will figure out some way to break Constable." Cromwell shrugged. "The most effective men are not afraid of a little grime under their nails." He turned to go, leaving a crumpled Edward Seymour in his wake.

Elizabeth watched dispassionately as her maids tidied the bedroom. They whispered amongst themselves that their lady must have really made her mark with the remnants of the tantrum they now cleaned up. Why else would her husband order her shut away in her room with no books, paints, or even embroidery? Elizabeth wanted to explain to the girls that they were actually cleaning up the Lord Privy Seal's temper tantrum, that she had actually planned on wearing the gowns that Cromwell had shredded. She decided to save her breath. Cromwell's people all thought she was a spoiled brat with an eye on his fortune, and she could not imagine anything would ever change their minds. So, she let them whisper with their backs to her, while she gazed out the window at the intermittent snowflakes.

Elizabeth now thought that the trick was to survive the initial tempest of Cromwell's anger. At least last night proved that if she could make it through a vicious quarrel with him, then the worst danger was over. The only problem was that Elizabeth had no plan from here, no route that would lead her from the pregnancy she had fabricated (and would no doubt be shortly disproved) to a real plan that would save her and Jane. The most obvious way to salvage her own skin would be to completely blame Jane, say that the queen overcame her own will and good sense by ordering her loyal chief lady in waiting to write out the queen's message. But with Edward in charge since their father died, Elizabeth and Jane knew they were as good as on their own.

She snapped back into the here and now when Cromwell threw the door open. He snapped his fingers at the maids.

"All of you. Out," he barked. The kind, mysterious physician trailed after Cromwell's dark robes. Elizabeth wondered if Cromwell purposely surrounded himself with men whose origins were as obscure as his own. The young doctor smiled at her and shrugged apologetically, as if to say, here we are again, so let's get this over with quickly.

"Thomas, for dignity's sake, you're not really going to stay in the room are you? I mean, while he examines me?" she asked.

"I don't trust you not to bribe the doctor to lie on your behalf. Lissie, I find I don't trust you at all," he said. He waved the doctor forward to Elizabeth, but caught his elbow so he could whisper something in Italian in the physician's ear. Cromwell crossed his arms and leaned into the wall, his eyes not leaving Elizabeth's face for a moment.

She gazed up at the carved ceiling while she was poked and prodded. The doctor sat back on his heels and washed his hands.

"It's early days," he told her in French. "But you are with child. Two, maybe three, months along."

Elizabeth blinked rapidly. "What?" she exclaimed. In a moment of bleak amusement, she almost laughed: she imagined she was the most surprised person in the room. At least outwardly. She no longer trusted herself to know what thoughts swirled behind Cromwell's black eyes.

"Lissie, don't overwhelm yourself with joy," he said drily.

"But, but, how?" Elizabeth babbled. Her bleeding never returned after her miscarriage. She chided herself for not at least considering that she might be with child. She had just assumed if she were pregnant she would be as vilely ill as the last time.

The doctor shrugged again. He turned back to her husband, eyebrows raised expectantly in anticipation of a tidy payment. Cromwell sighed and produced a small pouch of coins. They spoke in rapid Italian, glancing at her every so often. Elizabeth thought that she would give her wedding ring to know what the two were saying about her.

After the physician was dismissed, Cromwell remained. He studied her, measured her, but said nothing. Elizabeth tried not to flinch under his unremitting stare. She stayed on her side of the room, while he stayed on his.

"I just cannot seem to add you up," he said after a while. "Most people, I can read. I can see what they are going to do before they even know. But, you…" He did not finish the thought.

"You are rather opaque yourself," she said. For a moment, she thought she saw a smile flash across his face, lightning quick and then it was gone. He moved towards her, and she fought the instinct to back away. He reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She held her breath, unsure if Cromwell meant tenderness or tyranny.

He leaned in to press his lips to her cheek. "Congratulations, madame," he said. "It seems you just told the luckiest lie in Christendom. Let's hope your sister is as lucky as you today."