A figure stepped from the shadows. Confused by the tattered finery she wore, Anne thought at first it was Tamora herself, but after a moment, she was almost as surprised to recognise Margaret of Anjou. Without thinking, for she had never greeted her any other way, she dropped a curtsey and, collecting herself, said: "Your Grace. Pray pardon. You startled me."
"Do not mock me, child."
Anne would never have dared mock Margaret, who had always terrified her. Flustered, she tried to say something of that sort, but the words came out all wrong. Margaret laughed incredulously.
"I do believe you are trying to tell the truth. What are you doing here?"
Anne almost laughed. It wasn't even midnight, it was not particularly strange that she should be walking around the royal apartments in the Tower on the night of a great feast there. Margaret, on the other hand, had been banished from England on pain of death several years ago, and was commonly thought to be either dead or in France (which, the unamusing quipped, was much the same thing.) Anne had no idea how she got into the Tower, or what she thought she was doing there. However, what she said was:
"I… I couldn't sleep, and I did not want to rejoin the revelry."
"Revelry?"
"It is Twelfth Night, your Grace."
"Ah yes. Then I should put on a mask and dance."
Anne wondered whether perhaps Margaret had gone mad. Margaret must have noticed her puzzled expression.
"As the Italians do? No? Ah, you English, you are so parochial. You know nothing of the customs of other lands. It is a shame. I should have liked to disguise myself and go among my enemies unseen."
Anne did not think it was a shame at all. Although she had never liked Margaret, she had always admired her, and the thought of her humiliating herself like that was distressing.
"But is it truly Twelfth Night?" Margaret continued. "We must celebrate the Feast of the Epiphany here if we cannot do it there. Lights. We need lights!"
The candle was no more than a little pool of wax now, yet somehow the wick was still alight. Margaret used it to light a dozen more, and with great urgency filled every sconce in the little study.
Anne looked around. There was a bag on the little couch – Margaret's presumably – with all kinds of things spilling from it. A woman's coif, a perfume bottle, a man's glove, a thin surcoat that looked as though it had been worn in battle. Everything else was as she remembered it.
Suddenly Margaret spoke again, this time in the pious tone of a catechist. "What do we learn from the story of the Epiphany?"
"The story of the Magi, you mean?" Anne had no idea where this was leading
"Yes. What is a magus?"
"They were kings, were they not? Astrologers and kings?"
"A magus is one who practices magic."
"Yes."
"So what do we learn?"
"I… I do not know…"
"We learn that on this day the arts of the magician were reconciled to the Christian faith."
Margaret raised both of her arms high in the air and stretched them out wide. She started muttering something to herself.
Anne's heart was racing. The woman was clearly insane. She had to escape. She began to edge towards the door.
Margaret began to laugh hysterically. "Go, my child! Escape! But do not be afraid, for tonight everything is different. Tonight those of you who fear will be brave, those of us who weep will sing for joy!"
Anne made a dash for the door, flung it open and staggered into… what? She looked around in confusion. She was not in the dimly lit corridor from whence she came, but a great hall, even bigger than the one downstairs where the Twelfth Night festivities continued. It was brightly lit, and full of people she did not recognise, feasting and dancing and talking.
In terror she tried to get back through the doorway to the study, but Margaret was blocking it, standing there with bright eyes and a cruel smile.
"Let me back!"
But Margaret stepped forward and closed the door, and when Anne ran to open it, it didn't lead back to the study, but to another place she didn't recognise.
Anne's breathing was quick and shallow. She felt as though she was being suffocated. Was this what madness felt like? Had Richard's rejection turned her into a lunatic?
Margaret slapped her, hard, across the cheek.
"Pull yourself together, child. I have brought you here not to punish you, but at a gift because you recognised me for what I am – your queen. I know you liked what you saw in my book, though I must say I find your taste in men has become most peculiar since my son died. He is over there."
Anne looked and saw the African man from the picture.
"How… I mean… What is this place? Am I dreaming?"
"You will have to work it out for yourself. I have business of my own to attend to."
A man dressed in the fashion of Anne's early childhood had approached Margaret, and was kissing her hand. Margaret's smile was no longer cruel, but almost innocent. She looked ten years younger.
"My Lord of Suffolk…"
The two of them disappeared into the crowd.
Anne sat down and burst into tears.