A/N: Thank you for your kind words, Blurgle - I'm so pleased that you're enjoying! Also thanks to everyone who is reading along.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Trophy Chain

The curling, dusty papers tacked to the wall of their investigation room have new companions, as Rich carefully transcribes his notes from their disturbingly revealing interview with Mount. As he writes, he feels a sense of unpleasant nausea that is nothing to do with blood and gore, but more to do with a mind that even he considers to be warped. Until he met Kat, he had never viewed his mistresses as anything other than minor playthings to tumble with and present with trifling gifts until boredom caused him to push them away. Even so, he had never seen any of the women in such dark terms - and when he had found Kat, everything had changed.

The thought of her causes him to tense inside, forcing himself to hold back the tide of anguish that always threatens to overwhelm him if he allows her the freedom of his memory. Now, it is too painful; but, in time, he hopes, they shall merely sting briefly, before their warmth surrounds him and he smiles with gratitude that he knew her. But not yet. Not yet…

As long as you are with me, Kat. I shall always care.

His left hand rises to his doublet, where the packet that contains the lock of her hair now rests in a pocket. God, if only he had the pearl drop - she treasured that so much; as much as he treasured her.

And now there are tears. He must stop this - now is not the time. He does not have time to grieve - not when they are trying to end all of this…

The last paper is pushed away, and he slumps over his folded arms to weep, the tears soaking into his sleeves.

He does not hear the door open, and the sensation of a hand on his shoulder causes him to look up with such desperate hope that Cromwell backs away, shocked, "Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you…"

"I thought you were her…" he sobs, "I thought you were her…oh God, Thomas - I want this to end…it is more than I can bear to be without her…" he buries his face in his folded arms once more.

Cromwell stands over him, trembling as his own grief surfaces in sympathy. Even though it was the sweat that took Liz, and not a brutal killer, his sense of loss is no less - for he was not with her when she faced the end - any more than Rich was with Kat. Though, had he been, he could not have saved her - unlike Rich, who could. How must that feel? To know that, but for one small decision, he could still have her at his side - and he made the wrong choice.

He crouches alongside Rich, resting his hand on his friend's shoulder again, "I cannot begin to know the pain that you feel, Richard," He says, his voice choked, "and I wish that all could be different - but I need you to be strong. I need you to stand with me, for we are walking into the valley of the shadow of death - and even though I fear no evil, it is not merely because God is with me."

"I am not strong." Rich murmurs, looking up, "I have never been strong - God help me, I perjured myself at your behest - not because I wished to, but because I was too weak to refuse. It matters not that the King demanded more from Fisher and More than their consciences were prepared to grant - and that they chose to die rather than submit to him. I knew even as I acted that what I was doing was a mortal sin, and still I did so - for I was too weak to refuse."

"Then think of this as your atonement, Richard." Cromwell seizes the opportunity, "As we sinned against Fisher and More - and against those who died with Anne Boleyn - then we must grasp this chance to offer ourselves to bring this depravity to an end. And we must do so without resorting to the vile acts that placed our souls in such peril. We must dedicate this task not just to those who have died, but also those who have died through our actions - and if to do so means our end, then we shall accept it gladly, for no more shall suffer as they did."

Rich holds his gaze, his effort to regain control of his pain written across his expressive face. Eventually, he closes his eyes, and nods, "I shall do it. For them. For her."

"For England." Cromwell finishes, quietly. Rich's eyes flick open again, and he stares at Cromwell, startled, "England?"

"Would you be willing to live in an England ruled by Fitzroy?" Cromwell asks, "If he is declared legitimate and granted the Dukedom of York - what is to stop him desiring more? He has no fear of destruction, and he has grown up in the King's adoration. Why not eliminate a rival? For if the Queen bears a son, he shall have a rival that his half-sisters are not. If his Majesty forgives all his sins, then he must believe himself to be absolutely above all censure - though, if he waits until after the King is gone, then he need have no fear even of that. It is not just the women of this Court who are in mortal danger, Richard. Not by half."

Suddenly frightened, Rich grabs at the paper he discarded, "Then…" he says, then clears his throat, "then we must to work. And quickly."

Rising to his feet, Cromwell perches upon the table, "What has Mount's testimony given us?"

Rich thinks for a while, "I should say that we now have a motive - and he has possibly named those who aid Fitzroy in his acts - for his four closest retainers are always around him, and intensely loyal. Though I was not aware of his excessively pious acts. He is hardly known for his piety - and his actions at the Midnight Mass suggested to me that he wished to be anywhere but where he was."

"In what way?" Cromwell asks, not having been present.

"His eyes were flicking in all directions - he seemed almost febrile. He fidgeted and looked about him as though eager to be elsewhere. I thought then it was merely because he did not wish to be standing in the chapel for such a time when he could have been carousing with his retainers."

"Perhaps, then, he had acted already to kill - and was in a maddened state because of it. Or maybe he was desirous to do so - and could not, for he was in the Mass." Cromwell muses, "God help us - he must be wrong in the head…"

"I think it is not because of abstinence." Rich adds, "For it appears that he is most intent upon the carnal act - even if not with his wife; though that suggests unhealthy appetites if he will not touch his wife, yet has women of the streets brought to his bed so frequently. Given that his act is adultery, he would…"

"Fornication, Richard." Cromwell interrupts, "I suspect that most of the women procured for him are not wedded. He is committing sins, yes - but not what would be considered a mortal sin, unless some of those who came to him were married. Nonetheless - it would explain his need, in his mind at least, to undertake such frequent and extensive atonement. He appears to be most singularly driven."

Rich reddens, "I would be a liar if I did not admit to being driven in a similar fashion; have I not had mistresses? I found little pleasure with my own wife, for she considered our couplings to be a requirement of marriage for procreation - a submission to my conjugal rights as a husband. I wanted more than that - and found it in other women, but never so deeply as I found it with Kat. It mattered not to me that her face was pitted with scars - she reached into me to a degree that I did not know was possible." He stops, embarrassed at his confession, "But I have never, at any time, found myself burdened with the need for excessive self-punishment, nor did I require their presence to the degree that Fitzroy seems to do with the women who are procured for him. My wish to see Kat as frequently as I did was more to enjoy her company than to welcome her into my bed. The greatest pleasure was waking in the morning to see her beside me, and to know that…" he stops, his throat narrowing again.

"To know that she loved you." Cromwell finishes, quietly. His eyes tightly closed, Rich nods.

They sit in silence for a while. They have something akin to a motive now - a reason why Fitzroy might have killed those five women; and there are aspects of his behaviour that suggest a distinctly unhealthy frame of mind. But still, it is not enough - suspicions are not proof: they need proof…

"I have done what I can to hobble him - but we must obtain the coffer." Cromwell says, quietly, "The more I know of this, the more I am convinced of it. The coffer is the key to all. Either it shall exonerate him - and take us back to the start again, or it shall set the final pieces of this puzzle into place."

"And how are we to do that?" Rich asks.

"I have no idea."

The King's laughter is raucous and merry, while his Queen sits alongside with a polite smile. From her expression, Cromwell imagines that she is almost eager to go into confinement, and escape her husband's ghastly adulation of a youth that merits none of it.

Watching them, he remembers that day, eleven years back, when the boy entered the Presence Chamber - small, blonde and so sweet to look at that all viewed him with dewy eyed adoration. His mother stood to the rear, tearful and proud of her child; trumpets brayed to welcome him to the chamber and all stood aside to admit him. His honours were read to the court by the Lord Chancellor, while he had stood behind Cardinal Wolsey and watched silently as the child was bestowed with more than many men could expect to accumulate in an entire lifetime in royal service.

He looks across the Hall now, where the youth sits alongside his doting father. His hair darkened as he grew - perhaps in conjunction with the darkening of his soul? Though Cromwell is aware that many children born fair-haired lose their golden locks in favour of darker hues as they grow. Now, he sits alongside the King, carouses with apparent joy - and yet, if one looks deeper…with knowledge that others lack…

Yes: those eyes - they flit here and there, taking in all and marking it. If the boy is mad, then he is not always so. He must have lucid moments - times when his sharpness and remarkable intelligence speak to him rather than the devilish voices of his insanity. If that is so, then he, Cromwell, must tread even more carefully than he thought. This is a man who sees all, notes it, and understands its import in a manner that most do not.

But then - if he has lucid periods, why is it that he is not crippled by guilt at all times? Does his determination to expunge his sins by kneeling on that lattice convince him that he is absolved completely?

If thou Lord wilt be extreme to mark what is done amiss…O Lord, who may abide it.

For with the Lord there is mercy and plenteous redemption…

Cromwell shudders. Mount said that Fitzroy placed great importance in the one hundred and thirtieth psalm. Does he truly believe that kneeling on a lattice and reciting a latin statement over and over again shall lead to such a state? And yet he must.

De Profundis…Out of the deep…

Perhaps he does know that his actions are an offence against God in the greatest manner possible - but still he continues. He must be mad. Must be. He wishes that he was hiding at the back of the hall, as Rich is doing.

"My boy!" Henry laughs, "Kingly in mind and deed! Let it be known that I have agreed to, and ratified the knighthoods my Prince has bestowed! His Father's son!"

All about applaud, politely; though the higher Lords exchange sour looks. The King has made it very clear to them what shall happen if they try something like that. Once, perhaps, when he was young and more carefree; but no longer.

At least he is doing what Cromwell has obliquely persuaded him to do. Fitzroy is never far from his side - hunting, attending Privy Council meetings, and always supping with him. His 'honour guard' remains about him at all times - guarding his doors throughout the night. No matter what he wishes, he cannot escape independent witnesses.

He sighs, inwardly. Those Privy Council meetings are an absolute crucifixion for Rich - who cannot continue to feign illness to escape them. He always sits at the farthest end of the Council table, far from the King and his dreadful son, and seems permanently intent upon his papers. So far, fortunately, his Majesty has not required him to advise on the progress of the Court of Augmentations. God alone knows what might happen if he does.

Rather than linger, he makes his way to the rear of the hall, where he finds Rich partially concealed behind a pillar, "Look at him." He whispers, "God help us - I think we are making him worse, not better."

Cromwell turns. Yet again, the King is leaning close to his son, and his expression could not speak more clearly of his ongoing adoration of the only boy he has managed to produce from any of his liaisons with a woman. They are too far away to overhear the conversation, but Cromwell knows his King well - and can only imagine the promises being made…legitimised…made Duke of York…added to the Succession behind his half brother and ahead of his half-sisters…

"What a tangle…" he sighs, "If Fitzroy did not consider himself a true son before, then he shall now."

"If he were a true son," Rich says, bitterly, "then he would have done his duty to his country and produced a son of his own. Even I have managed such a feat. His marriage is not even consummated."

They watch, silently, from the rear of the hall as the King continues to monopolise his son's attention with lavish praise, jests and conversation. Beside him, Cromwell knows that Rich is trembling again, fighting to contain the rage that is eating at him, for he knows - they both know - that they are looking upon a killer who is so utterly protected that even a confession might not be sufficient to bring him to justice.

"Go, Richard. There is no point in remaining: for the only one that your fury harms is yourself. Let him be - find somewhere quiet and take a stick to a tree trunk if you must. The King shall bring you down if you allow your anger to run."

He watches as Rich leaves the hall, then turns back to the dais. Suffolk is watching him, his eyes still rather uncertain, for he is intrigued at the two men who once loathed each other, but who are now thick as thieves. Keeping his expression neutral, he approaches the Duke, "Your Grace."

Despite his curiosity, Brandon still dislikes Cromwell, but he is not one to forget his manners, "My Lord Cromwell. Is Sir Richard unwell? I heard that the most recent victim was…" he fishes for a word that does not sound crude or insulting, "…close to him."

"He is grieving, your Grace, and in great distress," Cromwell says, quietly, "For he came upon her remains."

Brandon closes his eyes, and genuflects, "Forgive me; that, I did not know." He sighs, "And what progress have you made in finding the killer?"

"Some - though few are willing to aid us in our quest. I fear that the perpetrator is being shielded; and thus we shall never be able to identify them." He looks up as the King laughs loudly again, presumably at something Fitzroy said to him, "His Majesty seems greatly content."

"He is, my Lord. Most content - though, if truth be told, he is storing up trouble for himself if her Majesty bears him a son. He seems not to appreciate that the babe shall outrank the youth - or, if he does, he thinks it not to be important. Indeed - this very day, he told the boy that he must have been chosen by God, for did he not survive the attempt of the late Queen Anne to poison him?"

Not that again…Cromwell sighs. An illness, swiftly past - and suddenly the fault of a woman Henry was eager to remove from his sight. He turns to Brandon, startled that the Duke has imparted such a confidence to him.

"I hope that it is merely his Majesty's jest. He is no fool, after all - as those who rose against him discovered."

"Perhaps." Brandon agrees, "Though, if truth be told, I have known him many years - in almost all things, he is shrewd and keen, but in others, he has no more wit than a natural."

Suffolk fears Fitzroy as I do. Cromwell realises, "Then we must, as always, be his closest, most loyal and true advisers, your Grace, and pray that God grants him continued long life." He is not fool enough to openly speak of his concerns.

"Indeed we must." Brandon says, then nods his head, and moves on.

Oddly, in spite of their mutual enmity, Cromwell suddenly feels somewhat less alone.

Despite the amount of work Rich has undertaken in transcribing his notes, such is his wish to avoid his chambers, and the bed in which he is now obliged to wake alone, that he has managed to keep pace with the reports that are being delivered on an almost hourly basis from the commissioners. The funds that the sale of monastic lands are generating is such that he can hardly believe that so much wealth was held by those who were meant to plead poverty. His own embrace of reform might be lukewarm at best; but, nonetheless, the astonishing sums of money that he is handling - even if only on paper - seem obscene. While labourers could expect to earn no more than ten pounds in a year, the great religious houses that praised their poverty were sitting upon hundreds of thousands of pounds of wealth that they were keeping for themselves and giving to no one. He is confident that, when all is done, the figures shall rise into the millions; for all that he has already seen - and, if he be honest, to which he has helped himself to some degree - has already passed that milestone, and continues to rise.

Cromwell is reading his latest report, and from where he sits, Rich can see his expression. Guarded though Cromwell is, even his face betrays his astonishment at the sheer degree of wealth that has been withheld from the Crown, and from the people. His eyes narrow in disgust as he reaches the end of the report, where the final figures are tallied. Then he gathers the paper and crosses to Rich's desk.

"And they preach poverty." Is all that he says.

"While they decorate their churches with gold, and wrap statues in silk." Rich adds.

"And where does his Majesty intend these funds to be spent?" Cromwell asks, hoping that there might be some that he can divert towards his hoped-for Poor Laws. Any that has diverted in his direction has done so on the way in - rather than on the way out.

"Additional plans for the remodelling of St James's Palace, my Lord." Rich supplies, "Which he requires to be undertaken at the first opportunity - so I must obtain his ratification upon this report today if that is to be possible before the workers must stop for the Winter."

"Your chances of doing so are slim at best, I fear." Cromwell advises, "His Majesty has already cancelled the Privy Council meeting - I think he intends to keep his boy company for the rest of the day."

Rich tenses, "That, I wish I did not have to hear."

"Go. The sooner it is done, the sooner you shall be away from his unwanted presence." Cromwell advises, "I shall ensure that there is a fresh flagon of wine nearby for your return."

"I suspect I shall need it."

Despite knowing that his Majesty is not in the Palace, Rich still visits the Privy Chamber, as though putting off the inevitable moment when he must be in the presence of Fitzroy. God - if the coffer does prove him innocent, then what shall he do? His horror of the youth has become so ingrained that he cannot think in any other way.

"His Majesty is at the Tennis Court, my Lord." The Usher says, blandly, "We do not expect him to return until he intends to sup."

Cursing himself for being so fearful, Rich turns and makes his way out of the palace towards the smaller hall that houses the King's tennis court. Once a great player in his own right, Henry still loves to watch the game, and his expertise is such that those who play can expect the most brutal of critiques as they do so. Not having such skill himself, and being far too busy to do so, Rich never attends the matches, and would not understand what was happening if he did.

As is always the case, where the King is, so is much of the rest of the Court, so the galleries that surround the court are crowded. It is, however possible to reach the royal box without difficulty, and he is shown in.

To his dismay, however, the King is not tempted by the promise of good news, and requires him to wait, "The game is nearly at an end, and my boy is winning. Your report can wait until it is done."

Despite himself, Rich's eyes are drawn to the court, where four men are engaged in fierce play. The hated Fitzroy is partnering the Duke of Suffolk, while Francis Bryan and one of his fellow Minions oppose them. Being solidly competitive, Bryan has no intention of deferring to royalty on the tennis court, even with only one eye to help him, and the match is being hard fought.

His heart constricts briefly at the sight of Fitzroy, who has just won a point and puffs up with pride like a very god on earth - but he cannot leave, not without the King's signature. Once he has that, he can escape. Patience…be patient…look away…breathe…breathe…

"Yes!" Henry exults, applauding delightedly, "Like father, like son! The winning point, and the match!" He rises painfully to his feet as Fitzroy bounds from the court and marches into the Royal box as though he owns it, and merely permits his father to use it, "I live to make you proud, your Majesty!" he says, though there is an edge of falseness in it that almost turns Rich's stomach.

And then it hits him: a waft of sweat, yes but…

Vetiver…and hints of bergamot…

Fitzroy ignores him as he looks up sharply. The man before him is sweating, yes, the linen of his shirt damp and clinging to him as it gapes at the throat, revealing the chain that he wears, right in Rich's eyeline. There are items upon it - hardly unusual perhaps, for many men carry charms of one sort or another, but these…these…

A diamond pendant…an emerald tipped pin…a diamond fur clasp..a hoop earring of clustered pearls…and…and…

The black pearl drop. Kat's pearl drop…

The missing jewels - Fitzroy has them - all of them…all…he must have taken them…trophies from his killings…oh, dear Christ…

"Well, Mr Rich?" The King interrupts, and he turns, sharply.

"Your Majesty," he stammers, bowing hastily, "I-I have the figures for the latest tranche of funds from the sale of monastic lands for your signature."

He stands, trembling, as Henry signs off the accounts and waves him away without another glance, instead transferring his entire attention to Fitzroy. Rich wants, more than anything, to denounce the murderous youth - but even in his anguished state, he knows he cannot.

Instead, he turns and departs. Cromwell must know of this - it is Fitzroy. It is.

Setting aside the final version of the newly passed bill to legitimise Fitzroy and place him in the succession, Cromwell sighs and reaches for a cup of wine. All that is required to make it an Act now is the signature of the King. Much as he would like to defer the matter, he cannot do so - not now. He must take it to his Majesty tomorrow, and give Fitzroy open access to the entire royal family. If he chooses to take that which he sees as his, then there is nothing that anyone shall be able to do to stop him.

He looks up sharply, as Rich skids to a halt at the door, his eyes rather wild. Why has he been running? He is winded, there is sweat upon his brow - and he seems rather keen for his colleague to join him. Ignoring the bemused stares of the clerks, and the rather scandalised expression upon Wriothesley's face, Cromwell rises and follows Rich to the investigation room.

"It's Fitzroy." Rich gulps, as soon as the door is closed behind them, "He has the jewels - all five of them. Even Kat's pearl. He has them - he must have taken them…we have him. We have him!"

His eyes sad, Cromwell shakes his head, "We do not, Richard. That is not enough - for it is still our word against his. He could claim them to be tokens from lovers - and the King would find it most amusing. His denial would carry more weight than the accusation of all who knew the owners of the jewels he holds. It must be a confession - nothing less shall do, and even that is not likely to be enough. Not with Fitzroy."

"He has my Kat's pearl, Thomas! He could only have stolen it from her - it was precious to her, for I gave it to her! She had no one else - no one would have her because they took one look at her pocked face, and saw nothing of the heart that was beating behind it!"

"And it is still your word against his."

"Is this just a legal case to you? Just an academic exercise? Who have you lost, Cromwell? Has Fitzroy torn your heart out, as he has mine? Damn you for your coldness! She is dead - he killed her, and you are willing to leave him to kill again for you will not act now that we have the proof that he is involved!"

"I want him to be stopped. Believe me, I do - but there is only one way, and that is to force him to confess. Even the most irrefutable evidence shall not be sufficient in comparison. That he has taken those jewels from the victims can be explained away without difficulty - for all he needs to say, as I have already said, is that they were granted to him by the women, and it is mere coincidence that they died as they did - or perhaps another Courtier saw that he was with them and took it upon themselves to punish them for their presumption. It has to be a confession. Nothing less shall do - and I want to get it."

"By protecting him?" Rich cries, "He wears Vetiver, mixed with bergamot; he was reeking of it! What more do you need?"

"A confession."

"Or would you prefer to have him caught in the act? Slaughtering another woman? Does the thought of it excite you, Cromwell?" Rich is aiming to wound, such is his own pain, "To be proved right, and thus gain even more trust from his Majesty as you bring down another of those about him, as you brought down Fisher, More and the Boleyns?"

Cromwell stands, implacable, "I ask only that he be stopped - and there is only one way that we can succeed in doing so, Richard: by forcing him to admit it, from his own mouth. Proof."

"We have it! He is wearing it!"

"It is not proof - he can explain it away. By lying, yes - but still he can explain it, and the King shall believe him. You know he shall."

"I cannot do this!" Rich says, suddenly, as though he cannot breathe, "I cannot…" he pauses, then turns to his colleague, "Take these damned papers, Cromwell! You look after the Court of Augmentations! I refuse to remain in this place a moment longer! If he is not to be stopped, then he shall take all, but I shall not be here to see it!" He throws the papers in his hands to the floor, "That is my resignation, Cromwell! Do not think to come after me - I shall be packing up my possessions, and I shall depart before nightfall. It is, after all, not as though the King shall notice my absence!"

Without another word, he turns upon his heel, and is gone.

His eyes sad, Cromwell reaches down to retrieve the scattered papers. He refuses to blame Rich for his anger; it is, after all, the strongest evidence they have yet found of Fitzroy's culpability - but still, it is not enough. Setting the papers back in order, he looks at the walls, and their ranks of notes pinned so carefully to the plaster. So much - and yet, not enough.

"Damn you, Fitzroy."

Tucking the papers under his arm, he exits the room and closes the door behind him.

The breeze is fresh, for summer is drawing to its close. The roses of the Privy Garden are being deadheaded by the gardeners, and most Courtiers are indoors now despite the early afternoon sun. A few beds away, a dunnock is working its way through ranks of rose bushes, while Rich sits alone on a bench and stares at nothing at all.

He has spoken out of turn to Cromwell. He knows it; and he knows that Cromwell is right. The chain is not the proof they need - even though it screams to him that Fitzroy killed his beloved Kat. All Fitzroy has to do is boast to the King that they are tokens from his lovers, and Henry shall laugh delightedly at his prowess, before having both his ministers arrested for their false accusations. Truth be told, they are no further forward now than they were when Doctor Butts washed Kat's blood out of that fragment of velvet.

He cannot stay - not now. There is nothing here for him any longer but pain, regret and loss. What of political power or financial gain? He has seen the worst of humanity, and can do nothing to bring justice to those who were crushed by that violence. It is perhaps better then to abandon all, and return to the children that he loves, and the wife he does not. The house is big enough for them to live their lives separately…he shall go back to lawyering…better that than this…

"Sir Richard Rich." A voice intones beside him. Bemused, he looks up to see one of the Royal Guard, though not the Constable, accompanied by an escort of two more guards, and the Duke of Richmond.

"What is it?" he asks, nervously. What the hell is Fitzroy doing here?

"You are arrested, my Lord." The Guard continues, "For the murder of five women in the most brutal of circumstances."

"What?" Rich stares, in horror, "What?" and then he realises - Fitzroy saw his reaction to the chain…he knows that Rich has discovered him…and he has acted first…

The two additional guards take hold of his arms, while their commander turns to Fitzroy, "The barge is ready, your Grace."

"It's Fitzroy!" Rich suddenly cries out, "I have done nothing! It's Fitzroy! He killed them! He did it! Not I! Oh dear Christ, it's Fitzroy! I would not have killed them! I did not! I could not have killed my Kat! I could not!" Desperate, he wrenches at the grip of the guards upon his arms, "Listen to me! For God's sake! Listen! I am not the killer! I am not! It was Fitzroy! Fitzroy!"

The gardeners' heads rise, but quickly go back down again, and they hastily take up their tools to depart. There is no one to help him. Not a soul.

Fitzroy regards him coldly, "Even now, he denies his crime. Perhaps, for the sake of the peace, you might wish to gag him."

Rich continues to fight them, even as they set irons upon his wrists, and, in compliance with Fitzroy's suggestion, one of the guards fetches out a kerchief and gags him. Now he cannot even make people understand as he tries - still tries - to tell all about him that Fitzroy was the killer…not him. Fighting them desperately, Rich is dragged from the garden towards the Privy Stairs, where a barge awaits.

"And so," Fitzroy says, calmly, "To the Tower."