The Stolen One by Suzanne Crowley

course not,” I responded heatedly. “It’s just that I have indeed always admired her. Since I was a girl, for her dress and her style and her jewels.” I added quickly, “How old is she, the queen?”
    “Thirty or so, I believe, child,” she responded. “And you?”
    “Sixteen.”
    “Hmm. The queen would have been fifteen when you were born. Not too young, after all. My own grandmother birthed my mother at that age. But it’s extremely outlandish to even think such a thing, Katherine. Stay away from her. Stay away from the court, I warn you. What little time I have spent there showed me it’s an evil, evil world unto itself, even if they are dressed finely. Only the very strong and the very lucky survive. Stick to your sewing, my dear.”
    “So you’ve been to Elizabeth’s court?” I asked as we continued to walk along. The hustle and bustle of the crowd had begun to grate on my nerves. I turned and saw that Anna felt the same. She held her hands over her ears.
    “Only but a few times. I had my fill long ago, and of course I have had other matters to occupy my time. I knew her mother, I did, and there never was a moredetermined and cunning woman, and Elizabeth inherited the worst of her. And she got the worst of her father, too—his temper. God has a sense of humor, he does.” She laughed.
    A long, cold shiver went down my back. It was as though Grace was walking next to me, her words echoing in my mind— You’ve inherited the worst of your parents, God save you.
     
    We walked in silence, Anna humming to herself like a little bee. All sorts of people—young and old, wide and thin—bustled about: a lady carrying a tiny dog that yapped at us as we passed, little children dressed in finery, a dirty maid sobbing into her apron, a red-faced gentleman with a hawk upon his arm, singing to himself. I started playing a game—searching the crowds, looking for a glimpse of the dozens, if not hundreds of pieces of clothing I’d stitched through the years. They’d been taken from me, sold, and sent off into the world. And now, perhaps I’d see them again, touch them again, and know they were loved.
    Finally Lady Ludmore entered a timber-framed shop. I glanced at the shop sign: M INIVER ’s. And underneath a small royal crest that read, “By honor of the GoodQueen Elizabeth.” Anna and I followed Lady Ludmore.
    The shop was dark and low-ceilinged. There was a wooden counter in the middle of the room. In one corner a maid sat on a stool stitching, and in another corner I could see a dress form fitted with a lovely gosling yellow frock. Two other gowns, not very well made—why, I could see missed stitches even from where I stood—were displayed near the entrance.
    “Where is your mistress today, Lily?” Lady Ludmore asked the maid.
    “In the back, ma’am, wrapping a package. We’ve another order from the queen! Nicholas…” She blushed. “I mean, Mr. Pigeon, Clerk of the Wardrobe of Robes, is expected to come for it!”
    “Go along and fetch her anyway!” said Lady Ludmore. “Tell her whatever she’s packing pales to what we have for her here.” Lily looked us over curiously, frowning at Anna, who was examining the yellow gown in the corner, and went to fetch her mistress.
    Lady Ludmore removed her gloves and placed them on the counter. Anna, hand on the gown, turned to me, her eyes big. I went to her. It was of yellow sarcenet, a day dress. My heart began to beat. Yes. Strawberries, snails, and leaves in elaborate couch stitching, double backedacross the stomacher. One of my signature stitches. I’d finished it several months ago. I’d accidentally spilled cider on the back hem. Grace was always chiding me, so careless I was. I’d scrubbed the stain out best I could and never showed it to her, of course. I carefully lifted the bottom hem. It was there—the pale faded area where I’d scrubbed the cider out.
    A woman came through a curtained doorway. She was beautifully dressed, but she was