I died without having a natural born heir to inherit the throne. I died without knowing the feeling of holding a newborn child in my arms, or, for that matter, knowing the feeling of sharing my bed every night with a husband. I left nothing behind, save my reputation.

Now I live in the ether, between the spiritual and the material world, sending my words out to whomever has the time or the temerity to listen.

As I said before, I gave England no children, no husband. My only husband was Christ; my only children, my countrymen. They called me the Virgin Queen. There were whispers, barely veiled, that reached my ears even as I sat on the throne:

“She calls herself the Virgin Queen. Huh! I hear that Thomas Seymour bedded her afore she turned ten.”

“That’s nothing – they say that she and Mary were lovers, right under their own father’s nose, if you can stomach it.”

And so on.

I steeled myself so that I wouldn’t show how these words upset me. I powdered my face whiter still, purer, still, to mock them.