A few hours later, Neville was dismissed by Lady Ashley. She'd been barely aware he was there after the physician had left. The Princess had fallen into a deep coma, leaving her attendants in a state of frenzied shock. He dejectedly made his way back to the rented rooms where he lived with his severely ill mother, Jane Chamberlain. Although exhausted by the day's shocking events, his mind continued to work restlessly. Princess Elizabeth can't die. What will happen to us? Everything in the village has revolved around keeping her safe.

The tenement he and his mother shared with two other families was rat infested and run down. Opening the door, he was careful not to make any noise. His mother was asleep in her bed, pushed back into a corner, away from drafts, but not close enough to the fire for any real warmth. He saw her thin form shiver under a tattered blanket. Laying bundled firewood on the hearth, he quietly approached her. As if sensing his approach, she moaned in pain. His mother was dying slowly, from cancer. He hoped she might not be suffering as much while she slept. She opened her eyes. Neville noted how white her face was, her breathing strained and haggard. Taking the powder he'd purchased from the Apothecary, he fetched water to mix her nightly draught. Gently, he placed the cup holding the mixture in her hand. "Here mum, take this. It will make you feel better."

The skeletal woman smiled weakly at her son. She always tried to hide her discomfort from him, but today she couldn't conceal how much she welcomed this daily dose of opium.

Behind Neville, the door abruptly opened as Mrs. Simmons, the other housing tenet, bustled into the room. The robust woman worked at the bakery, leaving her hands and face perpetually dusted in flour. She left a trail of the white powder in her wake. "You're home early, Neville. I thought you were working on the Princess's lessons today?"

"Lady Ashley said Lady Elizabeth needed her rest." He avoided telling her the real reason why he'd been dismissed so early.

"Aye, Mary came into the bakery earlier. She said the Princess was ill, and they need a new girl at the manor. She wouldn't say what for, only that Lady Ashley was desperate. Neville, what was happening with Princess Elizabeth today? Why were they searching for a girl who looks like her?" Despite being tired enough to fall off the stool, Neville ear's pricked up. Why were Elizabeth's guardians searching for a servant girl when the Princess was so sick?

"I'm not sure of Lady Ashley and Sir Parry's plans, Mrs. Simmons."

"Princess Elizabeth is sick?" Overhearing the conversation, Neville's mother awakened, then slowly crossed herself. "We must pray for her." Bisley was a small, tightly knit community. Most of the population was either directly, or indirectly employed by the royal families. Word spread fast when there was trouble at the manor. His mother's bruised eyes looked at him with concern.

"We should pray for ourselves. It's evil spirits, I tell you. They'll sacrifice whichever child they find to appease the devil that's taking Princess Elizabeth. Mark my words, they're pagans." Mrs. Simmons shook her head as she spoke, removing his mother's chamber pot from under the bed. She carefully handed it to him, "Here lad, this needs emptying." It was Mrs. Simmons unspoken signal she was going to bathe his mother, giving him an excuse to leave the room. He would return later to help prepare supper. Outside, he dumped the odorous pot into a ditch. Although Elizabeth was terribly ill, he doubted Lady Ashley and Thomas Parr were desperate enough to perform black magic. Hearing a shout at the end of the street, followed by a loud, tumultuous commotion, he looked up. The early retinue of the king's guards had arrived in Bisley. Henry the VIII would soon be here.