The bedchamber is rather stuffy as I open the door and walk in. A mixture of ambergris and musk is heavy in the air, blended unfortunately with the odour of the sickroom. As I move closer to the bed, the smell of rosewater is added to the mix, so strong now. The queen is sitting up in bed with many feather cushions behind her head. Her face is pale, white almost and her eyes a little sunken. Oddly enough, she does not look too unwell, and her features are composed naturally, as though she were sitting in the privy council chamber.
Susan sits a short way from the bed calmly knitting. She looks up and directly at the bed every few minutes, as though she expects the queen suddenly to leap out of bed. And do what? The queen is almost motionless; only the flicker of an eyebrow is occasionally
