She hisses in response, venomous and defensive and as unsure as everything about her is now. How sure of herself she used to be, how confident, and now she trusts no one, not even herself. Her heart, her emotions, even her logic eludes her at times.

"It was the day after. The morning after. I was arrested. Will be."

The swing of her hand knocks over the goblet with only a bit of wine left in it, but she doesn't seem to notice or care as it clatters to the stone floor.

"The second day of May, you see, and I will be guilty, though I will not remember and so I proclaim my innocence to my lord archbishop and the world falsely. I am Anne Boleyn, the whore, the witch who beguiles and curses.

It is only for his love that I do not die in flames."