The morning brought Cromwell.
Thomas Cromwell was a man built entirely of function. He came in without ceremony, sent the guards out of the room with a gesture that was barely a gesture, and stood in the center of the cell with his hands folded and his face arranged into an expression of professional neutrality.
"Lady Anne," he said.
"Master Secretary," Eleanor said. She had risen when he entered. She kept her voice level.
"His Majesty has been considering the matter of your sentence," Cromwell said, and even his voice was functional — not warm, not cold, precisely calibrated to give nothing away. "He is inclined toward — a modification of the terms."
Eleanor waited. She did not speak. She had learned in six days that the most powerful thing she could do in any of these conversations was wait.
