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By Shira Engel, Age 18

Inspired by the March '10 Playwriting Workshop, "Throughout My City"

Oh, Jane! Oh, poor, dear, pious Jane! I know, you thought you would never see me again. I can see what you are thinking, I can read your thought through that mirror. Sounds familiar, does it? I can presume you have heard our every-courtly Henry use those words on your pretty little face as he pressed his greedy lips to your powdered cheek. Now I suppose he does the same to that belly, that swell he believes holds the future of this country in his hands. He thinks you are the carrier of destiny, you know. And he crawls into bed with you after he returns from one of his escapades, crawling because you are a vessel. He no longer runs.

You know, Jane, my story will be told a thousand times through the lips of women I've scorned and women I've made proud, through the legacy of our husband, then my daughter, and perhaps as a warning in the countryside of my sister. Some will portray me as the villianous witch beheaded rather than burnt. And some will see me as a glorious heroine who has had escapades of her own, wronged by her father, and temporarily ruling over our husband. Would you believe it, Jane, if you were the only one I told my own story to? I will be authentic, I promise, though I am afriad you will not live to tell the tale. 

Ah, and you too have worn this ring I suppose. I remember when you first saw it. I was wearing this dress and it was on this poised finger. My belly was swollen them, just like yours. I was checking up on our husband, seeing which one of my less-than-noble ladies he would desire the company of that winter's night. I expectd I would find him alone, quite possibly with Wolsley, but he was with you instead. His lips were pressed on your untouched neck. I saw your face before you saw mine. It was a face I despised -innocence, guilt, shame, mingling with that forbidden desire. And then I saw his face, that lust I expected, but there was something else-a glint in those boyish blue eyes.