My husband had his machine of state arrest me, try me on false charges, and murder me by public beheading, all in only seventeen days. The stories told about me since my death have largely been written by my enemies and are riddles with lies, half-truths, and undeniable bias. Since my death in 1536, my soul has reincarnated many times. Over the ensuing five centuries, I have waited and watched for the incarnation of the one who could tell my story.

My chance has come, albeit in an unlikely place with an unlikely woman, unaware for sixty-five years of the connection between us. Until now.

Open the book, and at least, read MY words, and know that I am Anne Boleyn.