by Cynthia Hand
“Do you think he can understand us?” Ari asked as he lay panting at the bottom of the box, totally exhausted from not becoming human.
“Of course he can! He may be a”—the box shifted, and Francis couldn’t hear what his mother said over the thunder surrounding him—“but he still has his mind.”
The box stilled for a moment.
“You’ve been given your instructions,” Catherine said. “And I’ve had a bag packed for you. I’m trusting you with my son’s life. And your father’s.”
“I will take care of him,” Ari promised hoarsely. “I will guard his life with my own.”
Francis’s heart twisted. What was happening? He’d been poisoned, that was obvious. And now he was being sent away, his throne usurped.
It had all been an act, last night when his mother had come to ask him about his ideas. All along she had intended to give Charles IX the crown and make herself regent, because she would have to be regent, as Francis’s brother was still only a child.
Francis groaned as his box changed hands.
“Be strong, my son,” Catherine said.
Francis wanted to call out to her, but again he made that awful noise. He still had no idea what he was, beyond a creature that was happy to eat flies and couldn’t turn its head.
Before he knew it, his box was in a bag of some kind, and being carried out of his mother’s rooms. Out of the palace.
Everything that happened next was wildly uncomfortable. Whatever creature he was, it was not suited to being kept in small boxes.
He was bounced and jostled from side to side, and Ari must have known it, because she kept saying, “Sorry, sorry.” A short time later, the jostling changed from the two-legged gait of a human to the four-legged gait of a horse.
What was the plan? They were going to Calais, he knew, but what about after that? Did they have lodging? What about food? Ugh, food. Francis was already hungry again—so hungry he’d have eaten another fly, if one had been offered. But what he really wanted was a fly.
What?
No, he wanted a nice juicy fly.
No! Not a fly.
He had to stop thinking about flies.
Instead, he bounced around his box and wished Ari would stop and talk to him.
It was a miserable trip. Francis had to admit that being fake-dead was worse than being a king, at least when it came to exerting any measure of control over his life. Where he used to have choices about what to wear, when to eat, even whether to get out of bed that day, now he was just carted around, his feelings about all of this totally overlooked.
He must have slept, but it was hard to tell how long. He had no idea where they were or how far they’d ridden. It was all just. the. same.
Terrible.
Eventually, Ari must have remembered he needed to eat, because she dismounted the horse and took the bag with his box. Air rushed in through the breather holes, and a moment later, the lid was up and a fly was, ah, flying by. Francis ate it without thinking. Then he ate another. And another.
All this eating of flies. It was so unlike him.
“What a very good king,” Ari said softly. “Such a good frog.”
Frog?
FROG?
Francis made the noise again, the sound that he finally recognized as a ribbit.
What kind of king turned into a frog? That was only for princes. Except he wasn’t king anymore, was he? He was a frog, maybe forever.
Perhaps the E∂ians were right, he thought desperately. Maybe this was Francis’s true form—his nature, the very essence of who he was—a pitiful, croaking, slimy frog. And one thing was certain—it wasn’t easy being green.
RIBBIT.
RIBBIT.
RIBBIT.
Light suddenly flashed around him, and then Francis was sitting on top of the box, human again (yay!) absolutely naked (oh no!).
“Ack!” Ari averted her eyes.
This was worse. This was much worse than being a frog. “What the—”
Flash! Francis was a frog again.
“Ribbit,” he said, sitting inside the box once more.
“Oh, thank goodness,” Ari said. “I wasn’t sure how I’d get you all the way to Calais like that.”
“Ribbit,” Francis said miserably.
“I only have one horse,” Ari explained. “And enough people food for me.” She shrugged helplessly. “Your mother gave me firm instructions. I’m not to deviate. I’m sure she’ll know if I don’t do exactly what she says.”
She proceeded to carry Francis across the countryside like a piece of common luggage. Then, it happened again.
Flash!
Francis tumbled out of the box and onto the road, bruising his royal elbows and knees. “What the—!”
Abruptly, he was a frog again, and Ari was just in time to scoop him up before he made a quick escape to the nearest river to eat bugs in peace.
They ran and ran. Francis stayed tucked away while Ari carried him to the city as fast as she could.
“Don’t change,” she was saying. “Don’t change, don’t change, don’t change.”
She was in luck. They made it to . . . well, Francis didn’t really know where they were, what with being stuck in the box, but apparently Ari was happy about it because she dumped him out of the box with all the ceremony of overturning a sack of apples.
Francis tumbled out and then flash! White light flared around him.
“WTF!” he shouted, a quick abbreviation in case he changed back and didn’t get a chance to finish his thought. Then he spotted a wedge of cheese hanging out of a saddlebag and shoved it in his mouth.
“What does that mean?” Ari asked.
Francis started to cover himself with the box that had been holding him for the last who knew how long, but it didn’t matter. He changed back, and the box nearly killed him.
But we’d like to inform you that right here, this very moment, was the first ever use of the phrase WTF, which stands for, as we all know, “what the frog.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Mary
“These were your mother’s apartments,” James said as he finished showing Mary around Holyrood Palace. “And now I suppose they’re yours. I’m sure your mother would have wanted you to have her things.”
Mary gazed around the northwest tower. She expected to find these rooms full of her mother’s presence, somehow, but it simply looked like an old castle tower, furnished in the same way as most rooms in most palaces, if she was being honest. Holyrood was also a bit shabbier than any palace she’d ever lived in before—it was large, but not enormous. There were not as many windows as the Louvre, which left the rooms a bit dark and gloomy. Or perhaps that was just the Scottish weather.
“It smells like her,” Flem remarked as the Marys began to take stock of the situation, inventorying the dresses in the armoires and how they might need to be altered to fit Mary—which wasn’t much, as it turned out that Mary de Guise and our Mary were nearly the same size, even down to their shoes.
“It smells like my mother?” Mary said.
Flem nodded. “She smelled of oranges and cloves and fur—mink, perhaps, from those capes she wore. I always enjoyed her scent, even as a child.”
Mary couldn’t remember what her mother had smelled like. At the moment she was having trouble remembering what Mary de Guise had looked like. When Mary tried to picture her mother’s face—all she could call up was a painting.
She sighed. She had communicated in letters to her mother all her life, received advice and admonishment, even poured her heart out through the stroke of her quill at times. But she hadn’t truly known Mary de Guise.
And now—she was slowly starting to accept this—her mother was gone. And Mary was expected to take her place. She was to wear Mary de Guises’s gowns and jewels and literally step into her shoes.
Was she ready for such a responsibility?
And what would that mean for her duties back in France? What would that mean for her marriage? Fo
r Francis?
She hadn’t thought any of this through before she’d left Paris. She’d been so focused on finding the answers to the mystery of her missing mother. She hadn’t considered what would happen if that mystery was solved.
She crossed to the window. Below stretched the private gardens, green and well kept, at least.
“Can I get you anything?” James asked. “I know this can’t be easy.”
At least James was kind to her. It made her feel like she had some family left.
“A few butts,” she said after a moment.
He looked taken aback. “Butts, Your Majesty? I’m afraid I don’t know what—”
“For the garden,” she explained. “Archery butts?” Archery had always been calming for her. And Francis had been so dreadful at it, but he’d always made it fun to practice.
James smiled and nodded. “Oh yes, archery. Thank God. I thought you meant—”
At that moment they heard drums in the distance.
James’s smile faded. “I should go. We might all need to practice some self-defense very shortly. The E∂ians are a little worked up.”
“I could go with you,” Mary said. “I could—”
James held up a hand. “No, that’s fine. My . . . advisers and I will take care of it.”
The way he said the word advisers was strange. Mary had the sudden, terrible feeling that James could be plotting to take her crown, too. Or maybe she was just under a lot of stress and imagining things. Or maybe it was James who was stressed. On account of the violent mob who seemed about to attack at any moment.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have thrown John Knox into the stocks.
“Very well,” she said. “Thank you, James.”
He bowed and took his leave.
Mary went over to the desk in the corner and began to look through her mother’s papers. There was nothing that could be remotely helpful in quelling a rebellion. All she found were a few lists of things Mary de Guise had wanted to do (she was the original bullet journaler, we discovered). A sketch of a starling. A design of a very pretty pair of jeweled shoes.
Mary took up the quill and ink and considered what she would say, if she were to write a letter to Francis. She should write to him. There was so much she wanted to tell him.
She carefully wrote out the first two words: Dearest Francis, and chewed her bottom lip for a moment, thinking.
What could she say that would even begin to make things right?
I’m sorry?
I wish you were here?
Help—I’m now officially the queen, and it wasn’t what I bargained for. People are being so mean to me, and it’s not remotely fair?
She laid down the quill. No. None of that would do.
She opened the desk and slipped the nearly blank piece of parchment inside. She could come back to it later, she told herself. But as she was about to close the desk, she was struck by an image—a memory, perhaps, from when she was very young—of her mother sitting in this exact spot, showing her how this drawer in this desk had a false bottom. To open it, one only had to push on the side of the desk . . . here.
There was a soft click.
From across the room, Flem cocked her head to one side. “What was that?”
Mary didn’t answer. She was too busy opening the secret drawer.
In which there was another letter.
From her mother—she instantly recognized the elegant slant of Mary de Guise’s handwriting.
And it was for her. Mary knew this because it opened with My clever girl, because her mother had still thought of her daughter as a girl, and still thought of her as clever, even though Mary no longer felt that she was exactly either of these things.
She swallowed hard, unfolded the letter fully, and continued reading.
My clever girl,
I am writing this in great haste, so please forgive my unsightly penmanship.
Mary smiled. Perhaps she had not fallen far from her mother’s tree. She continued to read.
If you have found this letter, I fear that you are in danger, and my heart seizes with more worry for your well-being than it could ever possess for my own. It has recently come to my attention that you are soon to be married to the dauphin of France, as we always planned. My heart was glad to hear it. I know that you and Francis are dear friends, and I am of the opinion that it is wise, when entering a state of matrimony, to consider your spouse a friend first, before all other things. Not that I have much experience in that matter, as I myself, having been twice married, found neither husband particularly friendly. But I have better dreams for you, my daughter, of being more than just an accessory to the stature of your husband. You will find your own greatness in this world, of that I am sure.
Mary heaved a sigh. She certainly wasn’t feeling any greatness.
Naturally your uncles are pleased to be solidifying the alliance between our two countries. They are drafting up an agreement that they wish you to sign regarding France’s obligations to Scotland, and Scotland’s to France, upon the advent of your marriage. In many ways it is a standard agreement, but when I read the document myself, I found a troublesome section. It states that if you perish, or if you and Francis do not produce an heir within a certain period of time, Scotland will in essence become the property of France.
Now Mary felt rather sick. That blasted treaty. Mary had almost forgotten all about it. Her mother had immediately seen the treachery of it. Why hadn’t Mary?
Why hadn’t she listened to Francis, for once? Why did she always have to be contrary when people told her what to do?
She kept reading.
I am a Frenchwoman, as you know, and loyal to my family there, but I am also, after these many years, a Scot. This agreement would be devastating to the interests of Scotland, and, by extension, to you, as the rightful ruler of Scotland. Therefore I wrote immediately urging you to refuse to sign this document, but found my messengers cut off from me and the letter destroyed. I do believe that your uncles are acting for your benefit, but also for their own. Through you they wish to dominate and control all of England, Scotland, and France. I cannot in good faith support this course of action, and as I voiced this opinion to my brothers, they made it clear that if I am not with them entirely, I am against them, and from now on will be treated as an enemy. There is unrest here in Edinburgh, an uprising of E∂ians, which means, ironically, that I find myself besieged on two sides. Which of my enemies will prevail against me now, I cannot say.
I can say that I will always be on your side.
I wish you all the best on your wedding. But I hope you will not sign that document. Beware your uncles, my dear. They are unprincipled, dangerous men. I can only hope that you will somehow find a way to escape their clutches and take your rightful place in this world, without aligning yourself with their schemes.
Your loving mother,
Mary de Guise
Mary laid down the letter and pressed a hand over her mouth. Her mother had been murdered, she was certain of that now. But who had done it? The rebel E∂ians? Or her uncles?
But another, more pressing matter had come to her attention. She stood up.
“Your Highness?” came Hush’s soft voice from beside her. “Are you all right?”
Mary brushed a tear from her cheek briskly. She turned to her ladies, who were all staring at her with concern.
“Pack my things again,” she ordered. “We have to go.”
“You’re going where?” James repeated in exasperation.
“Back to France,” Mary answered simply.
“But you just got here,” he said.
“I know that. But now I must return to France.”
“But with your mother gone, shouldn’t you stay and rule Scotland?” he said, clearly flummoxed.
She shook her head. “I cannot. But I hereby appoint you, my dear brother, to serve as ruler in my stead.”
He stared at her, mouth open. “But I—”
“You’ve been do
ing fine so far,” she said.
At that moment, something rattled the windows. A voice screamed out “FREEEEEEEDOOOOOOM!” and there was a distant, roaring cheer.
“So carry on, as if you never saw me here,” she said. “I’m very sorry, James, to leave you in such a position. But I really must go.”
He gazed after her helplessly as she turned and, her ladies trailing her, left the palace. Out the back door. Into the empty garden.
“Shall we, ladies?” she said. She was dressed as a boy again. Her heart was beating in time with the drums that were growing louder outside.
“If that’s what you command,” said Bea.
“Of course. Let’s go back to Paris,” said Liv cheerfully. (She had her own reasons, you’ll remember, for wishing to return to France.)
“But why do we have to hurry back, if I may ask?” asked Flem. “I’d rather been hoping you’d find me a husband here. A good Scottish one with a title. We’re none of us getting any younger, you know.”
“I know, Flem. I know. But now is not the time.” Mary didn’t want to explain that she’d been a fool, and had signed that dratted agreement, and if she didn’t return to France and produce an heir with Francis, like, toute suite (which in French means “right freaking now”), Scotland was going to be in big trouble.
“DOWN WITH THE VERITIES!!!!” someone yelled.
Way more trouble than it was currently in.
Which was a lot.
“I came to find out what happened to my mother, and now I know,” she said simply. “Now I must return. I miss my husband.”
She did miss him. Every day she thought of Francis—every hour, practically, what he might be doing now, if he was getting along all right without her. On the one hand, she hoped he was, of course. But she also hoped that he missed her, too, that he realized how much he needed her. So they could forgive each other about that horrid fight and get into the business of making an heir.
Right freaking now.