Spark

by Catherine Friend

  But then it hit me that I should never feel safe. Once I did, I might give up, as Ray seemed to have done. I wouldn’t do that. I would help Ray get back to his Mercedes. I would get back to Chris. I would get back to my parents and my brothers. I would bring Bradley more rabbit food and get him off the street. I would finish those damned Froggity paintings and return to Carleton. Or maybe I’d apply to a larger school. I would be the risk taker Chris wanted. I would become the most ambitious person on the planet.

  Once we docked, Jacob hopped from the small barge and extended a hand. He held me a little too long, and a little too tightly, as he helped me ashore. Uh oh. Poor Jacob clearly had the hots for Blanche Nottingham. I would have chuckled but for a terrible thought: What if I was actually crazy and none of this was true, not even Ray?

  I pushed myself away from Jacob and ran up the grass toward the palace. But then I slowed and focused on sending calm breaths deep into my belly and down to my toes. No. I was not insane.

  I would not give up hope, since hope was kind of my thing.

  Hope made you spunky.

  Chapter Eight

  That evening after I performed one of Blanche’s responsibilities—refilling the Queen’s perfume pan with fresh rose water and cloves, I was so parched I had no choice but to guzzle down three mugs of wine. As a result, an unfamiliar warmth quickly spread all the way out to my fingers and toes. Feeling a bit tipsy, I lowered myself onto a cushioned stool in the Queen’s private chamber where the other women talked and sewed.

  While Elizabeth sat reading in her thickly padded velvet chair, I drank in every detail of her—her face, her dress, and her fingers, pale and straight as rulers. After my visit with Ray, I was convinced. This woman wasn’t an actress, but the real Elizabeth Tudor, Queen of England, who would rule for another forty-three years. Her navy would explore the globe and defeat the Spanish Armada. She would invite Shakespeare to her palaces to perform his dramas. Her reign would produce such a burst of art, music, and science that history named the period after her—the Elizabethan Age.

  When Lady Charlotte handed me one of the Queen’s collars that needed repair, I sputtered something inane while staring at the needle and thread she’d also given me. I had no idea what to do and couldn’t even thread the needle to get started.

  But when my fingers—or rather, Blanche’s fingers—picked up the needle and spool, they acted of their own accord, folding the end of the thread over the needle, moistening it in my mouth, then slipping the folded part expertly through the eye of the needle. I bit off a gasp as I then tied some sort of knot at the other end of the thread and began to sew. Holy crap. I knew little about the brain, but the part that performed familiar functions must still be under Blanche’s control. In this case, it was a relief, but it worried me. How much control did I actually have over this body? If I came across someone who’d been hurt, my instinct was to run toward them. What if Blanche’s were to run away from them? Could I stop that?

  My ignorance ate through me like battery acid. Did this mean that Blanche was in my body, using my skills? Painting, texting, navigating the Tube system? My thoughts returned to that idea that Blanche was sleeping with Chris. Chris would certainly know it wasn’t me, right?

  As I stared at the threaded needle, the delicious surprise of an unfamiliar action in 1560 feeling natural reminded me of my first middle school art class when I’d picked up a paintbrush and a tube of Golden’s Cerulean Blue. The feeling of sliding the thick paint across the canvas felt so right, I’d gasped. Then I’d picked up some Red Oxide, some Cadmium Yellow, and proceeded to turn my sea of Cerulean Blue into a painting of what you’d see while looking down into a shallow pool of clear water.

  “Lady Blanche.”

  I rose and approached Elizabeth, shuddering over my earlier statements to her, amazed that she hadn’t thrown me from the palace on my heavily-skirted butt. I was hesitant to try my first curtsey, but Blanche’s body took that over as well, for I sank gracefully, then rose back up without a wobble to my ankles or knees.

  “We are wondering if you feel better. How fares the blow to your head?”

  Tongue-tied, I could only mumble that I was fully recovered. But then I found my voice. “Your Majesty, I—”

  “Ma’am will do fine. You know that.”

  “Ma’am, I wish to humbly beg your pardon for my earlier behavior. I was not myself.” Truer words were never spoken.

  Elizabeth dipped her head. “An apology gracefully given is graciously accepted.”

  As I returned to my stool, Elizabeth clapped her hands. “We have spent the day being pressured by our councilors to marry and provide the realm with an heir. How sad that we must waste a day on such an inconsequential matter. To shake off the dry words of dusty old men, let us dance. Someone call for the musicians.”

  To the accompaniment of lutes and flutes and a woman’s soft soprano, I spent the rest of the evening dancing something called the cinque pas, a dance of five steps that I somehow knew.

  Finally, when I was so exhausted I couldn’t keep my eyes open, I asked the Queen’s leave, and she, flushed from dancing, waved me toward the exit. I gathered Vincent to my chest and retired to my room with the little dog’s tail beating happily against my side. Before closing my eyes that night, I made another notch in the table leg.

  * * *

  The next day, I walked into the Queen’s bedchamber, determined to blend in so I grabbed her silver brush. “Sit still, ma’am,” I scolded her as she squirmed under my vigorous attentions. After brushing the Queen’s red-gold hair to a sheen, I struggled to pull it up into something resembling her usual look, but soon even the Queen dissolved into laughter, and I had to give up. Lady Clinton, a sharp-faced woman with teeth too large for her mouth, did the hair, then I pushed my way back in and arranged the headpiece, which was a small crown with six long bobs of jewels that rested forward of the crown, lying across her hair as if they’d come down in a gentle rain.

  “You have done well, my Spark,” Elizabeth said as she contemplated her image in the thick, heavy silver mirror. She winked at me. “But it will be quite some time before you do our hair again.”

  I followed Elizabeth and the others into the Whitehall Chapel, a square room lined with marble columns and a ceiling that soared at least two stories above us. I settled into the nearest box with three other women, not wanting to presume that Blanche belonged with the Queen. When we sat on the narrow bench, our skirts filled the box. I watched the service with interest, knowing that the Protestant Elizabeth had already issued many proclamations that reversed her sister Mary’s Catholic reformation.

  Yet as I looked around the elaborate gold and white room, it was clear Elizabeth had retained some of her favorite parts of Catholicism—the beauty of the church, the soaring music, and the act of kneeling during parts of the service. Even though no heavy incense clogged the air, the heat of the worshippers crowded into the room made my eyes feel heavy. It might also have been the minister droning on about misguided Catholic beliefs.

  I distracted myself by thinking of other times I could have visited. Why couldn’t I have been transported back to 1890 in Auvers, France, where I could have saved Vincent van Gogh from the gunshot wound that would kill him. The “romantic” version of his death—artist in anguish takes own life—was bullshit. Who shoots himself in the stomach? And the doctors said he’d been shot from a short distance. I lost myself imagining coming to van Gogh’s rescue as he likely confronted the teenager who’d bullied him for months.

  A jab in my side from Lady Clinton snapped me to attention. “Cease snoring or the Queen will hear you.”

  I wanted to suggest she try living in the body of another person and see if she wasn’t a little worn out.

  Once the service finally ended, with Kat Ashley’s permission and Lady Mary’s grumpy help, I put together a small care package for Ray—wool blanket, feather pillow, sausages, two wedges of cheese, and a jug of ale. These I took to the guardhouse, wh
ere I knocked and found three men. Luckily, one of them was Jacob, whom I beckoned to step outside, which he did. “I am so happy to find you,” I said.

  When he blushed violently, I smiled to myself. I’d been correct: Sweet Jacob had a crush on Blanche.

  I explained that Hew Draper, the man in the Salt Tower, was someone who needed my help and that I’d gathered some things for him. “Would you be so kind as to deliver them for me?” I rested my hand lightly on his chest. “You’re the only one I dare trust, especially with this ale.”

  He dragged his gaze from his feet to Blanche’s bountiful chest, finally reaching my eyes. I tried not to make a face, as feminism wouldn’t take hold in England for at least another three hundred years.

  “Why are you being so kind to me?”

  “Aren’t I always?”

  “You used to snap and scold and command me. I wonder, where is that Lady Blanche?”

  “She’s gone. I don’t like her,” I said.

  “Well, I do,” he replied.

  “Fine, you want to be commanded, I’ll command. Deliver this package to the Tower.” I pushed the package at him and left.

  My next need was to wash my hair. With Vincent at my heels, I strolled through the working parts of the palace grounds and found the laundry. Vats of madly boiling water hung over open flames. If I could get some of that water before the laundress added soap, I could drink it. But I saw no place to take a bath or shower, only rows of servants’ dresses hanging in the morning sun.

  As I walked the garden, I found leaves in the shade that still cupped the morning dew, but the few drops of precious liquid did nothing to quench my thirst. Mild nausea had plagued me all morning, so I suspected I might be dehydrated.

  By noon, the only place I hadn’t explored was the park itself. It wasn’t what we’d call a park, but more a thick forest that pressed in against civilization, such as it was. I found a foot trail and followed it into the woods, where the late summer day was just as lovely in the garden. Bright green ferns unfurled at the base of trees. Leaves fluttered softly overhead as the sun filtered down and warmed the top of my head. Some sort of red berries flashed through the underbrush. The path widened until it could easily accommodate five or six horses across. I listened for any sign of water but heard nothing through the calls of warblers and jays.

  I was about to turn around and head back when I flushed hot and began to sweat. I dropped to my knees and vomited in the grass. Not fun. I remained there until I stopped trembling. God, what had I eaten? I managed to get back on my feet despite the three hundred pounds of dress, then noticed that Vincent was sniffing at a narrow opening in a stand of bushes. Was that a trail? If so, it wasn’t advertising itself.

  I pressed through, holding the bushes away from my dress, and found myself picking my way carefully down a moss-covered slope. I stepped lightly around a large tree and felt joy for the first time in days. A small, kidney-shaped pond, lined with ledges of stone, wrapped around a thick stand of oak trees. I dipped my hand in the water—cool, but not frigid. The water was clear enough I could see the clean bottom. I didn’t dare drink it, but I could still take a swim.

  I stopped. This stupid straitjacket! I couldn’t undress without help. Grunting against the tight stomacher, I managed to drop to my knees and lean over the pond. I splashed off my face, my parched skin reveling in the wetness. Damn it. I wanted to jump in fully clothed but the yards of wet skirts would be so heavy I’d probably drown.

  I dangled my hand in the cool water. Shadows flickered across the pond as birds swooped overhead, scolding me for violating their privacy. For the first time since being zapped into 1560, a hint of contentment settled over me. I thought about my parents and brothers. Would they even know I was gone? Was Blanche Nottingham trying to fit into my life, as I was trying to fit into hers? Was she instead making waves? What if she said something so horrible to a friend or family member that I could never repair it?

  Aunt Nicole’s voice filled my head. If it’s not within your control, don’t waste your energy worrying about it. That had been her mantra those last months. She focused on what she could do to fight off the cancer that had begun in her breast then gone on a major walkabout through her body until it finally settled into her bones. The path the cancer took, its ferocity? She chose not to worry about those. I helped Mom care for Nicole and treasured every moment spent with her. Even though her bones were brittle as cold glass, her mind was strong. She had made a decision a few years ago to slow her life down, to really appreciate what she had, and to allow herself to be content with that rather than fussing over what she lacked. I wish Chris had been able to spend time with Nicole during those months. She might not have been so harsh about my horrible “lack of ambition.”

  Vincent snuffled the ground by my feet, then climbed up onto my dress. I looked into his eyes of melted dark chocolate and played with one of his ears. This was a real dog living in 1560. I was really, truly here. Time travel was something I’d read about in novels—Outlander, The Spanish Pearl, Octavia Butler’s Kindred, and almost anything by Connie Willis. When reading a novel, it was so easy to believe that time travel was real, but given all that scientists knew of physics, time travel was totally impossible. Yet here I was. Or at least here part of me was. In the novels, time travelers took their bodies with them. Why couldn’t I have done that?

  After I’d exhausted myself thinking about family and time travel, I returned to the problem of bathing. By the time I pulled myself back onto my feet and began walking back to the palace, I had a plan.

  I needed a servant’s dress, for they were simple, without corsets, so I could easily don—and remove—one without assistance. I strolled back through the laundry. The women working there ignored me, so it was a quick matter to reach up, unpin a dress and apron, a cap, swipe a small chip of soap, then scurry around the corner.

  Chapter Nine

  That night, after Rosemary had unpinned and deribbonned me, I slipped under the covers and waited until Mary’s snoring rattled the bed. Because they drank ale or wine all day, everyone slept as if on Ambien. Even Vincent snored like a mastiff. I rose like a ghost, pulled on the comfortable dress, then headed down the hallway. Moonlight lit my way through the palace; I couldn’t have picked a better night. Leaves glowed almost blue in the garden.

  Low voices from the main gate reached me as the guards talked softly, but I managed to slip past the knot gardens and cherry trees without being seen. I ran across the bowling lawn toward the dark forest. Once inside, the moonlight dimmed, creating deep shadows that followed me. I should have brought Vincent with me, but the night was filled with so many frogs croaking that I wasn’t afraid. As I picked my way down the path free of bodice, padded stomacher, and heavy skirts, I was as agile as a dancer, as graceful as a cougar. Now and then a twig snapped or something snuffled in the dark, but the thought of clean hair and a clean body kept me moving.

  As I walked, my thoughts kept wandering back to the obvious, that Rajamani was messing with the mind in ways he couldn’t control. His drug had somehow made me and Ray Lexvold sitting ducks for the electrical surge that must have come with the lightning strike. If Rajamani thought he had funding problems now, he was in for a big surprise. Once I found my way home again and into my own body, I’d sue the professor’s ass off.

  It felt good to think things like that. Yet how could I possibly duplicate the conditions of a risky experiment? I had no GCA, but perhaps it still flowed in my veins. And the only source of electricity I’d find in 1560 would be a thunderstorm. I didn’t think I needed to actually get close to a strike of lightning, but I certainly had to be in the vicinity.

  By the time I reached the pond, the silence had encouraged me to be as stealthy as a shadow. I stepped so lightly no one could have heard me approach. I leaned against the rocks to take off my shoes, then slipped the dress off, hung it on the rocks, and lowered myself into the water.

  “Ahh,” I murmured as I sank in up to my neck. I co
nsidered sipping the water around me, but knew I’d pay with diarrhea, unfun even with a flush toilet. But with a chamber pot and twenty pounds of skirt? Fire truck.

  I swam around the pond’s curve.

  “Oh my God!” shouted a woman. Heart pounding, I shook the water from my eyes. A naked woman stood on the side of the pond, a candle burning at her feet. She clutched her rough muslin dress to her chest. Her eyes were red, and tears streaked her face.

  “Hell’s gates!” I cried. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were here.”

  The woman calmed down when she heard my voice, no doubt relieved I was a woman. “I thought I was alone.”

  “Me too. Come on in. There’s plenty of room.”

  The woman dropped her dress and slid into the water. She had a strong, sturdy body, and suddenly, I was so lonely for Chris that my throat closed up. It’s not that I was attracted to this woman, but that I hadn’t been held or hugged for days and days.

  “My name is Harriet Blankenship,” she said. “I come here every week to bathe so I don’t pass out from my own stench.” Her plain face, visible in the faint moonlight filtering through the leaves, was softened by the warmth of her dark eyes. She wasn’t beautiful in the usual sense of the word—her eyes too wide-set, her nose too small for her broad face—but every feature, no matter how plain, sparkled when she smiled.

  “You don’t like going weeks and weeks between baths?” I returned her smile.

  “I would rather be poked with one thousand pins. Or attacked by one thousand dogs.”

  I laughed as we began swimming side by side. “My name is….Nicole,” I said.

  Harriet’s eyes flickered up to my servant’s dress hanging on the rock. “I have never seen you before,” she said. “Where do you work?”

  “All over the place.” If she knew I was one of the Queen’s ladies, everything would get awkward.