Spark

by Catherine Friend

  “I am new to the palace,” she said.

  “How long have you been here?”

  Harriet rolled onto her back and floated, a plump mermaid with silver breasts. “Too long, too long.” She held up nine fingers. “Nine weeks and three days.”

  “I don’t mean to pry, but you were clearly crying before I startled you.”

  “I…I am from the country. The life here in the palace, with the Queen and her court, is very strange to me. Crying helps.”

  I nodded. “I know exactly how you feel.”

  She stopped swimming. “My life here is not what I’d hoped. Sometimes I clean the palace, which is interesting, but I spend most of my days in the laundry.”

  “That would be hard work.” Without a Maytag and a bottle of Era Plus, I’d be lost.

  She sighed. “I can handle the work. It is just the boredom I despise. I used to…back in my village I performed many different activities. I was never bored.”

  I let my feet float to the surface so I could scrub my toes. “Maybe you could find another job in the palace. Do you have other skills?”

  She grunted in frustration, eyebrows fierce as she frowned. “I can read and write, which none of the others I have met can do. But no one believes me. Even when I pick up a stick and write in the dirt outside the laundry, they say I am just writing gibberish. When I read out loud a leaflet dropped in the street, the women say I am lying.”

  “It’s unusual for a servant to read and write?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe I could help.”

  She reached for my hand. “I would be so grateful. This can be such a lonely place.”

  I answered her squeeze, wanting to pull her close for a hug but unsure if she’d be comfortable hugging a naked stranger. “We must help each other through this.”

  “Absolutely.”

  We said nothing more as we swam for a few more minutes, then each retrieved our soap. I knew I shouldn’t be putting soap in the water, but I was desperate to be clean. Harriet, however, had brought a bucket, so she soaped up out of the pond, and then rinsed herself with the bucket. Note to self: bring bucket next time.

  At first, I was self-conscious as I pulled my naked self out of the pond, but then it hit me: This wasn’t even my body. Why should I be embarrassed to be naked?

  Talking softly about the families we’d left behind, Harriet and I toweled off, then dressed. We wove our way back to the palace. As we reached the spot where we needed to part, I gave in to my need for physical contact and hugged her. “I’m so glad I’ve met you.”

  She hugged back. “And I you. One can never have too many friends. Let us bathe again in a week.”

  I smiled and headed for the palace, but at the same time my stomach sank to think I might still be here a week from now.

  Chapter Ten

  The next morning I awoke smelling of soap and ran my hands through my hair. It was thinner than my own, and the wrong color, but it was mine for now, and it felt damned good to be clean. And it felt really good to have made a connection with Harriet. For the next few days, I watched but never saw her. Instead, I sat on a stool for endless hours as men with woolen capes draped over their arms bowed before Elizabeth and requested certain lands or that she punish a new neighbor for the harm he’d done to someone else’s livestock. I watched women in elaborate, filmy headdresses glare and gossip about other women in elaborate, filmy headdresses. The whole court charade was less entertaining than TV’s worst reality show, which in my opinion included all of them.

  The morning I gouged my sixteenth notch on the table, sounds of an awakening palace drifted into my room, but they seemed muted, as if coming from a distance. The louder noise was a persistent beating.

  I shot up. Rain. I threw on my robe and raced down the hallway to the nearest window, Vincent clicking softly at my heels. I loved that the little guy was so devoted to me. Chris didn’t really like dogs, so my only chance for Dog Time was here at Whitehall.

  Outside, deliciously gray and ominous clouds emptied themselves onto London. Lightning flashed in the distance. Thunder boomed. I counted the seconds between light and sound. My heart soared when I realized the lightning was close.

  I raced back to the room. Lady Mary had already left, so there was no one to help me dress in my Blanche clothing. I dug out my servant’s dress from under the mattress and slipped it on. I would give some serious money to see the look on Blanche Nottingham’s face when she found herself back in 1560 wearing such a low class dress. All her dresses were embroidered with beads and intricate stitching.

  I put on my heaviest slippers and a thick cape. No use giving Blanche pneumonia as we switched bodies.

  Shaking now, I dashed through the palace for the nearest stairwell, then made my way to the center of the knot garden near the fountain. Vincent stood in the open doorway, whining and pacing.

  The lightning had reached me in Dr. Rajamani’s office, so I should be in good shape outside. Cold rain smacked my cheeks as I threw back my head and opened my mouth. Water, blessed water. After two minutes, my slippers and skirt were soaked, but I’d drunk enough water I no longer felt like a wilting plant. With one last glance at Vincent, whom I would miss, I moved west to the large lawn of open space. I could see people inside the palace gathering at the windows to point at me. Apparently, a walk in the rain wasn’t a standard 1560 activity. I waved, unable to contain my excitement.

  My mind spun with what to do when I got home. First, find Chris and hold her until my arms ached. Second, find Dr. Rajamani and tell him I was going to sue his ass off for mental anguish and torture. Was there even such a category?

  Lightning silently reached down somewhere on the southern shore of the Thames, miles away, and my vision dissolved in a rush of speed and blue, and I was blind. I was Dr. Raj’s ideal of a freed consciousness, untethered to a body. It was frightening, and it was freeing. I was not myself, and I was only myself.

  * * *

  When the spinning stopped, I opened my eyes and nearly fell over, but I managed to stop myself by grabbing a rack of books. I looked around and nearly shouted with joy, then I glanced down. This was my body! I was back!

  I stood in a Waterstone’s Bookshop holding a book about Queen Elizabeth I. Slowly, I returned the book to the shelf. Two seconds ago, Blanche Nottingham had been in this body, in this bookstore, holding this book. Now she was back in 1560, standing out in the rain with the entire palace watching, wearing a servant girl’s dress. The thought was more satisfying than I’d imagined, even though I had no idea what Blanche was like, and none of this was her fault (except for the stupid plotting with Winston.) I listened for the hum that had been in my dream but there was none. I was really home. The nightmare was over.

  My head spun with all the information rushing at me at once, as if too many trains had arrived at the station simultaneously. I was obviously not lying in a coma in a hospital, with my family and Chris at my side. I was functioning. I looked around for Chris but couldn’t see her. That Blanche was comfortable enough in my body, and in this time, to be browsing a bookstore on her own, spoke volumes.

  Something pinched at my waist. I looked down and gasped. I was wearing a black push-up bra under a black velvet cut out blouse. I blushed from my navel to my breasts, the whole route far too visible. The blouse was tucked into a lime green skirt, which was so tight a muffin top bulged out. Hell’s gate. What had Blanche been eating?

  Still unsteady, I wandered through the bookstore to make sure Chris wasn’t there, then I made my way out onto the street into a steady drizzle. Passing headlights reflected off the wet pavement as I popped open the umbrella in my hand. When I determined I was at the Waterstone’s near the London School of Economics, I scooped up a discarded issue of Metro and checked the day. Wednesday. Chris should be at school.

  I fumbled for my phone, found it in my skirt pocket, then called Chris.

  “Hey, babe. What’s up?” Her smooth voice flowed over me like warm syrup.


  “Holy shit, Chris. I’m back. I’m really back.”

  She snickered. “I know you were worried about making the trip to Waterstone on your own, but it’s not as if you’ve traveled around the globe or anything.”

  “No, worse than that. I’ve been gone for almost three weeks. God, baby, I miss you so much.”

  Confusion thickened her voice. “Blanche, are you okay?”

  “Why are you calling me Blanche?”

  “Because you begged me to!”

  “Seriously? Oh, that bitch. What else has she screwed up?” I clenched my teeth. “Look, it’s a very, very long story. Are you at your office?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” I was only a few miles from school, so after making sure I carried a wallet with cash, I flagged down a taxi. I was not going to spend any more time than necessary away from Chris. Images blurred through the windshield as the wipers failed to keep up with the downpour, but I didn’t care. The city had never looked more beautiful. Even the squeaking of the wipers, the scratchy radio coming from the front seat, the smell of old, wet leather….all were precious to me.

  I called my mom.

  “Hey, Jamie! So good to hear from you. We’ve been worried sick.”

  At the sound of my mom’s cheerful voice, tears began streaming down my face. “Why have you been worried?”

  “Chris told us about that freaky accident, but she said you were too upset to talk. Your dad and I nearly bought tickets to show up at your apartment—sorry, your flat. I love that word. But Chris kept insisting you’d be fine. Then when you finally did call us, you just didn’t sound like yourself.”

  I ached to tell her the truth. “I’m doing better,” I choked out.

  “Doesn’t sound that way. I can tell you’re crying.”

  I wiped my face. “It’s just good to hear your voice.”

  “That’s it. We’re coming. Your dad can get a few days off, and I can get a sub for summer school.”

  “No, it’s okay. I’m okay. Just really, really tired.”

  In the silence I could hear my mom comparing my voice with my words. “You’re sure.”

  “Absolutely.” What if another storm were to whisk me away and return Blanche while my parents were here? Would she be kind? Would she pretend she was me? Somehow I doubted it. “I’m sorry you’ve been kept out of the loop. I’ll call more often, okay?”

  “We’d love that,” Mom said. She filled me in on my brothers’ lives and my dad’s latest home repair calamity.

  By the time we were done talking, I finally felt at home. I was here, in the twenty-first century, and I needed to make sure that’s where I remained.

  I tossed the driver the fare plus a huge tip and stepped out into the rain right in front of Chris’s building. I splashed through a huge puddle, black water reflecting the gray day, and ducked when thunder boomed overhead. I only had time to cry “No!” before darkness descended again.

  * * *

  I staggered a few steps, nearly thrown off balance from my drenched skirts and looked around. I stood just inside one of the arched entrances to Whitehall Palace. Furious, I threw back my head and howled at the world through clenched teeth. The sound shivered through me and sank deep into my soul. Such rage pounded through me that I wanted to hit someone.

  Rosemary stood in front of me. Judging by her hand cradling a pink cheek, and the horrified way she stared at me, I might have already done that. Vincent barked at me, his lip curled back in a snarl.

  “Hush, Vincent,” one of the women snapped.

  “Rosemary was just trying to help you,” said another. Damn it. Blanche must have slapped poor Rosemary. How did I apologize for something I hadn’t done? I tore off my soggy cloak and flung it across the room. It knocked over a small carved table against the wall; candles and brass holders clattered across the stone floor. Vincent now approached me, stiff-legged and growling. The soft fur along his back stiffened with rage.

  “Vincent, it’s me,” I said.

  I turned and stormed down the hall, up the stairs, and into my room. Lady Mary was being helped into a dress for that evening’s performance by a theater troupe. Her eyes widened at my servant’s dress, which I yanked off and fired against the wall. It hit with a hard, wet slap and slid to the floor. I changed into a dry chemise and climbed into bed.

  “My, we are moody this day,” Lady Mary cooed.

  “Bite me,” I muttered. How could life be so unfair?

  Chapter Eleven

  The next day I felt thick and unresponsive, as if a poisonous evil sludge ran through my veins. The thought of being Blanche Nottingham for one more second sent waves of nausea sweeping through me. And food didn’t help. Midmorning I sat at a long, dark table with the other women and glared at them as they ate. The woman across from me pawed through her food with her hands, and then belched so forcefully I felt the gust. Apparently, forks and table manners had not yet reached England. Next to her, another woman was enthusiastically picking apart a goose leg, grease staining her sleeve all the way up to her elbow. Forks and table manners and napkins. I nibbled delicately at a piece of blackberry tart. Without a fork, I ended up with berry-stained fingers and bits of seeds on my generous bust. I longed for the days when food that missed my mouth could drop directly into my lap.

  Feeling slightly woozy from two glasses of wine, I knew I couldn’t sit through hours in the presence chamber with courtiers, nor in the private chambers no matter what the Queen wanted. Pissing her off wasn’t a good idea, since Queen Elizabeth had a temper that flamed hotter than a solar flare. Last week when one of her ladies revealed she’d married without Elizabeth’s permission, the Queen confiscated the woman’s gowns and jewels, then had the guards deposit the poor woman in the middle of King Street. Another day, a servant’s clumsiness so enraged Elizabeth that she’d flung the entire soup tureen at him.

  So instead of waiting on the Queen that morning, I slipped out during the after-meal confusion and wandered the palace, as if the answer to my problem might be lodged in one of the dozens of rooms, perhaps on a huge whiteboard that said, “Jamie, here’s your pathway home.” Or, “Jamie, it will be all right.” I would even accept a faint note written in the dust coating an unused table: “Jamie, don’t despair.” I found nothing, of course.

  Vincent now trotted happily at my side. I didn’t know if he’d been so fierce because Blanche had struck Rosemary, or because he’d just been responding to Blanche and couldn’t instantaneously detect our switch.

  From an empty room, I moved closer to the window to catch the refreshing breeze and watch two gardeners working down below. I’d been so close, so damned close. Four weeks of 1560, and less than thirty minutes of 2017.

  I’d been here nearly four weeks. I did the math. Blanche’s body would be getting a period soon. How on earth did women in this time deal with that? Could I ask Harriet without alarming her? Blanche was in her mid-twenties, so she would be expected to know what to do. When I left that room and stopped in the main corridor to examine a painting, Elizabeth’s voice, raw with fury, blasted from another room. “Blanche Nottingham, show yourself. We demand you come to us at once.” The voice echoed down a nearby hall, which meant Elizabeth would soon round the corner.

  I froze. Should I flee or stay? I forced myself to move and slipped into the nearest open door, then stopped. Harriet dusted the massive desk dominating the room. Her head jerked up in alarm.

  “Nicole?”

  “Hark, Blanche Nottingham, where are you? God’s blood, you will stand and face us.”

  I waved a hand toward the approaching voice. “Harriet, she’s really steamed at me.”

  Her pale skin whitened even more. “You are Lady Blanche?”

  “I’m sorry I lied. But please help me hide. I need to give the Queen time to cool off.”

  Giving me a look that said helping me was the last thing she’d planned to do today, she motioned me clos
er. “Here, under the desk.”

  She helped me crawl under the desk, not an easy task when you’re wearing miles of skirt. I pulled Vincent up against my chest, and he sighed happily. Then when Elizabeth’s bellow was nearly upon us, Harriet bunched up her skirt and joined us.

  We said nothing to each other. Harriet smelled of soap and lemons. My nostrils drank in the scents with a thirst that surprised me. Vincent, however, stank of meat and sweat so I resolved that my next trip to the pond would include a dog bath.

  “Blanche! We are vexed to the limit with you. Are you in here?”

  While skirts bustled against furniture, Elizabeth’s shoes clicked on the polished wooden floor and her entourage whispered assurances to the Queen that Blanche would indeed be found.

  A number of skirts swept past the desk under which we hid. Vincent’s eyes were huge, but he remained silent. The absurdity hit me and began bubbling up my chest, threatening to explode like the cork from a shaken bottle of Brut champagne. I caught Harriet’s eye, and she covered her mouth so no laughter would escape.

  One Sunday when I was ten, and once again forced to attend church with my family, the stomach of a woman in the pew ahead of us growled like an angry cat. My brothers and I began to giggle behind our hands but didn’t dare look at each other or all would be lost. To this day Mom still told the story of how the pew literally shook with the power of her three children’s repressed laughter.

  That same uncontrolled hysteria now infected me as my shoulders began to shake. Tears leaked out, even though the consequences of being discovered while Elizabeth was in high anger could be devastating.

  Luckily, Harriet reached over and sharply pinched the back of my hand. I winced and glared at her, but the pain derailed my mirth so effectively that I could relax.

  A minute later, we were once again alone in the room.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.