Spark

by Catherine Friend

  When he felt we’d walked a safe distance away, Winston directed me to another bench. I sank down gratefully and decided to play offense. “Have you considered my alternate proposal, Sir Winston?”

  “I have.” The man’s thin moustache twitched, and I could see that it had been dyed to better match his black hair. “And I have decided that as much as I want to harm Dudley, I am unable to harm an innocent woman.”

  I tried to hide my sigh of relief, but my breasts gave me away by nearly popping over the top of my bodice. By the downward flicker of his eyes, Winston clearly found my sigh fascinating. “Then I guess we will have to think of something else,” I said.

  Winston’s tight smile made me nervous. “No, I think not. Your plan is a sound one. But instead of one of my men performing the act we spoke of the other night, you will do it yourself.”

  I lumbered to my feet. “I don’t think so.”

  “Don’t be coy, Blanche. You are as capable of performing this act as the most ruthless man.”

  I swallowed despite the lump of fear blocking my throat. “I cannot kill anyone.”

  “You have all but done it with your plan. Sneaking into Cumnor Place and giving Amy Dudley a push down the stairs will be nothing.”

  I didn’t need to ask what would happen if I refused. Winston could send me to the Tower as easily as Cecil.

  God’s teeth. What the hell was I supposed to do now?

  * * *

  I rejoined the other women in the shade and picked up my stitching. Damn that Winston. I tried to concentrate, but thoughts of Amy Dudley kept piercing my focus. Amy must die in order to keep the time line intact. But what if Chris was right? What if I really wasn’t here, in 1560, but just playing out some weird fantasy in my mind? What difference would it make if Amy lived, or if Dudley and Elizabeth married?

  None. I was either deeply mired in a struggle for the future, or I was boxing with shadows. I didn’t know which, and I hated that. I needed to talk to someone. Ray. I needed to see Ray.

  During a lull in the conversation, I stood and curtsied, requesting permission to remove myself from the party. Elizabeth nodded, so I walked back to the palace and found Jacob in the guardhouse. “Jacob, darling,” I said. If flirting worked, I’d do it. “I was wondering if you could take me to visit Hew Draper in the Tower.”

  Jacob stood, scratching his unshaven cheek. “I am sorry, m’lady, but my friend at the Tower was here sharing a jug last night. Said that your friend died yesterday.”

  I exhaled and doubled over in pain. Jacob rushed to my side. “I am sorry to be the one to bring you the bad news. Is there anything you require?”

  I stood, brushing away tears. “No. Thank you, Jacob, for telling me.”

  I quietly returned to the party. Poor Ray. Transported back into the past, with no way to return. Now both he and Hew Draper were gone. I stitched quietly. Selfishly, it hit me that I still had no one to talk to.

  After about thirty minutes of this, I snarled my thread so badly that I couldn’t keep going. “Hand it to me,” Lady Mary said. But when I tried to do that, the fabric snapped free of my hand and clung to my skirts.

  “What?” I tugged at the collar, only to realize that at some point I had actually sewn it to my dress. “God’s blood. Today I seem to have hooves instead of hands.”

  Elizabeth threw back her head and laughed, a welcome sound at the edge of the quiet party. Surprised, I caught the Queen’s mirth, and we both laughed until tears streamed down our faces, which helped banish, at least temporarily, my sadness over Ray. As we laughed, wagons rattled down the rutted King Street and several boats floated by on the Thames.

  That’s when it hit me: Living in this century—or this corner of my mind—wasn’t so bad. The weather was similar to modern London. The Queen adored me and I think even depended upon me. Harriet kept me sane and grounded. I actually liked it here some days, even though the air was so moist my legs and arms were slick with sweat.

  “Lady Blanche, how are you feeling?” Lady Mary gave me an insincere smile over her stitching.

  “I am well, thank you.”

  “It is just that you have not seen your courses for many weeks.”

  The women around us gasped, and the Queen looked up from her card game with Lady Clinton and a few others.

  I glared at Lady Mary. “Kind of you to notice, but they came yesterday.”

  “Perchance you are lying, since your rags remain in your trunk.” The little sneak had looked through my things.

  “Don’t ‘perchance’ me, Lady Mary. This is none of your business.”

  “But it is ours.” Elizabeth’s chilly voice froze us all in place.

  Fire truck.

  The Queen waved her hands. “Be gone with all of you. We wish to be alone with Blanche.” I kept my eyes on the ground as the women gathered up their skirts and headed toward a knot of courtiers, and wondered how much leeway the Queen would give her Spark.

  “Who is he?”

  I stammered with guilt even though I’d done nothing. “I am so sorry, ma’am. I never meant this to happen. That I have disappointed you wounds me deeply.”

  “You must marry this man.”

  Marry Winston? Perchance when Republicans supported universal health care. “I do not wish to marry.”

  “What you wish is of no consequence to us. You cannot remain in court unless you do. Who is he?”

  “I cannot tell you.”

  Elizabeth stood, becoming in less than a second the haughty, to-be-obeyed monarch that she was. I swallowed hard.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the brilliant flash of heat lightning that yanked me from Blanche’s body and shot me skyward.

  Thank God. Now Blanche could deal with her own mess.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  I stood, but wove on my feet as if drunk, so I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. After a few more times, I felt better and realized I was in my studio.

  Black angry splashes caught my attention. I turned slowly in a circle, moaning as I did. Every Froggity painting on the wall, the ones I’d completed for the next series, had been slashed with black paint. My books had been strewn around the room. My computer had been pounded into nothing but a pile of parts.

  Growling in fury, I paced, desperate to yell at the person who had done this. It had to have been Blanche. She found my note. She chose to ignore everything I asked her to do. Bitch.

  My hands shook as I gathered up my computer and carried it gently to the dust bin. Too upset to even cry, I sagged against the wall. The digital versions of the paintings had been in my computer. The backups were on a fire-engine red thumb drive, which I found stomped to bits beside the computer.

  When I put my hands on my hips, so frustrated, I felt a lump in the back pocket of my shorts. I pulled out a piece of folded notepaper and opened it. God, would these letters never stop?

  Dearest Jamie,

  How dare you give me a list of tasks you require. I am not your slave to order about as you will. In fact, I am in charge of you, and of everything. I will figure out a way to take your body and your life, permanently. The idea that I would passively remain stuck in the past is laughable. The riches in this life are beyond imagining, and I intend to take all of them for myself. This includes Chris. She is a gem you have never appreciated, and has been the best guide to this world that I could have asked for. If you are reading this, it means we have once again traded bodies, but I have taken steps to ensure that the next time I return to your body, I will remain there until Jamie “Blanche” Maddox dies of old age. Fuck you…. Blanche

  Shaking, I jammed the note back into my pocket, fled my office, and ran for Halsey House. My phone said it was Sunday, so Chris should be home. I banged into the flat, slamming the door behind me. “Chris? Chris? Are you here?”

  She stepped into the hallway from the kitchen. “I was just about to call you. Waffles are almost ready.”

  “I hate waffles. Why would you make waffle
s?”

  Chris’s jaw twitched. “Because last week you told me you loved them now.”

  “That wasn’t me,” I shouted, directing my fury at Chris because Blanche was gone. “I’m Jamie, and I’m back. Look at the note Blanche left me. This is war, Chris. I’m gonna kill the bitch.”

  Chris took the note from my trembling hand. She read it out loud, then let the note flutter to the floor. “Jamie, this note is in your handwriting.”

  “God’s blood, of course it is!” I shouted. “It’s my body, so it’d be my handwriting.”

  “God’s blood? What the fuck does that even mean?” Chris stepped back into the kitchen, reached for the counter, but didn’t make it. Her knees folded like a wounded deer’s and she collapsed against the cabinet. Her shoulders shook. I recognized the signs. Chris was a silent crier.

  I knelt beside her. “Look, I’m sorry I yelled at you. It’s not your fault. The God’s blood thing is Elizabethan. They tend to curse all of God’s body parts. I’m surprised Blanche hasn’t done that. I—”

  Chris clutched at my T-shirt, eyes wild. “I love you so much. Do you know that? And I’m terrified for you. One minute you’re Jamie and then you’re Blanche and then you’re Jamie. You hate waffles, then like them, then hate them. You paint, then you write, then you paint, and I’m going crazy. I can’t live like this.” I took her in my arms, holding her tightly against me as she sobbed. “You need help, Blanche. Please! Please get help. We can’t do this without help.”

  I wrapped my legs around her as she curled up on the floor. “Please,” she whimpered. Tears stung my eyes as I stroked her hair. Chris had never broken down like this before.

  “Baby, it’s okay. We—”

  “No, it’s not okay. You need help. None of this is normal.”

  I leaned toward an open, low shelf, grabbed a handful of tissues, and handed them to Chris.

  “Okay, okay,” I crooned. “We’ll make an appointment to see Dr. Kroll. It’ll be okay.” I kept her warm with my body, massaging her shoulders and back, until the shuddering ceased and she fell quiet.

  For me to remain sane, I had to believe that my travels back to 1560 were real. Yet this was tearing Chris apart. I had no choice.

  * * *

  Dr. Kroll wasn’t what I expected. She couldn’t have been more than a few years older than we were. Her hair was unfashionably long, two thick braids brought forward over each shoulder. She wore shiny brown boots, a mid-length skirt of some sort of flimsy material, and a peasant blouse. She would have fit right into the sixties. Her office was painted a soft orange, the chairs and pillows splashing the room with a mild turquoise and pale pink.

  “Fill me in, Blanche,” Dr. Kroll said. “Tell me what’s been happening.” I looked at the small clock on the table beside her striped chair. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We have two hours.” Chris sat in the chair next to me, hands clasped in her lap.

  “First, my name is Jamie.” Then I told her everything, even details I’d kept from Chris for fear of alarming her. I told them both about Winston and the plot to murder Dudley. I even confessed my own suggestion that they kill Amy Dudley instead. I told them about Ray Lexvold. I shared that I’d made a friend in Harriet. I told them about my respect and affection for Queen Elizabeth and my joy at life with a dog by my side. I told them that I—in Blanche’s body—was pregnant.

  Dr. Kroll didn’t write down one single word. Weren’t psychiatrists supposed to take notes? Then she turned to Chris. “Now tell me what’s been going on from your perspective.”

  “After the accident Jamie was not herself at all. It was as if the whole world terrified her. She stayed in the spare room. Wouldn’t sleep in our bed. Wouldn’t look out the window. Barely ate. But then she started coming back, which was such a relief. It was as if she had to relearn everything, however. She watched TV constantly, asked questions that only an alien suddenly dumped in London would ask.”

  I nodded at Kroll. “See? That was Blanche, struggling to adjust to life in the twenty-first century.”

  “One of the things that fascinated her was money and the idea that a woman could earn it herself, that she didn’t have to wait for a father to dish it out.”

  “See, Blanche again.”

  Chris waved in irritation. “You knew all that stuff from your research.”

  Kroll leaned forward. “Chris, keep going.”

  “She started rereading all her books on the Tudors, and I even found her crying one morning. When I asked her why, she flung the book across the room and said, ‘Dead! Everyone I ever knew or loved is dead.’” Chris shot me a look. “That hurt, I can tell you.”

  “It wasn’t me!” I snapped.

  “Then Blanche started writing, on paper at first, but then she asked me to show her how to use her laptop, as if she’d never seen it before. She pretended to be a quick study, but of course, she already knew how to do everything. Then she wrote like crazy. She only stopped when I pulled her away to eat. She let me read part of it one day.” She turned to me. “I know you think painting is your thing, but your novel is riveting.”

  “It’s not mine,” I said, weaker this time. My story was lunacy compared to hers.

  Chris shared a few more details of her life with Blanche. “She calls me ‘her princess,’ which I love. And sex with Blanche is different.”

  “In what way?” I snapped.

  “It’s hard to describe,” she said. “But don’t pretend to be jealous. Blanche is part of you. She is you. So it’s not like I’m being unfaithful or anything.” Then she finished, ending with the waffle story. Dr. Kroll steepled her fingers and stared at me like I were a ripe pineapple needing to be carved open.

  I waited, my heart thumping loudly in my ears. This was it, the point where she told me I was crazy. But maybe—just maybe—she might believe that 1560 was real.

  “We need to run a full brain scan,” she finally said. “I want to compare the readings with any records that this Dr. Rajamani might have. And there are a few tests I would like to you to take.”

  Chris’s hands shook in her lap. I wanted to reach over and take one in mine, but then I realized I was the one who needed comforting. It was my brain, my life we were picking apart like a Thanksgiving turkey.

  Dr. Kroll shifted in her chair until she looked directly at me. “Jamie, I find your story amazing and rich and incredibly exciting. Because of what you’ve told me, 1560 now feels as real to me as this very moment.”

  My mouth went dry.

  “Let me ask you one question. Have your feelings for life in 1560 changed any since you first visited that time period?”

  “Changed?”

  “Do you feel more or less excited about being there? Do you feel more or less calm at the idea of staying?”

  I licked my lips. “Well, I hated it at first. Everything was so freaky. I kept doing and saying the wrong thing. But now when I go back, I can see the beauty in a world that technology hasn’t yet dominated. Life is complicated in many ways, yet so much simpler at the same time.” I didn’t look at Chris. “Each time I return, I grow more…comfortable.”

  Dr. Kroll’s eyes flickered away then returned to my face. She tried to hide her inhale, but I saw the rise of her ribcage. “Jamie, this is going to be hard for you to hear, but you exhibit all the signs of someone with dissociative identity disorder. You might have heard it called split personality. For some reason, perhaps because of a deep trauma or something in your unconscious mind, when you were shocked by Dr. Rajamani’s equipment you created another identity. Think of it as allowing an unfamiliar part of your personality to emerge. These two personalities, Jamie and Blanche, are fighting for control of your mind and your body.”

  Chris began to cry softly, wiping her eyes with the palms of her hands.

  I felt numb. “I don’t believe you.” Kroll didn’t know what she was talking about.

  “I don’t want you to be ashamed or embarrassed by this. Mistakenly, mental disorders used to be a
ssociated with character flaws, but luckily, we no longer frame psychopathology in such cruel terms. Still, there’s so much confusion about our psyches that people tend to feel ashamed of any problems.”

  I threw up my hands, still unwilling to accept anything she said.

  “You have created a world with fascinating characters. You have a dog for the first time in your life. You are becoming more comfortable in the past, which tells me that your mind is trying to find some way to resolve the struggle between Jamie and Blanche. If one of your personalities can be convinced to remain permanently in the past, either Jamie or Blanche, then the other can take full control of you, here, now.”

  I showed Dr. Kroll the note. “Are you really trying to tell me that I wrote this to myself? That I, as Blanche, want to harm myself? That I trashed my own studio?”

  Dr. Kroll read the note and handed it back to me. “The power of our unconscious mind can be frightening. You are struggling with something and this is your mind’s way of resolving it. Why has this happened? I don’t know.”

  I met Dr. Kroll’s steady gaze. “I don’t believe you are right, but for Chris’s sake I’m willing to move forward with your suggestions.”

  She glanced at the clock. “I would like to do some tests. Once we have those results, we’ll discuss medication options, as well as therapy to uncover the issues that might have led to this psychic break.”

  Chris clutched at my hand, eyes moist. “Blanche, we’ll figure this out. We’ll get through this together, okay?”

  I pulled my hand away. “My name is not Blanche.” I should have been jealous that Chris kept calling me Blanche, but strangely, I wasn’t.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Dr. Raj hustled me into his office, then began wiping at a white board covered with calculations. When he faced me, hands clasped, I realized I was about to hear a lecture.