Spark

by Catherine Friend

  A familiar sturdy walk caught my attention, so I leaned over the railing. “Harriet!” I tried several times, but she didn’t look up, so I found the nearest stairs and hurried outside.

  I caught up with her near the laundry. “Harriet,” I said, gasping. “Slow down. Where’s the fire?”

  She turned, alarmed. “Fire? Where?”

  I laughed, my hands up. “Just a saying. How are you?”

  Now she looked confused. “I am well, m’lady. Is there something you require?” Her eyes lacked their usual sparkle and flash.

  “Why are you acting so strange?”

  “I do not know what you mean, Lady Blanche.”

  I dismissed her with an angry wave. If she was going to play servant, I would play the noble lady.

  The week dragged on. Midweek, Elizabeth asked me to travel to Hampton Court, another of her palaces, to retrieve a piece of jewelry she’d left there months ago. When I boldly asked why she needed it, she laughed. “You know perfectly well why I need it. Now off you go.”

  I didn’t, actually, but that knowledge wasn’t required to run the errand. I requested Jacob as my coachman and insisted he sit inside the carriage with me while the driver barreled down the road. I needed a distraction—Harriet was cold, Ray was dead, I was still stuck here. Could it really be that I was doing this to myself, that all this bad stuff was just a fantasy? I grew weary of thinking the same thoughts. I’d once seen an old-fashioned record player with its arm stuck in one groove, playing over and over again. My thoughts felt just as stuck.

  The sounds of horses’ hooves, the jangling of their harnesses, and the creaking wheels were soothing background for our conversation. I made Jacob tell me all about his life—parents, siblings, hopes, goals. If not for the transportation mode and our clothes, we could have been two Londoners sharing a cab.

  When we returned the next day, the streets around Whitehall were damp, and deep gray clouds were moving off to the east. Damn. I’d missed a storm.

  That evening, after I’d delivered the exquisite ruby necklace to Kat Ashley, I mingled in the outer chamber with the other ladies and courtiers. Within minutes, Lord Winston had me by the elbow and was coming in for a kiss.

  I leaned back so far I nearly slipped a disc. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m attempting to kiss my fiancé,” he snapped. “You did not refuse my kisses last week when the Queen announced we are to be wed.”

  Crap. Blanche had spilled the beans, and now the Queen was going to make an honest woman out of her—or rather, out of me. That was why Elizabeth needed the ruby necklace—to wear at my wedding.

  I shrugged, freeing myself from his grasp. “Bite me, asshole. No way am I marrying you.”

  “Lady Blanche, you vex me to no end with your inconsistency. One day you are pressed up against me, the next you cannot stand the sight of me.”

  What was I going to say? Blanche likes you but I don’t?

  He sighed. “No matter. I am weary of seducing court women, so I am content to wed you and give our bastard my name. And as for tomorrow, all is set. You will leave for Cumnor in the morning.”

  God’s teeth. Amy Dudley. I pulled Winston into an empty corner of the room. “Look, I can’t do it. I won’t kill that woman.”

  Instead of getting angry, Winston held his palm against his forehead and sighed. “Lord, give me strength.” He looked at me, his eyes sunken, face weary. “Do you have any idea what is at stake?”

  “You don’t want Dudley to marry the Queen. I get that.”

  He sighed again. “Where have you been these last thirteen years? Living in a cave? Did you just recently hatch?”

  Close.

  “After King Edward died, many of us worked to put Lady Jane Grey on the throne. Robert Dudley was among the most visible of these, and for that I respect him.”

  Lady Jane Grey was the figure in the National Gallery painting, blindfolded and reaching for the executioner’s block.

  “But once Mary came to power, the country was once again Catholic, and Mary went on a killing spree.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then why do you not seem to understand? Mary killed so many Protestants that we still call her Bloody Mary.” He stopped, swallowing hard. “My brother…my brother was most outspoken in his religious beliefs. Because he spoke against papists like Mary, she condemned him to burn at the stake.”

  Unexpectedly, sympathy for Lord Winston closed off my throat. What would he think if he knew Mary’s killing spree had been trivialized into a cocktail made out of tomato juice and a stalk of celery?

  I’d never seen Winston show any emotion other than anger or disdain, but his love of country was clear from his furrowed brow. He leaned in closer. “If the Queen marries poorly,” he said, “like Dudley, the Catholics in France, Spain, or Scotland will rise up and overwhelm our forces. They will put a Catholic on the throne, and the killing will start again.”

  We were so close we could have kissed, but he only thought of England. “Amy Dudley must die so, as you suggested, Elizabeth can never marry Dudley because of the scandal, thus keeping the Catholics at bay, for now.”

  I nodded, my head as heavy as my heart. “I understand. I will do what you’ve tasked me to do.”

  He squeezed my shoulder. “Thank you.”

  Confused to see Winston as a genuine person instead of an evil caricature, I excused myself and fled.

  * * *

  That night after Rosemary helped me undress and left the room, I slipped on my servant’s dress and headed across the lawn with Vincent at my heels. We avoided two groups of men passing around jugs of wine and slipped into the forest. Loneliness seeped through me like the chilly ground crept through my thin slippers. Harriet was angry with me for some reason, so I hadn’t asked her to join me at the pond. I reached down and patted Vincent’s soft head.

  Once inside the woods, Vincent ran ahead to the pond. When I broke through the last of the bushes, their leaves damp with evening dew, Harriet was throwing a stick for Vincent. She grinned. “I knew you would be along soon when Vincent showed up.” She closed the distance between us and hugged a very surprised me.

  “Now we’re friends again?” I snapped. “A few days ago you wanted nothing to do with me.”

  “Oh. I—I didn’t realize. I’m sorry. When I get like that, please ignore me. You, however, have been just as inconsistent in our friendship. Most days you smile as a friend, but there have been a few days when you have looked right through me.”

  Now it was my turn to apologize, which I did. It killed me that Blanche was so cruel to Harriet. Tell her, the voice in my head urged. No. Then I’d lose her, my only friend in 1560, or my only friend in my twisted, whacked-out-brain fantasy.

  Everything around the pond was dark blue and almost magical, including Harriet’s face and clothing. I longed for a canvas and brush with which to capture the enchanted scene.

  I was relieved Harriet wasn’t mad at me because I really, really liked her. She was kind and insightful, with a capacity to care that was greater than that of all of the court members combined. She was the only person I’d met here who felt as I did, as if we didn’t belong, as if everyone else was an alien dressed up in sixteenth century clothing.

  I gently steered the conversation to safer topics, and soon we were both naked and in the pond. God, the water felt delicious.

  Harriet asked about my health and if I’d felt the baby within me.

  “Too early,” I said, not knowing if that were true. For a few minutes, Vincent danced at the rocky edge, then finally belly-flopped between us. His ears spread out across the surface of the water as he paddled with great determination.

  Laughing, I began dog paddling behind him, and Harriet joined me as we followed the little dog on his erratic swim around the pond. But when he brought us too close to the bank, my toe slammed against a submerged rock and exploded in pain.

  “Fire truck!” I shouted, then grit my teeth against the
sharp needles shooting through my foot.

  “What did you say?” Harriet was suddenly right in front of me, her hair swirling in the water around her shoulders.

  “Nothing,” I said, massaging my wounded toe.

  “No, you said fire truck, which is a long, red vehicle that contains hoses, firefighting equipment, and sometimes a Dalmatian.”

  We stared at each other, eyes wide. “God’s knees,” I breathed.

  Harriet’s breath was ragged. “Dr. Rajamani. 2017”

  “God’s knees” was all I could manage until I licked my lips and inhaled. “Dr. Rajamani, GCA injection, lightning, 2017.”

  And then we were in each other’s arms, bobbing up and down like drunken corks. We were laughing and then crying and then laughing again. Harriet pressed her face into my neck as I kicked to keep us on the surface. “I’m not alone, I’m not alone,” she sobbed.

  I moved us close to the bank so we could each grab a handful of grass and hang on. We just grinned stupidly at each other until Vincent broke the spell by climbing out and shaking water in our faces. His wet ears slapped against his head.

  Harriet held out her hand. “It is so nice to meet you. My name is Meg Warren.”

  I nodded as we shook hands. Of course she was. “And I’m Jamie Maddox.”

  “You left your card at my flat!”

  “Why didn’t you call?”

  We helped each other climb out of the water and began toweling off. “I didn’t call you because this whole thing has totally freaked me out. I’ve been here, in 1560, for over three months, then finally, last week, I got zapped back into my own body, then back and forth another time.” She bent over and toweled off her hair. Vincent did a stiff-legged hop between us, caught up in our excitement.

  “You’ve only traveled back three times?” I snorted. “You should see the frequent flyer miles I’ve accumulated.”

  Harriet, I mean Meg, threw back her head and laughed. “Such a cheeky monkey you are.” Still chuckling, she pulled on her dress and settled it over her hips. “Returning to my own body was quite the shock. The woman in my body—Harriet—had been living on the street. I stunk like a trash bin. My hair was—” She stopped, briefly closing her eyes. “So gross. I had no money to take the Tube, so I walked from Kingsbridge Station all the way back to my flat. I had no key, so the manager had to let me in. He almost didn’t recognize me.”

  Dressed now, we sat on the rocks as close together as we could get.

  Knightsbridge Station. “Have you ever seen an older black man with gray dreadlocks shouting out a history of the station?”

  Meg grimaced. “Yes! He started chasing me, so I ran out the station and lost myself in the crowd.”

  The world tipped on its axis so quickly I reached for the tree trunk. My lightheadedness wasn’t the pregnancy. It was the realization that Harriet was really Meg, who was really Mouse. That was too much coincidence to be real. Dr. Kroll might be right.

  “Jamie, are you okay?”

  I rubbed my temples. On the other hand, coincidences could happen. They didn’t have to be inventions of my split personality mind. “That man was my friend Bradley. He’s been taking care of you…of Harriet.”

  We spent hours talking by the pond, with a now-dried Vincent curled up at my feet, his paws twitching with dreams. A damp cold had settled onto the forest floor, but we didn’t dare have this conversation back at the palace and risk being overheard. The only ears around us belonged to the unseen forest animals skittering around in the dark.

  I told her about my family and the story behind “fire truck.” I told her about Chris preferring Blanche to me. The one thing I didn’t tell her about was the upcoming plan to throw Amy Dudley down the stairs. Then Meg told me about her family, and about her job at the British Library, and about past girlfriends. She’d studied Latin in college as well as library science. Eventually, we drifted back to Rajamani’s experiment. As we talked, Meg’s true personality opened up like a blooming rose. How hard it must have been for her to not stand out; servants were to be invisible, not interesting.

  “Because I live alone now,” Meg said, “no one was watching out for me. That’s why I must have been living rough. Poor Harriet had no idea where to go.” Meg sighed. “When I got back the first time, after I reached my flat and recharged my mobile—amazingly, Harriet still had it on her—I called Dr. Rajamani. Would you believe the wanker didn’t answer? You’d think he’d see my name and break a thumb trying to answer his mobile. So I hauled my arse to his office. No luck there. Rajamani’s experiment was a total cock-up, but I couldn’t find him to tell him that.” She left frantic messages on his phone and office door. But a few days later, before she could connect with him, she found herself once again in 1560, back in Harriet’s body.

  We discussed the trigger for transport and could not come up with a pattern. When it stormed in 1560, we had a chance of returning. When it stormed in 2017, we were vulnerable to being pulled back in time.

  “Which reminds me,” I said. “You need to know about the storm on April third.” I described how the wooden steeple on St. Paul’s Cathedral would be struck by lightning and burn. “If we’re standing in the plaza right next to the cathedral, we should be able to catch the lightning and ride it back to the future.”

  “I knew the steeple had burned, but not the date. Good to know. Until then, I guess I just keep slaving away and you keep being a pampered lady.” Her smile took the sting from her words.

  I told her about Dr. Rajamani’s serum. By now we were huddling side to side, arms around each other for warmth. “This is really important,” I said as our heads touched. “The instant you find yourself back in the future, run, do not walk, directly to Rajamani. If you don’t have the money and Bradley is nearby, explain and he’ll give his tips to you. Or take a taxi and skip out on the fare. Or hijack a car. Just get yourself to Dr. Raj as soon as possible for that blasted serum.”

  Meg nodded, suddenly quiet. I raised my eyes to hers and saw in them what I, too, was feeling. Not only did we need each other, but we liked each other—a lot.

  My spine went liquid, and I leaned against Meg, nestling into her warm neck. Even after a dip in the pond, she smelled of fresh bread and lemons.

  “You are the only person standing between me and insanity,” I said.

  She kissed the crown of my head, then we gathered ourselves up, called Vincent, and left our secret pool.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  I let myself sleep in the next morning; each time I awoke I remembered Meg and daydreamed myself back to sleep. But midmorning Rosemary came in and informed me my carriage had arrived.

  Hell’s gate. I lay on my back, hoping she would go away. Dust motes drifted through the air like tiny fairies. The room smelled of candle wax and musty tapestries and urine. This whole world smelled of urine.

  “M’lady, Lord Winston’s man grows impatient.”

  She didn’t go away, so I rolled out of bed and let her dress me. I packed a small bag and followed her to one of the palace’s side entrances.

  Four shiny black horses, tossing their heads and snorting, stood before an elaborately detailed black coach. Holmes, Winston’s man, stood with the door open and a small stool that he placed on the ground when he saw me. The driver above murmured to the horses.

  Holmes handed me in, then closed the door and climbed up beside the driver.

  We were off.

  Sadly, the coach’s shock absorbers didn’t match the elegance of the gold trim, so I nearly bit my tongue off half a dozen times. The coach smelled of wet feet and mildewed leather, so I spent the day with my face near the open window watching the countryside pass and thinking about Meg and how amazing it was that we’d found each other.

  Holmes and I spent the first night in an inn, but the bedding in my room was so filthy I just lay on top rather than disrobe and crawl inside. Also, without help from someone, I couldn’t actually disrobe all the way. In the middle of the night, I was no
longer able to push away the thoughts of tomorrow. I lay there, eyes wide open, terrified at what I was about to do and what it meant. Murder in the moment of passion or anger was horrible but at least understandable. You got carried away. But I was traveling sixty miles, quite a journey in 1560, in order to commit premeditated murder.

  As I tried to sleep, I struggled with the reality/unreality thing. Was I really saving history or just playing out a little drama in my head while Blanche continued to ruin my life and be the ambitious, edgy chick Chris so desperately wanted?

  Good thing I wasn’t bitter.

  Winston hadn’t accompanied me, of course, in order to distance himself as much as possible and be visible around the palace when Amy’s death was announced. He and the other co-conspirators were, in fact, going hunting with Dudley and the Queen in one of the parks. Late the next morning, we passed through a town that Holmes announced as Abingdon, the last before our destination. I felt sick to my stomach.

  Ten minutes later, we begin passing cornfields with orchards behind them. Well before we reached a small gatehouse, the driver drew the horses to a halt. The carriage rocked as Holmes descended and appeared at my window. “M’lady, we have arrived at Cumnor Place. My lord said not to announce your arrival but that you should approach the house on foot. I am to ride on and return in a short while.”

  He helped both me and my dress fight our way out of the flimsy carriage. I straightened my skirts, hoping Holmes couldn’t hear my heart pounding. As far as he knew, I was here to extend an invitation to Amy from Robert Dudley to come to court. It was weak but the best I could come up with.

  Holmes leapt back into his seat, the driver clicked to the horses, and I was left alone. The road at this point was quite wide, sloping away to shallow hills. Blue sky was dusted with little puffs of white, leaves rustled in the gentle breeze, and a late-blooming flower sweetened the air. It was far too perfect a day in which to kill someone.

  I approached the gatehouse, feeling every pebble in the road through my thin soles, then passed under the slender arch. “Hello?” No one stepped out from the gatehouse, so I continued walking. Crows scolded me from the tops of the firs lining the drive. My senses were on alert for sounds of people or horses, anyone who might encounter me, since my excuse for visiting was so flimsy.