Sparks of Light

by Janet B. Taylor

  And yet, as the memories emerged full-bodied and complete, I felt removed from them. As if I were watching a beloved character from one of my favorite books come to life.

  A few feet from the desk, the girl’s grandfather bent low in a respectful bow. She followed with her best curtsy, proud that she held it without tipping over. Back at home, before her grandfather had hoisted her onto his huge horse, her sister had leaned down to hiss into her ear, “Do be careful, sister. You know how clumsy you are. I’d hate for you to fall flat on your face when you meet Her Majesty.”

  One winter day, as the girl wept in her mother’s arms, her mother had explained that it was envy that caused her sister’s occasional cruelty. She resented their grandfather’s special affection for the girl, her mother had said. Though he visited their house often, eating at their table and spending long hours teaching all three of them—​her brother, sister, and herself—​to read and write, he took only the younger girl with him when he went to visit his mother’s home at Mortlake.

  After he informed the girl’s mother he was taking her to meet his great friend, the queen, the girl’s sister had yanked on her braid and would have pinched her had their older brother, Willie, not warned her away.

  Her small legs trembled as she held the curtsy. When, finally, the queen’s rich, husky voice ordered her grandfather and her to rise, the girl dared a look. The queen’s lips, painted in a red cupid’s bow, stretched as she smiled fondly at the girl’s grandfather. When he returned a slow grin, the girl knew something special existed between them, this magnificent queen and her own ratty old Poppy with his ink-stained fingers and scruffy gray beard. Her chest and cheeks glowed with pride. She wondered, though, why the queen’s own mother hadn’t taught her to use a willow twig to clean her teeth, as they looked very dark against her white face.

  After a moment, her grandfather made the introductions. “Your Majesty,” he said. “This is the child I’ve mentioned to you.”

  Queen Elizabeth Tudor’s painted eyebrows arched into a high, plucked forehead. “Ah,” she said, smile dimming. “Yes. I seem to recall. You did help support a poor orphaned child once long ago, did you not? A girl, I believe? Grown now, with children of her own. How very . . . philanthropic you are, John.”

  The girl’s grandfather went very, very still as the queen picked up a tiny golden spoon and began to tap the end of a boiled egg. It cracked, and she peeled the shell off in one long coil.

  “But.” She reached out to pinch some salt from the silver salt cellar, sprinkling the egg before stabbing the spoon into the tender white flesh.

  A dripping bit of yolk made its way to the queen’s painted lips. And when she looked back at the girl’s grandfather, her black eyes had gone cold.

  “In truth,” Queen Elizabeth said. “This child is your granddaughter. Her mother a bastard, a by-blow from your younger days. A fact which you did not deign to share with me.”

  The girl’s back stiffened at that, though her grandfather’s hand squeezed hers in warning.

  How dare you, thought the little girl, her small body almost vibrating as she seethed with outrage. How dare you call my mother a bastard!

  Even at four and one-half years, the girl knew what that meant. A scurrilous lie, she thought, crossing her arms over her thin chest as she waited for her grandfather’s no doubt furious rebuttal.

  She waited and waited. And when her grandfather only stared down at his feet, the girl’s heart sank. She determined then to demand the truth from her grandfather the moment they set out from Windsor Castle.

  “Did you think I would not hear, John?” The queen stood, anger cracking the smooth white paint. “Nothing happens in my kingdom that I do not learn of it!”

  Queen Elizabeth threw the spoon hard against the nearby window. It clattered to the ground. A trail of yellow slime dripped down the glass. Silence reined for a long moment. The girl watched sunlight glint off diamonds and emeralds as the queen paced back and forth, a hand pressed to her flat abdomen. The girl may’ve been young but everyone in the kingdom whispered of it. How the great Virgin Queen would not choose a husband. How she had no child, no heir, to call her own. How she was beginning to age.

  Her grandfather spoke softly. “Your Gracious Majesty,” he began. “In my youth, I made many mistakes.” His grip on the girl’s hand loosened, though he did not let go as he looked the queen in the eye. “My only regret in this matter is that I did not share it with you. But the deed itself I cannot lament. Not for one moment. Not when this child is the outcome. She is like me. She holds my gift of memory. And I believe with the right training, she could one day be very useful to you and to England.”

  Finally, seeming to come to some decision, Queen Elizabeth gave a short, sharp nod. Her grandfather’s shoulders relaxed as he let go of the young girl’s hand. The girl held tight to the poppet he’d bought for her in the market only that morning, squeezing her as the queen’s sharp black eyes roved over her face.

  Opening pursed lips, Elizabeth the Virgin Queen, Gloriana, Queen of all England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales, began to scream.

  Wait, that’s not right, I thought. What happened next was that the queen had taken her grandfather aside to speak privately while the girl . . . while I . . . looked out the window at the garden. Then—​

  My eyes popped open as the scream came again, faint and lingering, followed by a high-pitched wail. A glance at the digital clock on my bedside table told me it was 11:43 p.m., meaning I’d been in bed a total of twenty-seven minutes.

  I threw off the covers and stumbled down the wooden steps. I dashed across the room and threw open the door.

  Illuminated only by antique wall sconces, converted in the last century from their original gas, the darkly paneled hallway seemed to stretch out to nightmarish lengths. My bare feet slid on the faded carpet runner as I skidded to a halt before the last door on the left.

  From inside came two distinct cries.

  I wasn’t the only one who’d heard. Moira MacPherson, plump cheeks flushed from sleep, appeared seconds later, and I allowed myself an inward sigh of relief that I wouldn’t have to face this alone. In her fluffy bathrobe and pink sponge curlers, Moira nodded at me solemnly.

  Down the hall, Mac, Moira’s balding husband, was wrapping a flannel robe around his gangly form.

  “Happening again, is it?” Yawning, Mac scrubbed at small blue eyes, identical to his granddaughter Phoebe’s. “I thought Greta had prescribed something to help our Sarah rest?”

  In the last month, Dr. Greta Lund, Aunt Lucinda’s Danish doctor friend, had spent hours with my mom, helping her learn to cope with the aftereffects of her traumatic ordeal. Afterward, Greta and Lucinda often spent time together, sharing a cup of tea or a glass of wine.

  That the good doctor also knew all the family secrets came as something of a surprise.

  “Thick as thieves, those two were,” Moira had told Phoebe and me one evening after Aunt Lucinda had escorted Greta through the back door to her car. “Greta spent all her holidays and summers here, her own family being a bit of a mess, you see? When she chose medicine over staying on with the Viators, it nearly broke Lu.”

  Taken aback, Phoebe and I looked at each other. The idea of anything “breaking” my imposing aunt was beyond both of our imaginations.

  The hell? Phoebe mouthed.

  I shrugged. But as Moira ambled off to clear the dinner table, Phoebe and I scrambled to the kitchen window to watch Lucinda and the pretty, gentle-voiced Dr. Lund. They were standing very close together. And when Greta laid a hand on Lucinda’s cheek, my aunt smiled down at her with such devastating emotion, I could only gawp.

  “Whoa,” Phoebe whispered, eyes going round as marbles as she turned to look at me.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “Whoa.”

  Phoebe beamed. “But that’s brilliant! I always felt sorry for Lu, you know? No matter how strong she is or how she claims to be ‘married to the Viators,’ she has to be lonely. And especia
lly now, with the illness and all. Gram claims the blood transfusions are helping. But I heard Greta tell her that without a sample of the disease, there’s no real way to cure it.”

  I turned away from the window, giving the two women their privacy. Whatever was killing my aunt’s red blood cells was a complete mystery to her doctors. Of course, what they did not know—​could never know—​was that the disease rampaging through my aunt’s bone marrow had been acquired during a trip to thirteenth-century Romania.

  From behind my mother’s closed door, the baby mewled.

  “Mom won’t take the sedatives, ’cause of the nursing,” I told Mac.

  “I offered to wean the babe to the bottle,” Moira put in. “But Sarah wouldn’t have it.”

  As Mac started down the hall, Moira waved him back.

  “No need, mo ghràdh,” she said quietly. “Get to yer bed. Hope and I can handle this. It won’t be the first time, aye?”

  Mac paused, then stifled a yawn as he nodded. “A’right then. But call if you have need of some warm milk. Or a tot o’ whiskey. I can fetch either.”

  As the door to their bedroom closed, Moira turned back to me. “Scotsmen,” she tsked. “Always thinking life’s ills can be cured with a bit o’ spirits.”

  Moira and I faced the door together. For the moment all was silent.

  Maybe they went back to sleep.

  The staccato tinkle of shattering glass sounded through the thick wood. Moira gave a cry and grabbed the crystal knob. It turned, but the door wouldn’t open. Cursing in Gaelic under her breath, Moira reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a skeleton key.

  “Learned my lesson last time,” she told me as she twisted the brass key in the lock.

  Though every lamp was lit, so that the room blazed with light, I didn’t see my mom. The wicker bassinet in the corner was empty, but the room was filled with the sound of my two-month-old sister’s squalls.

  The bedroom smelled of baby powder and furniture polish, underlaid with a metallic tinge. Light from the small chandelier glinted off shards of glass that lay strewn across the wooden floor and braided rug. On the bedside table, strands of purple heather tangled in a puddle of water where a vase of Waterford crystal had stood earlier that evening.

  While Moira dashed to the bed and rifled through the rumpled quilts, hoping to find the baby there, my gaze flicked around the room. In the shadowed space beneath the four-poster bed, I thought I saw something shift.

  “Mom?”

  Moira, back at my side, pointed a shaking finger. “Hope,” she murmured. But I’d already seen it. A small scarlet stream that flowed from beneath the bed.

  I dropped to my hands and knees. “Mom,” I choked out. “It’s me, Hope. Mom, are you hurt? Is Ellie okay? There’s blood, Mom. Why is there blood? Please come out, you’re scaring me.”

  “Hope?” My mother’s voice sounded scratchy and hoarse, as if she’d been shrieking for hours. “Is it really you? She . . . she didn’t take you?”

  “Wh-what?” Stifling the sob that was trying to wrench itself from my throat, I croaked, “No one took me, Mom. I’m right here. Just . . . come out, okay?”

  Moira eased down, knees cracking as she knelt.

  “Sarah,” she called softly. “It’s me, darling girl. It’s your Moira. Hope’s fine. Come on out, now. We’re sore worried about you. And the babe.”

  For a time, my sister’s wails quieted and all we could hear was my mother’s uneven breathing. I glanced down as something warm touched my fingertips. The blood had reached the spot where my hand pressed against the floor. It began to pool up around my fingers. Shuddering, I jerked away.

  “Mom!” My voice cracked. “Mama. Plea—”

  “Sarah Elizabeth Carlyle!” A stern voice cut me off. “Stop this nonsense and come out of there this instant!”

  My arms wobbled, and I nearly wilted in relief as my Aunt Lucinda marched across the room, towering over me.

  “L-Lu?”

  “Of course it’s me, Sarah,” my aunt snapped. “Now come out from under that bed. Your child is in distress.”

  With a sharp gesture, my aunt waved me back as my mom began to shuffle out from beneath the bed, her left arm squeezing my red, flailing sister tight against her side.

  Over the last few weeks, my mother’s strawberry blond hair had developed a large streak of white. Marie Antoinette syndrome, Dr. Lund had explained. A condition that occurs when a terrible shock causes the hair follicles to stop producing pigment. Aunt Lucinda, eight years my mother’s senior, had always looked so much older than Mom.

  But now, seeing her ragged face beneath the unforgiving lights, I realized my mother had aged a decade in the last year.

  Dr. Sarah Carlyle had been one of the world’s most sought-after and respected historians. An author of bestselling biographies, once a year my mom had crisscrossed the world on her sold-out lecture tours. Later, of course, I learned the true reason a renowned critic once wrote, “Dr. Carlyle’s descriptions are so clever and so damn realistic, one would swear she had been there to witness the events for herself.”

  My mother was clever, no doubt. But she’d also put her trust in the wrong person, and it had almost killed her.

  For eight long months, she had been trapped in the twelfth century. Tricked, then abandoned in medieval England by a woman who’d once been her very best friend. Celia Alvarez had sold her out, and the abuse my mother had endured at the hands of the brutal man she was forced to marry was unimaginable. Alone and heavily pregnant, by the time Collum, Phoebe, and I arrived in that distant era to save her, my strong, brilliant mother had been so badly broken, I’d barely recognized her.

  Lucinda helped Mom to her feet, gently pried my squalling sister from her arms, and handed the squirming bundle off to Moira.

  My heart twisted itself into a hard, pulsing knot when I saw blood smeared across the tiny ducks on Ellie’s onesie. Moira laid my sister on the bed and gave her a quick, practiced once-over.

  “The babe isn’t hurt,” Moira whispered. “Only scared and likely hungry.”

  Lucinda’s broad shoulders sagged just a bit as she gave Moira a brisk nod. Mom flung her arms around her sister’s neck, clinging as she trembled and muttered to herself.

  When I saw the large shard of crystal jutting from my mother’s clenched fist, all the breath left me in a whoosh. Blood poured down her wrist to stain the back of Lucinda’s peach bathrobe as my mother held on.

  “Aunt Lucinda.” My voice vibrated. “Her hand—”

  “I’m aware,” she said, without moving. “Moira? The child?”

  “I’ll take her downstairs,” Moira said. “If you’ve got this?”

  “She’s coming for us,” my mother whispered in a voice that felt like spiders marching down my spine. “Celia’s coming. She swore it, Lu. She came to me and said she’d take us all back there if it was the last thing she ever did. I had to protect my daughters.”

  A silence fell, as if the name had poisoned the very air around us.

  The back of Lucinda’s neck flushed. Cheek pressed against my mom’s lank, sweaty hair, she said quietly, “Moira, please fetch the first aid kit before you go. Hope and I will tend to Sarah.”

  As Moira bustled out, Lucinda slowly eased my mother’s arms from around her neck.

  “Hope, a clean cloth, if you please.” Though she aimed to speak in her normal, stolid manner I could hear my aunt’s voice quaver as I snatched a cloth diaper from a nearby laundered stack. Holding on to my mom’s other side, I helped Lucinda ease her down into the wooden rocker next to the bed.

  “Sarah.” Lucinda knelt before the chair. “Remember what Greta told you. They are only nightmares. Dreams. Nothing more. You know we have eyes on Celia. She cannot hurt any of us.”

  I flinched, knowing full well who was keeping an eye on Celia. Who supposedly reported her dealings to my aunt, commander general of the Viators. I shoved away thoughts of Bran, refusing to dwell on how much danger he was i
n, or what would happen if Celia ever found out he was spying for us.

  As Lucinda gently opened my mother’s fist, I swallowed hard at the damage. Only one person was to blame for this.

  One day I would make her pay.

  Tutting, Lucinda carefully withdrew the vicious shard. I took it from her outstretched fingers, then dropped it into the nearby metal waste bin with a heavy plink as my aunt pressed the cloth into the jagged wound.

  “Oh, Sarah,” she said under her breath. “What have you done?”

  My aunt snatched up a thick, folded sheaf of papers from the floor beside the bed and passed them to me. “Take this away, please.”

  Nodding, I turned my back and unfolded the pages.

  The stark, black words at the top read: DIVORCE DECREE: Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.

  I closed my eyes as rage flared inside me.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised. When Dad had arrived weeks earlier, responding to my aunt’s urgent summons, he hadn’t taken the news well. Not only was his wife back from the dead . . . he also had a newborn daughter. A scientist, my adoptive father refused to accept the truth, even after my aunt, Mac, and I had explained everything. That his wife had been trapped in the past. That she’d been tricked by an evil woman. That—​after being told for years it was impossible—​the baby she bore was his.

  He’d begged me to go with him. As if I would even consider leaving my mom alone.

  “This is my home now,” I told him, realizing the truth of the words even as they left my lips.

  Later, of course, we learned that he and Stella had become engaged on their vacation. That while we were fighting for our lives in the brutal medieval world, my father had been kneeling on a beach in Mexico, proposing to a nice librarian.

  I’d hated him for it at first. His cowardice. His disloyalty. But Mom convinced me that in the long run, it was best for everyone. My dad’s world was algae and test tubes. Fourth of July parades and iced tea on front porch swings. She’d said she’d known that about him, and had thought it was the life she wanted as well. It was why she’d never told him the truth about who she really was. About who I am, and where I came from. For years, she’d tried to stuff herself—​and me—​into a world that was always going to be too small for people like us.