Wolves live and hunt in packs, led by the dominant alpha male, she recalled. Wolves are fierce and bloodthirsty. In some countries, Norway for example, people think they’re a harbinger of death. Kate thought of her dad, but harbinger meant predictor, and Dad was already gone. And he wasn’t, she added silently to herself, ever coming back. She thought of her mother and felt again as if a stone were lodged in her throat. Caught in a swirl of gray thoughts, Kate suddenly remembered her tracks earlier that day across the soft damp grass of Greenwich Park. They had lasted just long enough to give her a sense of direction back to the Naval College. But by now, the tracks would have vanished.
She took a deep breath and wandered in and out of her bedroom, and then into Willow’s room. Willow had some freaky masks hanging on the walls and lots of bright, gaudy jewelry strewn on the bureau. Her closet was stuffed with clothes. Tall leopard skin boots poked out, along with a short purple miniskirt, a filmy white blouse, a Hawaiian shirt, a black leather jacket, and two mismatched tennis shoes.
Kate felt the blueness of another memory when she saw those shoes. She and Willow used to play lots of tennis together when they were younger. Willow had won a scholarship to a dance academy when she was thirteen, but she’d been home on weekends and for longer holidays, too, when they’d often had time for a match. Their dad had taught them the rules and it had been fun to play singles, with Dad sometimes joining in as a competitor. Tall and athletic, he had always clearly dominated, until two summers ago when Kate had finally beaten Willow, their eight year age difference suddenly irrelevant. Then it was between Kate and her dad, and she knew that if she practiced hard enough, she could beat him, too.
Kate sighed. Willow didn’t have any time for tennis, now. And even if she had, her bossy attitude would wreck everything. Kate felt a little pang of guilt, remembering the recent battles she’d had with her sister, but quickly shrugged it off. The fighting was Willow’s fault. Nagging and cross, her sister was such a pain. Twenty-three going on eighty-five.
A few posters were up on Willow’s bedroom walls. Actors, mostly, but only a few Kate recognized. And one actress—Willow’s role model—Audrey Hepburn. Kate had seen Hepburn only once, on TV in a special movie presentation of Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
Willow looks nothing like Audrey Hepburn, Kate thought, scrutinizing the picture. Willow did have a big voice, even when she wasn’t on stage. Just not big hair. She wore a wig in the production they were doing now, when she played Anne somebody-or-other to another actor’s Henry VIII. Kate had listened distractedly as Willow had told her the Shakespearian version of the history lesson, but most of what Willow had said went in one ear and out the other. Kate supposed she’d have to see the play on Preview Night next week. It was going to be boring.
Lying over a chair in the closet was a long, blue gown that Kate thought looked rather familiar. When she lifted it up, the fabric clung to her, soft and inviting. It wasn’t yet hemmed, but pinned at the cuffs and skirt as well as down one side. Even without it being finished, Kate could tell it wasn’t meant for her tall, slim sister. This dress was of a Tudor design, similar to the dress Willow was to wear in her show, but definitely created for someone of Kate’s stature.
Kate started pulling the dress over her head, just to see how it looked. If she’d been wearing this in that place at the end of the tunnel, she’d have totally blended in. As the fabric pressed tightly around her shoulders, she felt her breath catch in her throat. Quickly she squirmed out of the dress, the old feeling of claustrophobia catching her by surprise. Carefully replacing the outfit inside the closet, she wondered briefly if it might be meant for her, and then shook her head. Why would her sister give her a Tudor dress? Anyway, it was too tight.
Kate slipped out of Willow’s room and closed the door. Better mind my own business, she thought, her face burning. She looked at the clock. It was almost seven! Hal would be out there waiting! She ran to the bathroom, splashed water on her face, although that just made her hot cheeks redder, and shoved the elastic from her pony tail into her jeans’ pocket, letting the soft, auburn hair swirl free against her neck.
As Kate picked up the key from the table in the hall, she deliberated. Then, stuffing her underground pass and a few bills into her pocket, she decided not to take a purse. Might get stolen. Her navy jacket was still wet and, without a second thought, Kate ran into Willow’s room and pulled the black leather coat from the closet. What Willow didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
Then Kate left the flat, carefully locking the door behind her, and charged down the staircase and through the lobby, wondering where she and Hal were going. She hoped it didn’t require taking the subway. The King’s Cross underground was busy at night and often filled with disagreeable types. Drunks. Homeless people asking for spare change. People talking nonsense, out of their heads with mental illness or drugs. Or both. Kate took a deep breath and pulled open the door to the street. She could certainly do without King’s Cross tonight.
6
William
IN THE SOFT light of evening, William again strode toward the garden shed. Above him, the clouds hung soft as wool, a shade darker than the rest of the sky. Black sheep, he thought, and smiled. Some people thought that black sheep were a mark of the devil, which was nonsense. Under all that wool, they were just the same jaunty creatures as the rest of the herd. As William reached the gate, he heard footsteps and stopped short. Who would be following him here? He turned quickly so as not to give away the cub’s hiding place. Then he manufactured a smile.
“Good evening, Princess Mary,” he said, nodding to Mary’s nurse, a woman of questionable authority who stood rubbing her hands. “Are you having an enjoyable stroll?”
“I want to find him!” Mary cried. “I want to find him right now!”
For a moment, William thought she was talking about the wolf cub, and his heart thudded wildly in his chest. Discovery by Mary and her nurse would surely mean death to the creature.
“But Princess Mary, it’s past your bedtime,” chided the nurse. “Save playing for the morrow.”
“I don’t want to wait until the morning. I want to play, now! My brother promised to play mumchance with me today and he should keep his word! I wish that cunning woman would give me a ring and I’d make him come to me.”
“We should be starting back …” faltered the nurse as relief swept over William. They had no idea of the hidden animal close at hand.
“Doesn’t anyone know where that bad boy is?” Mary asked. William’s mouth twitched to hear her refer to her older brother in these terms. To Mary, the Duke of York was merely an irritating sibling, not the royal prince next in line as king. When William did not answer, Mary asked, “Cat got your tongue?” and looked at him slyly.
“Hush,” said the nurse. “No need to talk of sorcery, Mary.”
“I’m sure Prince Henry didn’t mean to break his promise, wherever he is,” said William.
“Everyone talks about sorcery!” said Mary. “That cunning woman they caught in the village is going to say who stole the communion cloth. And then they might catch the thief. Or they might hang him. Do you suppose I’ll be allowed to see, if they hang that thief until he is dead as a doornail?
William smiled at this phrase and then felt his stomach lurch. How cruel it was to watch people die. He had become so used to the traditions of nobility in these few short months that for a moment he had forgotten his true feelings.
“And I wonder if the communion cloth will ever be found,” Mary prattled on. “It was a pretty one, with lots of ’broidery on it.”
“Embroidery,” corrected the nurse.
“Look,” said William, trying make his voice sound inviting, “I’ll walk you back to the hall. Maybe there’ll be some sugared almonds left from dinner.”
“Well … do you think so?” responded Mary, reluctant but hopeful. “Do you really think there’ll be some?”
“I don’t know, but we can g
o and see. I’ll race you!” William called, catching the grateful eye of the nurse and then running ahead, but slowly, to give the child a chance to catch up.
“And the prize will be a story!” she cried, passing him. “Last one has to—” here she stopped to breathe heavily “—to tell me a story!”
There were sugared almonds, and Mary took quite a large handful, thought William, looking at the nurse whose attention was taken by one of the menservants asking about her day off. Everyone’s affairs were so public here in court, and William blushed to hear the flirtation of a woman old enough to be his mother. Not that she didn’t have a right to tend to her relationships. It was just that he preferred not to hear about them.
“And now the story!” said Mary, curling her legs up under herself on the hard bench.
I’d rather fall in a ditch and be bowled with cabbages, thought William. This could take all night, as Mary always had questions that elongated every tale most painfully.
“Very well,” he said, in the most cheerful manner he could muster. “What would you like the story to be about?”
“One of your brothers or sisters. Tell a funny story about something bad that happened to them!”
William nodded. Mary always wanted stories about his family. It seemed as if the little girl was trying to make up for her own lack of siblings, with Margaret away in Scotland and Henry busy in his position as Prince Regent.
“Well, there’s the tale of Charlotte and the Shoes,” he began.
“Is it going to be a funny story?” Mary interrupted.
“Yes, there are funny parts in it.”
“And it’s serious, too,” said Mary. “Make sure it’s going to have something bad in it.”
“Absolutely, there is a difficult situation here for Charlotte,” said William, patiently.
“Go on, then,” said Mary. She had the same demanding tone as Prince Henry, but in a child her age, it was rather comical. William suppressed a smile, and began.
“This story is about how Charlotte does not reckon Frank Hopkin among her friends, as she loves him not since the day when he left her in the mud.”
“In mud?” interrupted Mary. “Is this the serious part?”
“Yes, Princess,” said William. “But let me tell it through, if you please, or I might miss something.”
She nodded at him to go on, and he did.
“It was a few years past, when Charlotte was a small maid of eight years and Frank Hopkin was a great lad of thirteen.”
“Charlotte is eleven now, so that means it was exactly three years ago!” said Mary triumphantly.
“Yes,” said William. “We had gone blackberrying with the Hopkin family, they being neighbors, and Frank, like the imp he was, led the girls home a long way around, and through some thick, dark mud. His sisters made out all right, but Charlotte’s shoes did stick, and, being stronger than her, the mud pulled the shoes from off her feet.”
Mary laughed and then reconsidered. “But this is a serious part, too,” she said.
“Yes,” agreed William. “The mud wrestled the shoes from off her feet so that she wept to think of what Mother might say.”
“Did your mother scold about things like that?”
“She did, and still does,” said William, and then saw a shadow pass over Mary’s brow at the thought of having a living mother who cared about what you did. He pressed on.
“The Hopkin girls did manage to avoid the mud, but poor Charlotte floundered in stocking feet, again stuck fast, her shoes by now some distance away. Frank Hopkin stayed to laugh at her a while, and then did kick up his heels and run for home so that his own made-up story might arrive in his defense, before the story his sisters would tell.
“Charlotte screamed and roared but it was of no effect. She was left sticking in the wet mud until word came to me, and I ran to find her in this woeful plight. She had pulled off her stockings, being that they were the second thing stuck after her shoes, and now she stood ankle deep with mud fastening her bare feet to the place she stood.”
“Oooh!” said Mary. “And did she get a whipping?”
“She did not,” replied William. “I informed Mother that it was ill of Frank Hopkin to leave her thus, as he was elder and should be of better constitution.”
“And what about Frank Hopkin?” demanded Mary.
“Charlotte decided that he would never be her true love, and so I think he was punished enough,” said William, smiling.
“Quite right,” said Mary. “I would never grace Frank Hopkin with my attentions, even if he were of royal blood.”
“Very wise, Princess,” said William. He turned to escape but Mary danced in front of him.
“That was a good story!” she cried. “Another!”
“We’d best leave the storytelling until the morrow,” said William, looking at the nurse who had apparently come to collect her charge. “The sun is quite finished with us and it will soon be time for bed.”
“I hate bed,” said Mary, and the nurse took her hands to lead her away. “See you tomorrow, William!” she called. “I hope you have another story about that Frank Hopkin. He is my favorite of all the ill, naughty, evil, and abominable imps I have heard of lately. I marvel much that he was not at all repentant!”
“Perhaps someday he will mend his ways,” replied William.
“But not very soon!” said Mary. “There are other stories about him, are there not?”
“I believe so,” said William, feeling a bit weary at the thought. “I shall have to think on it.” It struck him that if someone were to create a book of such stories, it might keep Mary satisfied for a good long time, where she could read and reread to her heart’s content. It would be a book for enjoyment, not for learning, and although he had some thought of writing an epistle about farming someday, with collected letters to farmers that advised on modern agricultural techniques, he had never considered any other kind of writing, or its value. Something to think on, he repeated to himself. Definitely something to think on.
7
The shadows
KATE WAITED FOR five minutes in the cool blue shadows of London House and then, miraculously, Hal was there.
“I like a girl who’s on time,” he said, grinning at her and draping an arm around her shoulders.
“Should I say hello to your sister before we go?”
“She’s already gone to the theater,” replied Kate.
A flicker of something that looked like disappointment crossed his face.
“All right, then. Let’s go,” he said. “I can always meet her next time.”
Next time! That meant he wanted another date with her! As long as she didn’t ruin it. As long as she didn’t open her mouth and say something really stupid. As Hal began to walk faster, Kate stepped away. It was difficult keeping up in such close proximity.
“Where … uh … where are we going?” Kate asked tentatively.
“You’ll see. It’ll be fun,” Hal said, striding quickly down the path toward Coram’s Fields. Kate had to run to catch up. She wished she knew where they were headed.
“What’s in there?” she asked, noticing his leather pack.
“A surprise,” he said. “For later.”
A twinge of irritation added to her unease. She was not a person who liked surprises. When she realized they were bound for the Russell Square tube station, she stopped abruptly. It was one of the undergrounds equipped with an elevator. A very small, airless elevator that Kate had only been in once before and swore she’d never enter again. Hal, already in the doorway of the station, turned to see what was the matter.
“I don’t actually like this Underground,” she blurted, panic welling up in her chest.
“Really?” he asked. “I’d think a New Yorker like you would be seasoned on the tube. You Americans call them subways, right?”
“Yeah,” she said. “This elevator’s been stuck loads of times. I read about it in the
paper.”
“Well, it’ll be a long walk,” he said a bit briskly, “if you’re on foot.”
She felt her face grow hot with embarrassment. Why did she have to be such a loser? He must think that she was weird to be okay with one subway but not another. It was just that at King’s Cross there were stairs.
“Okay,” she mumbled, her face hot with embarrassment. “I’ll try it.”
“Let’s go, then,” he said, and she took a deep breath. Self-loathing sloshed around in her stomach. Why did she have to be such a freak? She took another gulp of air and followed him inside the station. A grimy path on the tile floor led them to the lift. It was a small, squalid-looking contraption, hardly big enough to hold the dozen people that were crowding into it.
“We could just take the stairs …” Kate suggested hopefully, seeing a sign on a nearby door.
“You want to go down a hundred stairs? Be my guest!” Hal snorted. “It wouldn’t be my choice. Look,” he went on, “I’ve taken this lift a million times. It’s perfectly safe and we’ll be out before you know it.” He got in boldly, as if to prove his point. Kate moved reluctantly beside him. For a moment, she felt her heart beating harder, her pulse racing, and then, just as Hal had promised, the ride was over.
As they stood on the platform waiting for the train, Kate tried not to think of how far underground they were. The oily smell of the subway made her throat feel sticky, and in the dim light, she could see the tunnel stretching ahead like a tomb. She took a deep breath, just to make sure she still could, and suddenly the car accident in New York rose up in her mind. There had been this terrible noise, and then she’d been crushed in on herself, her breath a sharp exclamation mark in her chest, the car door crumpled and squeezing against her side. Amazing that she hadn’t been hurt. When her dad had been … had been killed. How hard it was to remember this.
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