A phone call interrupted my painting. It was Meg Warren’s neighbor. “Yeah, she came home, but I don’t know if she’ll call you. She’s in a bit of a snit and wouldn’t even talk to me.”
I thanked the woman and called Meg’s phone. No answer. Damn. No wonder Dr. Rajamani had given up trying to contact her.
Later that afternoon, I strolled High Holborn, then turned on Endell and worked my way through the narrow streets and tiny shops of Covent Garden. I took Long to Charing Cross Road, popped down Cecil Court, and stopped into Watkins Bookstore in search of a new deck of tarot cards for my mom’s birthday. I snickered at the box of alien tarot cards. Surely she didn’t have that set yet. Then across to Leicester Square and down Charing Cross Road. I stopped at the gelato shop and indulged in a double scoop of coconut. I’d gotten used to the extra weight Blanche had packed on. In fact, I felt a little healthier and didn’t look so gaunt when I happened to catch my reflection in a shop window.
By the time I reached the National Gallery, the sun was weak behind a thin film of clouds, but it managed to throw a shadow or two. I don’t know how long I was in the Gallery, but I spent most of my time with Vincent and with Lady Jane Grey. As I stood there, I realized what was so compelling about this work of art. Even as she was about to be killed, the nine-day-queen was still generous and kind, reaching out to find the chopping block in order that the executioner could perform his ghastly task. Her long, slender fingers reminded me of Elizabeth’s hands, which made sense. They were cousins. Jane was the great-granddaughter of Henry VII; Elizabeth was his granddaughter.
A pang of loneliness shot through me. Could I actually be homesick for that strange world? The long days in the company of courtiers bored me, but I loved my quiet time with Elizabeth as we talked, just the two of us. Heady stuff, to be the confidant of a queen.
I strode next door to the National Portrait Gallery and lost myself in the paintings of Elizabeth. My favorite was a copy of the Coronation Portrait, the original painted in 1559. Elizabeth’s red-blond hair was loose and spread across her shoulders. The painter had captured her intelligence. It hadn’t taken me too long in 1560 to see how cleverly Elizabeth operated. Her council met daily, but she rarely attended. Instead, she preferred to meet with the councilors individually. This allowed her to play one faction against another, to play to each man’s strengths and weaknesses.
One morning while I stitched, she met with one man and was bold and direct, to the point of nearly controlling his thoughts. He was a trembling mess by the time he left. Then the next councilor to enter the room caused Elizabeth to grow smaller, more feminine. She became the weak woman who needed help and direction, and the man was so flattered he didn’t notice how she managed to turn her opinion into his own. I remember chuckling into my pillowy breasts, which nearly reached my chin. Elizabeth was so adept at concealing her opinions that few knew what they actually were. This way she managed to keep her entire council unbalanced enough they didn’t know how to control her.
I loved this portrait. In one hand she held a glittering scepter; in the other a globe draped in rubies. The shoulders of her ermine and gold cape were ringed by rubies, the edges dripping with large glistening pearls. Her stiff lace collar framed her long, oval face. I smiled. I now knew how to attach that blasted collar, and it wasn’t easy.
Back outside, I perched on the top step leading down to Trafalgar’s main plaza and let the weak sun warm my eyelids. What the hell was I going to do? I couldn’t just will myself back in time to Harriet and Elizabeth. But I certainly couldn’t continue living with Chris, especially now that she knew I could impersonate Blanche, however awkwardly.
“Jamie Maddox.” The breathless voice was Bradley’s. He lowered himself onto the stair with a grunt.
“You’re getting old, Bradley. You need to start sleeping indoors, on a bed. Sleeping on benches can’t be good for your bones.”
“You may be right, but I have good news. Look!” He motioned to the figure scurrying up to sit beside him.
“You found Mouse,” I said. “And she looks great.” Her hair, obviously washed and brushed until it shone, curled around her face and neck. She didn’t avert her moss green eyes, and actually flashed me a shy, crooked smile that was so endearing I wanted to bring her home myself.
Bradley patted her shoulder. “Someone must have taken her in, washed her up, and given her a change of clothes.”
I considered the silk shirt and expensive jeans. “I’ll say. And that person has a lot of money. Those clothes are not cheap.”
Bradley beamed at Mouse, who ducked her head shyly and scooted close enough their elbows touched. “Poor thing used to hover just out of reach, but now she’s terrified if she’s more than an arm’s length away. It’s like she’s afraid I’m going to disappear.”
I shared all that had happened in 1560 with Bradley. Mouse watched me, eyes wide at my story. Bradley nodded encouragingly as I spoke, then when I finished he pursed his lips and looked out across the square. He sighed. “Didn’t I say to you that life is just one long struggle not to lose yourself?”
“You did.”
“You are losing yourself, my dear.”
I bit my lip, alarmed at the lump filling my throat. “What do I do?”
“You accept that things feel hopeless, but you don’t let that direct your life. You fight. You do what needs to happen next in order to survive.”
“Is that what keeps you going?”
“Every goddamned day,” he said softly.
Just then my cell chimed. “I’ve been waiting to hear from Rajamani,” I said apologetically as I fished the phone from my pocket. “It’s a text from him: Anti-CGA serum almost ready. Will contact in next day or two. Also, Meg Warren is trying to contact me, but we haven’t been able to connect.”
I barely registered the information about Meg. Instead, I clutched the phone to my chest. “Bradley, do you know what this means?”
He gave my shoulder a quick squeeze, then scanned for police. They didn’t like the homeless people touching tourists or residents. “It means if you can remain in the present for a few more days, Dr. Raj will cure you. He will stop all this flipping back and forth between centuries. That’s gotta be driving you crazy, man.”
I nodded, too choked up with hope to speak.
He gestured toward the phone. “Not to bring you down, but what if something does happen before the anti-stuff is ready? Won’t Blanche see this text?”
“Hell’s gate, you’re right. Neither she nor Chris knows I’ve been working with Dr. Raj. I specifically asked him not to mention it whenever he ran into Chris on campus.” I began thumbing a reply. “I’ll ask him not to send any more texts but to wait for me to contact him.” This way Blanche would be kept entirely out of the loop. There would be no threat of her receiving the injection instead of me. I was about to hit SEND when thunder rattled my teeth. I nearly jumped out of my skin. What the hell? The weak sun had disappeared, now hidden by clouds as thick as gray soup.
“Bradley, if I—”
Crack! Up, up, up I flew. Another ride on the bucking lightning.
Winston stood next to me as rain clattered on the courtyard beyond the open doorway. The other two conspirators formed a tight circle around me. “Next week Holmes will take you in my carriage to Cumnor Place. The house is in Berkshire, near the Oxfordshire border. You will dispatch Mistress Amy, then Holmes will return you to London. You will be back in Whitehall before the news of Amy’s death can reach the Queen.”
I bent, gritting my teeth against the need to empty my stomach. Acid pushed its way up my throat. “But—”
Crack! With a bone-crunching jerk, I was back in my own body. I stood in the square, cell phone in one hand, the other pointing accusingly at an astonished Bradley, Mouse hovering behind him. Two police officers were biking toward us. “No,” I said, waving to them. “It’s all right. No problem here, Officers.”
Boom! I stood up, reaching for the wall to steady myself as I gagged, but nothing came up. Winston made a noise of disgust. “Clearly you have no stomach for murder, but this was your idea so you will perform the action. If you do not, Dudley will be dead by the end of the day.”
Crack! My head spun with the suddenness. Too fast to recover. Too fast to even know where or when or who I was. One officer had Bradley by the arm, the other struggled to restrain Mouse, who’d gone wild with fear. “No, they are my friends!” I cried. “Stop!” The officers shot me confused looks over their shoulders.
“But you just said they were harassing you.”
Crack! I was back in the heavy gown, Winston and the others walking away, their heels drumming sharply on the ceramic tile floor. I gripped the nearest hall table, bending over so low I nearly set my hair on fire with the table’s candle.
Vincent stood nearby, stiff and angry, whining in alarm. “Poor baby.” I held out my hand. “It’s me, little guy.” When he gave me a cautious lick, I sank gratefully to the floor and leaned back against the wood paneling. My mouth tasted sour, my gut ached with emptiness. A choir sang softly in the distance, perhaps practicing for the Sunday service. The music was somber, the voices harmonizing perfectly. Hot tears slid down my cheeks from the violence of the last sixty seconds, the helplessness, the frustration of not having any control.
I curled up around myself. I hadn’t had time to send the reply text to Dr. Raj. Even if Blanche didn’t see it, Raj would send another text when the shot was ready. Blanche would receive the text and figure out that this was the final scene between the two of us. The consciousness in control of Jamie Maddox’s body—my body—at the moment Dr. Raj administered the injection would be in permanent control of me. The other mind would be forever exiled to the plump and treacherous body of Blanche Nottingham, lady-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth I.
Any flame of hope I’d felt over Dr. Rajamani’s text was gone.