That afternoon when Lady Mary brought me books, she also brought me a mirror, her not-so-subtle way of telling me I looked like shit. After she left, I stared into the cracked hand mirror. The body, swollen with child, was Blanche’s. The hair, limp and unclean, was Blanche’s. The face was Blanche’s. But the eyes were mine—I could see myself in the eyes.
Then I laughed at my stupidity. What did it matter what I saw in my eyes?
At dusk, I could hear a commotion outside, so I looked out my window. Elizabeth, with four guards and no ladies, was walking down the path to my cottage. I ran to the door and flung it open, wishing I’d washed my hair sometime in the last month.
“Blanche, good morrow! Make way. Spring is here. We have come to visit.” Elizabeth strode into the cottage, her skirts brushing the dust into swirls she was kind enough to ignore. I swept the books off the only chair and offered it to her. With a gracious nod, she sat and motioned me to do the same on my bed. I sat there, waiting, as she examined me.
“You, my dear, look as if you’ve just been let out of Bedlam.”
“Apologies, ma’am.”
“Why have you not come to see us? It’s been months.”
“As I mentioned when we last spoke, I did not want to be seen in this state.” I motioned to my belly.
“Yes, you could not be there as one of our ladies, but you certainly could have come to call. I meant to send for you, but the needs of the realm these last months have been great.” She waved her hand. “But still, we are cross with you because you left us hanging with Harry about to do battle with that horrid wizard whose name can never be spoken.”
I smiled, guessing that J.K. Rowling would be pleased to know her Harry was a hit even in 1561. “Ma’am, I apologize. Once I am delivered of this child, I would be honored to resume the story.”
Elizabeth folded her hands and looked around the cottage. Bird song came through the open windows, and the guards talked quietly outside. “We are most concerned about you, Blanche Nottingham. There is no sparkle in your eyes. You are white as milk.”
I gazed at her, unsure what to say but admiring her skin. It was clear and flawless, cheeks slightly pink from the walk to the cottage. In reality, that skin would not last, for she would emerge from her smallpox battle scarred. For the rest of her life, she would not leave her chambers without covering her face, neck, and chest with a mixture called “Spirits of Saturn” that was made of white lead and vinegar. My beloved queen would slowly poison herself over the years with lead. That she would make it to age sixty-nine was a miracle.
I shook my head. No, damn it. This was a fantasy. I could have the Queen recover without scars and not rub lead into her skin every day. If it took all my energy, I would find a way to force this fantasy to follow my wishes.
I sighed, then chuckled softly. “My dearest Queen, I appreciate your concern, but you need to know that my health doesn’t matter. This will sound very strange to you, but none of this is real. You’re not real. Whitehall Palace is not real. We are all tucked away in a tiny corner of my brain. I’m having the mother of a fantasy, and you’re part of it.”
She tsked loudly. “Perhaps you truly do belong in Bedlam. Of course this is real. Do not be a fool.” She leaned forward. “Ever since last August, you have changed, and for the better. Before this, when we looked into your eyes, we were not sure of you. Your eyes gave away nothing. But since August, your eyes have shone with such—what did you say your Harry Potter had? Oh yes, your eyes have shone with spunk. We love that, but you have lost your spunk. You have lost your spark.”
Spunk. My eyes welled up, and I looked away, desperately homesick for my family, whom I would never see again as myself. Blanche could be standing in front of my mother right now, hurting her feelings, and I would have no idea. I could do nothing to stop her.
Elizabeth stood and strolled around the small room. “Do you remember when Amy Dudley died and we were despondent over what to do about our sweet Robin?”
I wiped my eyes. “Yes.”
“Your words helped me so much that my gratitude continues to this day. So I will say those words to you because now you need to hear them.”
She knelt at my feet, which caused to me to leap up in horror. “Ma’am, no!”
“Sit down and hush. I am talking to you.” She took my hands and squeezed hard. “You have lost your hope, which you cannot do. You must find it again. Hope is your future, Blanche. It is the light that guides all of us through this uncertain life. You must hope that matters will change. You must hope that life will improve.”
I curled over my belly, suddenly exhausted. “Yes, I have lost all hope.”
Elizabeth rose and sat next to me, her lavender scent tickling my nose. “Then let me give you some of mine.” She held me close and I began to cry, horrified to be sobbing in the arms of Queen Elizabeth I. But I couldn’t stop. It was as if all my uncertainties and fears and confusion poured into a raging river. My fury at Chris and Blanche. My sadness over Meg and Ray and never seeing my family again. My self-loathing at creating this stupid situation in the first place.
Several handkerchiefs later, I finally stopped. My eyes stung and my nose was plugged. The baby hadn’t liked the crying bout, so it was actively kicking.
Elizabeth stood, straightening out her skirts. “We will leave you now. But we want our Spark back, and soon.” She winked at me. “That is an order from your queen.”
I smiled weakly and rose to see her out.
Then I sat on the bench outside the cottage and thought about what she said. Hope. That used to be part of my backbone. I had let Chris steal it from me because she was so sure I was lying about 1560. She had undermined my confidence. No, I had let her undermine my confidence. I’d been so blind that I’d given her more power to influence me than I should have. She said I was both Jamie and Blanche and she wanted Blanche, which actually no longer bothered me. Kind of a relief, actually. I’d spent ten years pursuing something in her she was never going to give me—approval. Meg gave me that in five minutes.
As I replayed the Queen’s words, it hit me that she’d used the first person when talking to me about hope. The words hadn’t come from the royal Queen; they had come from Elizabeth Tudor, not even thirty, who’d taken on the burden of leadership. For all those years leading up to her accession to the throne, Elizabeth didn’t know what would happen—would she ever be Queen? Would her half sister have her beheaded to remove the threat of a Protestant uprising? Yet through all that uncertainty she had hope. She acted as if she would survive.
What if I acted as if I could survive, as if I had enough hope to change my fate?
Hope. The one thing everyone needed in order to not lose themselves to the chaos of life. Something that had died in me.
A tiny spark of something flared in my chest. Was it hope? I breathed slowly, fanning the glowing ember until it flamed into an emotion I could keep alive. What I’d lost, along with myself, was the hope I could get my life back. I no longer wanted a life with Chris, but a life in the present with my family and friends? Yes, I did want that. It hit me that hope wasn’t something people could take from you unless you let them. Hope was a candle you lit every morning when you awoke.
The spark in my chest became a warm glow. I would act as if this world—1561—mattered to my real world. No, I would act as if both worlds were real, and if I believed that, I could find my way home.
I stood, ignoring the baby’s kicks. Shouldn’t I at least give it a shot? What if I really could affect my fate? I pressed a hand over my pounding heart. The lightning would strike tomorrow. Maybe I owed it to myself and to Meg—if she were real—to use some of the hope Elizabeth had shared with me.