I tried moving, but my legs resisted, as if bound by ropes or heavy fabric. With my eyes squeezed shut against the nausea, I tried again, this time succeeding in rolling onto my side. Something musical hit the floor nearby; must be rain given the smell and the mist settling across my skin. Voices spoke to me, but from behind a wall too thick to penetrate.
“Dr. Raj?” I managed to whisper. “Chris?”
The storm. The huge spark. Had the equipment exploded? Was I dead? Hands tugged on my arms, tugging impatiently. “I’m trying,” I muttered. “Have you called an ambulance?” I opened my eyes a crack to see a woman bending over me.
“Are you unwell? What manner of play is this?”
For an emergency technician, the woman was unusually abrupt and impatient. I forced my eyes open. “Please call Chris Johansen. Her cell is….” My brain struggled for the number. “Use my phone. It’s in my pocket.”
“You are making no sense at all. Her majesty sent you to complete a task, and she expects you to return quickly. You may be her pet, but you can still incur her wrath.”
As I sat up, I realized my legs had felt bound because of yards and yards of a heavy fabric were lying across them. A dress. Blue brocade with silver trim. I groped at my waist, chest, and hair. Someone had changed my clothing and dressed me in a wig and headdress. The woman pulling on my arm was dressed in the same manner. I clutched at my aching head. How had I gone from Dr. Raj’s lab to an Elizabethan costume event?
“Come, you must return to the Queen.” The woman helped me stagger to my feet, but the wet dress slowed me down.
Shocked at the weakness in my legs, I leaned back against the wall. “Damn, that GCA crap really packs a punch. Who brought me here? Does Dr. Rajamani think this is funny?”
We were under the covered edge of a small, outdoor courtyard. Rain pounded the cobblestoned floor and bounced off two wooden chairs. Was it still Monday morning? How much time had passed? Surely Chris must be worried about me, since we’d planned to meet at the Wilkins Portico for lunch.
When I inhaled deeply, a sharp pain burned across my ribs. I clutched at my body and discovered I was bound by some sort of corset. Then I bent over and vomited onto the cobblestone walk, spitting out as much of the acrid taste as I could before I wiped my mouth. Damn it.
Clucking in disgust, the woman once again grabbed impatiently for my arm and managed to pull me down the walkway. “Her majesty sent me to find you, and I have done. I am not going to endanger my own position here for one of your childish pranks.” Shorter than me, and quite stout, the woman looked about forty, with deep fissures along her mouth and nose that were unsuccessfully hidden under a layer of chalky cake makeup. “I will deliver you back to her chambers and then you are on your own.”
We entered through a thick, planked wood door, then hurried down a dark corridor, lit only by candles on wall sconces every ten feet or so. We passed through a number of richly decorated rooms, and I thought at once of the sets for The Tudors, the Showtime series about King Henry VIII and his six wives. Was I on some sort of movie set?
But when the woman hurried us past a window, I yanked myself free and peered through the mullioned glass. I was too stunned at the sight to even gasp. I was in a building that rose a few stories directly above the Thames. To the left was the familiar curve in the river, and beyond it rose St. Paul’s Cathedral, only the spire was taller and more slender. I could just see the roof of the White Tower, the central feature of the Tower of London. Dozens of white swans floated in the river, despite the rain. When I pressed my left cheek to the pane, I could see Westminster to the right. But everything else about the London skyscape was wrong. Where was the Tower Bridge, the Gherkin building, the London Eye?
I stepped back, rubbing my eyes. What the hell was going on?
“Make haste,” the woman snapped. She latched onto my wrist and pulled me into a warm room lit with a gilded candelabra suspended overhead that blazed with candlelight. Six women, all dressed in some version of the costume I wore, sat on stools or on the floor, each bent over a sewing project. With their skirts spread wide, the women looked like elegant flowers that had collapsed into themselves. The room smelled of burning candle, body odor, roses, and cloves.
I stumbled over the hem of someone’s skirt as the woman yanked me one more time, then released me. The woman sank into a deep curtsey. “Ma’am, as you requested I have found Lady Blanche and brought her to you. She was in the eastern courtyard.”
A woman sat on a wide chair, its wooden back elaborately carved into a scene of battling lions. She leaned over the table beside her, eating the last of some sort of meat. Dressed in green fabric shot through with silver, the woman was younger than me—mid twenties?—yet she practically vibrated with the same sense of privilege I’d seen at my uncle’s country club years ago. She wore an excessive number of ropes of pearls around her neck, as well as a ruff of delicate white lace. Her sleeves ended in matching ruffs. A pearl headdress held back pale red hair tight with curls.
Judging by the red hair, pale skin, and long, slender fingers, the woman was obviously playing the role of Queen Elizabeth I, and since the actor was young, she must be playing the period shortly after Elizabeth had taken the throne at age twenty-five. In the United States there were murder mystery parties. Did the UK hold Life in Elizabethan England parties?
“Dear Blanche, how lovely of you to grace us with your presence,” said the woman in the broad chair. “You have been gone so long, we thought that perchance you had decided to seduce one of our courtiers.”
The women in the room laughed.
I scowled. Why were they calling me Blanche? And why did they think this was some sort of joke?
“Although, from what we hear about most of the men, very little time would be required to consummate the act.” The actor grinned wickedly, as if hoping to shock me.
I stepped forward. “Listen, you all look lovely. Your costumes are stunning, and you—” I motioned to “Elizabeth.” “You even bear a remarkable likeness to the Queen, at least from the paintings I’ve studied in the National Portrait Gallery. So congratulations.” I gave a slow, insolent clap. “But I’m done. Point me toward the exit. I have no wish to keep playing your games. And my name’s Jamie, not Blanche.”
Both of “Elizabeth’s” brows arched. Her smile frosted over. “Games? Hell’s gate, we see no games being played at the moment. And your name is certainly Blanche and we sent you on an errand. Has our Master of the Horse yet returned from his hunting trip?”
From my Tudor obsession, I knew that Elizabeth’s Master of the Horse was Robert Dudley. Elizabeth had loved him her entire life, but no one knew for sure if they’d ever consummated the relationship. I admitted to being a little curious to see the actor portraying Dudley, since he’d been considered one of the most handsome men at Elizabeth’s court—tall, dark, and broad-shouldered.
I rested my hands on the fabric flaring out from my hips. “Much as I’d love to meet your Dudley, I’m serious. Where are my real clothes? My cell phone? I intend to call the authorities and have you all arrested for kidnapping. And I’ll have Dr. Raj arrested for reckless experimenting.”
The tittering laughter turned to murmurs. “Arrest us? For kidnapping?” The room seemed to hold its breath until “Elizabeth” threw back her head and roared. “Ah, dearest, you are amusing us again. Lord Cecil is our Spirit, Dudley is our Eyes, and you are our Spark, the flash of humor and soul in our life.”
The woman who had dragged me to the room stepped forward. “Ma’am, I found Lady Blanche on the ground, with a bruise on her head.” When the woman motioned to my forehead, I reached up and touched what was indeed a tender lump. “Blanche is not amusing you,” the woman said, “but is perchance injured in some way from her fall.” The look the woman shot me made it clear she hoped for major brain damage.
The Elizabeth actor rose to her feet and gracefully crossed the room with more speed than seemed possible in these restrictive dresses. She lightly probed my forehead with long, cool fingers. “Poor dear, you might be befuddled after all. Here, you shall sit until you have fully recovered your senses.” The woman urged me down into another carved wooden chair and then tucked a shawl across my shoulders.
I remained in the chair, surprised at how good it felt to be still. Perhaps I had fallen, or been dropped, when being transported from Dr. Raj’s office to this…whatever this was. While I should seek medical attention, I didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger, so I relaxed into the chair. Activity in the room returned to normal as the women picked up their work, talking quietly among themselves. The Elizabeth actor returned to her chair, sipped something from a jewel-encrusted goblet, then picked up a small book and began to read. With the women’s dresses sparkling like constellations and the warm air, and the quiet voices, the setting was almost peaceful.
My eyelids closed, but I forced them open again. Falling asleep with a concussion could be bad news. Instead, I examined the room in which we sat. Large windows behind “Elizabeth” were gray with the storm. Heavy drapes hung at the windows and large, dark tapestries had been draped across the remaining three walls. A few small dogs rested on some of the women’s laps. The ceiling was dark as well, carved into deep wells that arched over our heads.
I picked up that the woman who’d brought me to the room called herself “Lady Mary,” and the older woman who seemed to be in charge used the name “Kat.” Kat Ashley was Queen Elizabeth I’s dearest friend, so at least these women were accurate in their role-playing.
Then an attractive woman across the room caught my eye. Her black hair was pulled back and up into a sleek bun, and the small cap on the woman’s head matched her blue dress, which was the same dress that I wore. The costume shop must have run a discount on it. I smiled shyly, and she answered with an equally shy smile, as if to acknowledge we wore matching gowns.
But when I brushed a lock of hair back off my face and she did the same, my throat constricted. I straightened the lace dripping out my left sleeve. She did the same. What?
When I rose and approached her, she did the same. I reached out to touch her, but instead touched something smooth and cool.
A mirror.
I stared at the unfamiliar woman staring back at me, then ripped off my cap and tried to remove the wig, but it wasn’t a wig. I winced as I pulled the hair free of its constraining pins. What the hell was going on? My own hair was reddish brown, not black, and this face was all wrong. Dark blue eyes instead of light hazel. Fine eyebrows instead of thick ones. Wide forehead, high cheekbones.
I probed my face. Was this a mask? Prosthetics? Where were my cheekbones or my chin? My dainty ears?
Sudden fear squeezed my chest even tighter than the corset. “Off!” I yelled, and I began clawing at my dress. But there was no visible way to get it off—no buttons, no zippers, no Velcro. I yanked the nearest woman to her feet. “Off! Take this off!” With shaking fingers, I helped the woman untie and tug and unlace until I stood before the mirror wearing nothing but a thin white chemise. Stunned, I ignored the concerned murmurs that rippled through the room.
I lifted the chemise over my head, aware of the gasps and “Elizabeth’s” loud guffaw. This wasn’t my body. The breasts were large and full; mine were much smaller. The waist was thick, where mine was narrow. The thighs pressed against each other more than mine did. I wore a consistent size ten, but this body surely wore a size with an X in it, if not two. I stared at the body in the mirror, then touched it, feeling my hands on my body as I did so.
Fire truck.
Not only was I wearing someone else’s dress, but I was wearing someone else’s body.