Onlookers move to the side as I storm past, watching me with curious, wide eyes. No one bows or curtsies anymore. Just sympathetic frowns and bewildered stares.
When I get to the gallery outside the chapel, I stop in my tracks. Sweat is dripping down my neck. My insides are burning. Looking at the surrounding crowd, it reminds me of a small-scale spectacle. The walls are lined with noblemen and ladies, looking forward with jeering gazes.
I stare down the center of the gallery to where the guards are a few yards in front of me. I can distinguish Simon’s silhouette mixed in beside the silver armor. He’s barely on his feet, being dragged by the guards holding him under his arms. He’s in a white shirt that’s stained with old and new blood. God knows what he’s endured already. Bile swirls in my throat, and it feels like the floor is opening underneath me.
“Simon!” His name rips out from my throat, and everyone turns to look at me. The guards turn, too. And I’m able to see Simon’s face. Our eyes lock, and time stands still. I’m terrified but elated to see him, and he grants me the smallest smile. It’s soft and outlined with relief. He almost seems happy. I smile back, even as tears stream down my face. I wonder if they’ll ever stop falling.
I feel arms and hands latching onto me then, around my shoulders and my midsection. Guards are trying to restrain me, but Lady Rochford and Bessie push them off. The guards holding Simon start walking again, continuing to pull him down the gallery and away from me.
“Don’t!” I scream at the top of my voice. “Let him go!”
“You cannot yell, Catherine! You mustn’t draw attention to yourself.” It’s Bessie’s voice in my ear, but I don’t listen. I keep clawing the hands off me. Somehow managing to break free, I start sprinting down the gallery again. I have to get to Simon.
My feet are pounding against the floor. The guards aren’t too far off—they’re just about to pass the chapel doors. I’ve almost closed the distance between us when Catherine’s letter starts burning against my wrist inside my sleeve. It feels like my arm is being split open, my skin being charred off layer by layer. But I can’t stop. I keep reaching for Simon. My chest constricts as music begins to play in my ears. “Pastime with Good Company.”
I hate that fucking song.
My legs don’t work anymore, and my vision blurs. Someone must strike at me because suddenly I’m tumbling backward. The base of my skull smashes into the floor with a crack, and I try to breathe but can’t. A wave of heat surges around me until it turns to absolute cold. Then the world goes blissfully dark.
I might have died. I can’t be sure. Maybe a guard stabbed me as I ran for Simon in the gallery. Maybe Henry stabbed me. I wouldn’t put it past him.
If I am dead, I’m very comfortable. It feels like one of the mornings when I’ve woken up, but it’s a dark rainy day and my bed is so cozy. I snuggle deeper into the blankets. It’s bad out there but safe in here. Just a few minutes longer.
“It is nice world we’ve found, is it not?”
I open my eyes and realize that I’m standing. At least, I think I’m standing. It’s hard to tell through the thick fog. I could be outside. The fog or the air around me is sweet-smelling and calming. I wouldn’t mind staying longer.
Maybe I’m lost in Matthias’s mist? No, his mist would be more erratic than this. This place is just for me. I can tell.
“It took me a while to get my bearings when I arrived as well.”
I try to stay focused on the voice this time, a voice that sounds so familiar. Is it mine? No, not mine, but almost.
I look deeper into the fog, and a shape starts to appear. It’s hard to decipher, but then it’s crystal clear.
“Catherine,” I say steadily. And it’s my voice this time. Not hers. Mine.
“Hello, Lily,” she answers. “I started to wonder if you would ever arrive.”
Her smile is teasing, and she looks so happy, like she just woke up from a much-needed rest. She’s wearing a gown of shimmering gold but no crown. Flowers are braided through her free-falling hair. I’m glad to see it. Crowns are overrated.
I look down to see what I’m wearing, and it’s a sleeveless white nightgown, cut just below the knees. It’s definitely not a Tudor nightgown, but it’s not obviously modern either, seeming stuck somewhere in between.
“How long have you been here?” I ask.
Catherine tilts her head, daintily clasping her hands in front of her. “As long as you’ve been where you were. I have quite enjoyed my time away. No one to grab at me or steer me wherethey please. I almost forgot what it felt like.” She waits a moment before adding, “Thank you for stepping in for me. I knew I had chosen well.”
Her words give me pause. I stepped in for her. She chose well. I blink my eyes as I try to absorb the information. “You were the one who sent me back here?”
Catherine nods and gives me another smile.
“But why? Why did you do that?”
She thinks a moment before responding. “I liked what you called the king when you looked at his portrait. After you heard what he had done to me. You said he was a hat made of an ass.”
My eyebrows slant up in a question. “You mean when I called him an asshat?”
“Yes, just that,” she says with a grin.
