My Lady Jane by Cynthia Hand, Brodi Ashton, Jodi Meadows (3)

“How long have we been here?” he asked.

“You arrived early this morning,” Bess provided.

Less than a day, then. Gracie had run them here in less than a day. He glanced back at her. “You can run pretty fast, for a girl.”

“Well, I may have held up a nobleman on the road and borrowed his horse,” she confessed.

A crime punishable by death, he remembered. “I owe my life to you,” he said.

Her dimples appeared. “A girl does what she can, Sire.”

“Oh, I like her,” Gran announced. “Can you play cards, my dear?”

“A bit. And I hear you’re the queen of hearts,” Gracie answered, which clearly pleased the old lady even more.

“There’s no time for cards, Gran.” Bess’s expression was so solemn that she vaguely resembled Mary for a moment. Which made Edward remember Mary. And her soldiers, marching toward his castle.

Gran sighed. “True enough for you, but not so for me. Come along, you,” she said to Gracie, grabbing the girl’s arm and towing her toward the door. “I’ll show you how to play trump.”

“Keep an eye on her sleeves,” Edward called after them. “You never know what she might be hiding up there.”

Gracie made a face that said, Do I look like an amateur to you? and he was tempted to warn Gran, too, that the Scot was more than what she seemed. But then they were gone.

“We need to talk,” Bess said in a low voice.

He crossed back to the window and leaned against the sill. Bess closed the door, then pulled a chair up beside him. “All right, Bess,” he murmured, suddenly tired again. “Tell me what’s happened.”

“Jane became queen, as you intended.”

“As Dudley intended,” he corrected darkly.

“The duke also attempted to capture Mary and me and throw us in the Tower, so we would pose no

threat to Jane’s rule,” Bess continued. “But I slipped out when I heard them coming, and Mary caught wind of it through one of her craftier spies, and escaped to her estate at Kenninghall, and from there she went to Flanders to enlist help from the Holy Roman Emperor. She raised an army, of course, and from what I understand, she took back the throne this morning.”

“We need to go,” Edward said. “I need to be there, now.”

Bess shook her head. “Mary wanted this—for you to be dead and the crown upon her own head—

to rid the kingdom of E∂ians and return to the purity of the old days. She will stop at nothing.”

He remembered the bite of poisoned pudding that his sister had pressed firmly to his lips. To ensure that very thing.

“So she was in on it all along?” he asked. “With Dudley.”

“No.” Bess’s mouth tightened. “It was by chance that Mary and I found out about Dudley poisoning you. One day, on our way to see you, we happened to overhear a conversation between the doctor and the nurse concerning an extra ingredient they were adding to your blackberries. When Mary confronted Dudley about it, he claimed that he was paving the way for Mary to take the throne, although I think he always intended for Jane to rule, and for Gifford to rule over Jane, and Dudley himself to rule over Gifford. But Mary bought his story, and played along, as did I, although all the while I was trying to find a way to save you.”

“Like with the jar of apricots,” he remembered. “You did save me.”

She nodded and smiled at him tenderly. “You’re my little brother. I could not stand by and let any harm come to you.”

“But Mary is my sister, too,” Edward said. “She’s my godmother, for heaven’s sake. How dare she try to steal away my birthright! I am the rightful king!” He was overcome by another wave of fatigue, so much that Bess rose to offer him her chair, and he couldn’t help but accept.

“I am the king,” he muttered.

“Not to Mary, you’re not,” Bess said, putting her hand on his shoulder. “Not anymore.”

Jane

There was no battle for the kingdom.

Within minutes of Mary’s arrival, red-coated soldiers had swarmed in, wrested Gifford’s sword

away from him (not that he really attempted to use it), and bound Jane and Gifford’s hands with ropes.

In short order they were marched down the stairs and through the Tower at sword point.

“I’ll try reasoning with her,” Jane said as they made their way to the throne room.

“Do you think it will do any good?” Gifford was pale, but she could see he was trying to be brave.

“I don’t know. Just let me do the talking. Everyone knows that Mary hates E∂ians.”

“She can’t tell just by looking at me, you know. It’s not like I have a tail hidden in my trousers.”

“Even so. Now would be a fantastic time to learn to control your gift.”

They reached the throne room, which was packed with soldiers and nobility alike. Her ladies-in-

waiting were all there, a few looking faint on account of all the excitement, while others had their noses turned up like they’d never thought Jane made a good queen, anyway.

Her mother was there. She looked up as Jane and Gifford entered, but didn’t meet Jane’s eyes. A guard poked Jane in the ribs to get her moving toward the throne.

Where Mary waited.

Edward’s eldest sister reclined in the throne, Jane’s crown already gracing her brow. She wore a voluminous gown of crimson damask, with roses embroidered along the blue background of the hems. She looked regal, as though she’d known her whole life that this was what she was meant to do.

“Jane.” Mary’s tone was sweet as she leaned forward. “You haven’t been harmed?”

Jane stood before her own throne. She kept herself as straight and tall as possible and let her eyes sweep over the assembly near the throne: dukes, members of the Privy Council, and standing at the front, John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland.

“You,” Jane murmured. “Whose side are you on now?”

His only answer was a slippery smile.

“Jane.” A note of irritation snapped in Mary’s voice. “You haven’t been harmed?”

Jane turned her eyes back on Mary. “You’re sitting in my chair.”

A few people in the crowd gasped, but Mary only smiled. “Jane. Dear one. Surely you know that it was only through the plots of others that you managed to sit here at all. The throne was always meant to be mine until Edward”—her voice cracked at the late king’s name—“produced an heir.

Unfortunately my brother never had that opportunity. He was taken from us too quickly. The law states that I am next in the line of succession.”

“Edward amended his will. It was his final act before he died.” Jane didn’t look at Lord Dudley again, but hadn’t that been exactly what he’d said? Now he was just standing there, accepting Mary as queen?

“I feel sorry for you, Jane.” Mary nodded to herself. “You were caught in this game without the smallest hint how to play it.”

“Edward left the throne to me.” Jane kept her voice soft but firm. “He revised the line of succession.”

“My brother was ill and persuaded to do nonsensical things by certain parties who had everything to gain.” Mary looked pointedly at Lord Dudley. “Those parties were given a choice—the same choice I’m going to give to you.”

“But the crown is not your right,” Jane said, in spite of feeling—just days before—that it wasn’t her right, either. Jane at least knew it, while Mary seemed to feel entitled to the throne.

“The Privy Council disagrees.”

The Privy Council had voted to give the crown to Mary? Jane prickled. How dare they turn on her? She could not believe it. After listening to them brag about themselves for hours on her first day as queen, she rather felt she’d earned their respect and loyalty.

“As I said,” Mary went on, “I want to be fair. I’m giving everyone a choice to bow to me.”

Gifford, who had been quiet all this time, suddenly leaned toward Jane until his mouth was against her ear. “I have to get out of here,” he said urgently. “It’s almost morning.”

He was right. She could sense the glow of dawn behind the windows. And Mary was not turning

out to be very reasonable.

“Give us until tonight,” Jane pleaded. “We need time to consider—”

“There’s nothing to consider,” Mary said. “It’s a simple yes or no.”

Gifford shifted from foot to foot. “Jane—”

“I haven’t slept or eaten,” Jane argued. “Before I make such a decision, I need to rest. To think.

Please, if we could just—”

It was too late. The first ray of sunshine breached the window. Next to Jane, another kind of light flared. There was the sound of clothing tearing and hooves clapping against the marble floor.

The crowd let out a collective gasp of horror. Guards rushed forward, swords in hand.

Mary surged up from the throne.

Jane’s heart sank.

Gifford was a horse.

Jane had the wild thought of leaping onto Gifford’s back and riding away as quickly as they could.

(Of course, that would violate Horse Rule 3: no riding the horse.) But it would be difficult for him to navigate the narrow, winding stairs in his current state, and even though Gifford was pressing close to Jane as if to protect her, there was no way to climb atop him. Her hands were still bound behind her back.

“Seize them,” Mary commanded.

Soldiers yanked her away. She tried to wriggle free, and Gifford snapped and kicked, but then one of the men held a sword to Gifford’s long neck. Someone else pressed a knife to Jane’s throat.

Girl and horse met each other ’s eyes, and that was when they stopped fighting.

“Well.” Mary settled back onto the throne. She spoke with that sweet voice again, but now Jane couldn’t miss the edge of contempt. “How surprising.”

One of the guards looped a rope around Gifford’s neck. He didn’t resist. A guard came up behind Jane, cut the ropes binding her wrists, and clasped on a pair of metal shackles. Which seemed like overkill.

“Dearest Jane,” Mary said. “My late brother had such fondness for you. It is in his memory that I make this offer. That, and as I said earlier, I’ve always felt a little sorry for you. Not just because you

couldn’t comprehend the game being played around you, but because of that unfortunate red hair of yours. It’s just— Well, I don’t want to be rude.”

No, Jane thought, you just want to take my throne and kill my husband.

She turned to look at Gifford, who didn’t stir. He’d only been her husband for a little while, such a very little amount of time, relatively speaking. She didn’t know his favorite color or the food he liked best—outside of apples, which seemed like a horse preference. She’d assumed he’d been part of this game, trying to manipulate her like everyone else, but that didn’t matter to her now. What would happen to him? What would happen to them both?

“My offer is fair, and I urge you to accept,” Mary was saying.

“I’m still waiting to hear what it is,” Jane said numbly.

“Ah. Dear. I’m sorry. I thought it must have been obvious what I want from you. What everyone

else has already done.” Mary gestured at Lady Frances and Lord Dudley. “Accept me as your rightful queen and denounce evil. Denounce heretics. Denounce E∂ians.”

Of course.

“Sweet little Jane. You like to prattle on about E∂ians and heroes and other such nonsense. You are young and those sorts of things seem attractive to you, but you must grow up now. Renounce the E∂ians, including your husband, and live out the rest of your days in exile. I’ve arranged for you to be sent to a monastery, even. You’ll be quite safe and comfortable there.”

“And if I don’t agree?”

Mary made a swift slice of her hand over her throat. “I didn’t think that needed to be said, either, what with the extensive reading you’ve done, but I suppose I’ve overestimated you.”

Jane glanced at her mother, who nodded. Urging her to give in. As she herself must have done.

The throne room was silent as everyone waited to hear Jane’s answer.

“What will happen to my husband?” she asked.

Mary shook her head with false sadness, but her eyes were sparkling. “In the morning, he will be burned at the stake.”

Jane’s hands flew to her mouth—or rather, would have, but she was still shackled. The metal bit deeply into her wrists as she strained against it. “No,” she breathed. “Don’t hurt him. He can’t help what he is.”

Mary tilted her head. “So you knew that he is an abomination?”

Jane’s eyes cut to Dudley.

The duke said, “Of course I hadn’t the faintest idea, Your Majesty. If Gifford was in and out of the house at all hours and refused to go to court, I assumed my son was merely acting out like any normal boy. Why would I assume he had something darker to hide?”

“That’s a lie,” Jane said, but no one cared.

“This is about you, dear. Did you know your husband was a beast?” Mary pressed.

“I found out on our wedding night. Everyone who knew”—she glared at Dudley—“neglected to tell me.”

“And were you surprised?” Mary’s tone was honey sweet.

“Certainly.”

“And do you reject his vile magic? Do you renounce your ties to him?” Mary leaned forward.

“It’s simple. Name yourself a Verity and your life will be spared. Or deny me, and I’ll have your head.”

Jane closed her eyes. Her shoulders ached. Her wrists stung, and liquid heat dripped down her hands—blood. Never before had she been so mistreated, and a desperate part of her wanted to say yes,

she denounced him and she’d go live in a monastery, exiled for the rest of her days.

But Gifford would die.

He hadn’t abandoned her. A former womanizer and drunk and (current) horse he might be, but he’d just proven himself to be the most loyal person in her life. In spite of the way she’d treated him, her accusations and her hurled pillows and her scorn, he’d tried to warn her. He hadn’t fled when the army arrived. He hadn’t switched sides.

Could she abandon him now?

Gifford-the-horse had kept his head down throughout this entire interrogation, his nose almost brushing the floor, the very picture of docility. But now he lifted his head. His eyes, at once both human and horse, met hers. Do it, his eyes urged. Renounce me. Save yourself.

Memories of their time in the country floated back to her: their banter, reading beneath the tree, helping those in need, and most of all, that almost kiss as the sky was deep with twilight and candles burned around them. There was no denying the truth: Gifford Dudley was a good man, E∂ian or not.

And he was her husband. For better or worse.

The answer must have shown on her face.

“Little Jane, be reasonable.” Mary pressed her hands together. “What purpose will your death serve?”

“It will serve to prove that you do not control this kingdom. It will serve to prove that not everyone will bow down to you. You think to rule us with fear, but you cannot. I will never renounce my beliefs, or my husband.”

Mary’s face darkened with anger. “Take her away! And do something about this . . . animal!”

Soldiers grabbed at Jane. She couldn’t resist, not with her bleeding wrists cuffed behind her back, but she continued speaking.

“E∂ians are people, too. You only hate them because you fear them!”

Mary’s guards dragged her away, and no one lifted a finger to help her.

Jane had read about despair.

The hopelessness of Socrates, who’d felt no recourse but to poison himself rather than facing a life in a cave prison. The terror of Anne Boleyn, Bess’s mother, who’d been beheaded just years before, after being tried for adultery. The resignation of Cleopatra, who’d taken her own life with the bite of an asp after she and her husband lost the Battle of Actium.

The despair in books was a distant, safe thing. She’d thought she understood the depth of the emotion as she read through the pages of her beloved books, her life touching those of men and women long dead. She’d felt for them, cried for them, tried to breathe for them when they no longer breathed. And then, she’d been able to close the book and place it on its shelf, the words trapped between the leather covers.

Oh, sometimes it had taken her hours or days to recover from a particularly emotional book, but there’d always been another to take her mind off the anguish.

There were no books here.

Nothing could distract her from the forced march up the stairs of the Queen’s House (built at the bidding of Anne Boleyn, and then ironically the place of her captivity before she was executed), into a bare room where Jane was to live out the remaining hours of her life. Nothing could distract from the four brick walls surrounding her, the cold and the darkness, or the searing pain in her wrists and shoulders even after the shackles had been removed.

Too sore and tired to pace, Jane slumped in the middle of the floor. There was no furniture; it had

been removed so she couldn’t spend her last night in a bed. Such decency, she inferred, was above her, an E∂ian-loving heretic.

“I am sixteen years old,” she told the empty room. “And tomorrow I will die.”

That’s what the guards had told her. Tomorrow she’d be beheaded.

Who would go first? Her, or Gifford? Would they be able to see each other? Perhaps Jane would

be made to watch as her husband burned alive, and then her head would come off before she could even shed a tear. Or the other way around, maybe. Gifford might see the axe swing and a flash of red hair flying, and then they’d light the pyre beneath him.

Jane hugged her knees and shuddered. Her imagination was too vivid.

Night fell. She knew only because the faint light from the windows faded, not because her body

gave her any useful signals. Her head was light with thirst and hunger. When she ran her tongue along her lips, they were dry and cracked. Her stomach felt hollow. If she could have escaped into sleep, she would have, but shocks of terror and dread jabbed at her mind every other minute, reminding her that these hours were the last she had left.

If she slept, she’d waste them.

For another hour—or some amount of time she had no way to judge—she thought about Gifford

and what he must be doing now. Likely he wasn’t still in the stables, but moved somewhere more secure, now that it was night. She thought about his laugh and his jokes, the charming way he found humor in everything. Would he find humor in this situation? Tomorrow morning?

If only she could see him now. She’d apologize for the last week and a half. She’d name him king.

She’d kiss him and say she trusted him. She’d— She’d—

Maybe Gifford wasn’t safe to think about right now.

Jane shifted her thoughts to Edward, wondering if he’d felt this deep unease in the face of his own death. Anxiety. Trepidation. Horror.

She tried to conjure up more synonyms, but a dim, orange light flickered beneath the door.

Footfalls echoed on the steps, and a moment later the door creaked open.

Firelight shone in, blinding her. She squeaked and buried her face in the hollow of her arms and knees. Then, squinting, she looked up.

“Jane?” Lady Frances rushed in, holding a torch, which she quickly set into a holder on the wall.

“The guards let me in. We have a few minutes at best. I came to ask you to reconsider Mary’s offer.”

She knelt in front of Jane, her expression almost maternal in its concern. “I wanted you to know I’m sorry I wasn’t more . . . supportive back there. Please forgive me.”

Jane stared at her mother. She’d never heard an apology from Lady Frances’s lips before, and she wasn’t sure what to do with it.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said at last. “The throne changed hands very quickly, didn’t it? No one resisted.”

Lady Frances bowed her head. “The Privy Council turned on you. Dudley betrayed us as well. The

moment Mary arrived, he declared his allegiance to her—even though it means he’s not the Lord President anymore—and his loathing of E∂ians. He declared himself a Verity. He made it sound like all along he was actually clearing a path for Mary to take power. But forget about Dudley for now.

This is about you. Take Mary’s offer. It’s not too late. A life in exile is better than this.”

“No.”

“Jane, this is no time to display your stubbornness.”

“It’s not stubbornness. It’s a matter of honor. I will not denounce Gifford or E∂ians—you included, Mother.” Jane coughed at the dryness in her throat.

Lady Frances’ eyes flickered toward the door, like she was afraid someone would overhear.

“Ungrateful girl. You have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m no E∂ian.”

“I know you are. I heard you and Father discussing it years ago.”

Her mother shook her head like she might deny it, but then she sighed. “And I hate it,” she whispered. “I never change, not if I can help it. I push that part of me down until it’s buried. It’s unnatural.”

“And yet it’s part of you,” Jane implored her. “In one of my books about E∂ians, the author said that long ago, in ancient times, all people were able to change into an animal form. Everyone was E∂ian. It was considered their true nature. It was considered divine.”

“Nonsense.” Her mother ’s expression grew cold. “All those books fill your head with such drivel.

I should have burned them all, and then maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Jane closed her eyes for a moment. Then she pushed her stiff muscles until she was able to stand up. “Do not ask me to forsake E∂ians again, Mother. You will not change my mind.”

There were voices in the hall. Lady Frances glanced over her shoulder toward the door.

“Our time is almost up,” Jane said. “I suppose we should say good-bye now.”

“Please, Jane.” Her mother grabbed her arm. “You don’t have to die. It will bring ruin on the family. On me. I’ll lose Bradgate. I’ll lose everything.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help that,” Jane replied, and she meant it. She, too, loved Bradgate, but it wasn’t worth her honor. “Do you know where Gifford is being held?”

“They took him to Beauchamp Tower after night fell. That’s all I know.”

“I want to see him. Can you ask for me?”

Lady Grey shook her head. “The only way to see him will be to denounce him, and then you would only see him burn.”

The guards arrived. They escorted Lady Frances from the room, without another word between them, and Jane was alone again.

Her prison seemed to shrink around her. The despair she’d known earlier became a drop to an ocean. One star to the entire universe. Her mother had abandoned her, no matter what she claimed.

There was only one person left in the world to think about, and that was Gifford, locked away in Beauchamp Tower, so close to the Queen’s House, but it might as well have been the other side of the world.

Jane sank to the floor again, drowning in grief and misery and wretchedness and despondency and

. . .

A brilliant white light flared about her, making her blink back stars.

When she could see again, everything was different. The room was bigger, for one, and she felt . .

. funny. Shorter, which was saying something, but oddly long. Her spine felt strange and hunchy, and she was on all fours. And her sense of smell! There was something sour—unbathed human, probably

—and musky.

The sound of voices below, the feel of the stone floor under her paws—it was incredible.

She’d changed into . . . something.

She was an E∂ian.

She was an E∂ian!

Jane hopped around the room in a crazy little dance, thrashing her head from side to side so hard she bashed into a wall. Unfazed, she made a soft clucky sound and danced again, an overpowering sense of joy filling her. She was an E∂ian, just as she’d always hoped. What was she? It didn’t matter.

She was small and furry (she could easily twist herself around to see her body, but it was hard to get

an idea of a whole based on just a few too-close views) and she had the best sense of smell and the best sense of hearing and the best dancing skills she’d ever possessed in her life, even if dancing sometimes meant she ran into walls. Wouldn’t Gifford be so amused when he saw her?

Gifford.

The sense of elation faded as she remembered her predicament and now that she was . . . a something . . . she would likely be burned at the stake as well.

But her animal self was small, she knew that, and maybe she could do something useful now.

She hopped over to the door. There was a large crack beneath it, not quite big enough for a human fist to fit underneath. But maybe she could fit?

Jane shoved her face into the crack beneath the door. Her head went right under, followed by her shoulders, but the rest of her body stuck a little.

That was embarrassing.

She squeezed and scrambled and pushed until she popped out of the other side.

There was more light in the corridor. Twilight to her human self, but she could see quite easily now, at least within a few feet. Everything beyond that seemed fuzzy and oddly flat. Everything was shades of gray, too, except a faint red cast to some things, like the light of a lantern on the wall.

So her vision wasn’t that great, but she was small and close to the floor, so what did she need with fantastic distance vision, anyway? She had other senses. Better senses.

Jane scurried to the edge of the first stair and paused, looking down. What was nothing particularly difficult in her human form suddenly appeared quite challenging. She couldn’t just step down.

She pressed her belly to the stone floor and pushed her front paws ahead of her, sliding down the first stair until her paws touched the next. The rest of her body followed with an awkward flop. She repeated this process a few more times until she found a better way to control her rogue hindquarters and moved down the stairs at a quicker pace.

At the first landing, she found the guards. She was the size of their boots. She resisted the urge to smell all their interesting, earthy aromas, and instead streaked past them so quickly they didn’t notice her.

Other voices below grew louder as she descended the stairs, too distant for the guards on the landing to hear, but her ears were fantastic. Amazing. Probably very cute.

One of the speakers was Dudley, she was sure of it, though in this form, the sound was overwhelming and held qualities she’d never heard as a human.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I’ve obtained a body,” another man said. His voice was familiar, too. The royal physician? She couldn’t remember his name.

“Very good.” Dudley sneezed and sniffed. “Drape a shroud over it and no one will know it isn’t

Edward.”

Jane stopped moving. It felt like all the fur on her body was standing up.

They didn’t have Edward’s body?

“They haven’t found him yet?” asked the doctor. “The poison would have killed him by now.

There’s no way he could survive without an antidote.”

Dudley sighed. “He was sick. Wounded. Starved. He had to have left some kind of trail.”

Their voices were fading now, as though they’d been walking by the stairs.

Jane slinked down the rest of the steps, her tiny heart racing. Edward had been poisoned? Dudley had poisoned Edward? And then Edward had . . . what? Escaped?

Her heart lifted at the idea. How easily, she thought, despair could turn to hope.

At the foot of the staircase, Jane looked around the corner. The hall was enormous, but empty for now. If she kept to the shadows, she wouldn’t be spotted. Hopefully. And then she could escape the Tower. Find Edward.

But first she had to rescue her horse.

Gifford

Burned at the stake. A most unpleasant way to go, G thought. When he was just a boy of five, he’d witnessed a man being burned at the stake. It was 1538 and John Lambert had been outed as an E∂ian when, after hearing Frederic Clarence had written a pamphlet denouncing E∂ian magic, he turned into a dog and ate the papers, prompting Clarence to cry out, “That dog ate my scriptwork!”

Lambert was sentenced to be burned at the stake, and Lord Dudley had insisted that his children attend the execution. He later told G that nobody trusted those with the ancient magic, and the country would be safer if every E∂ian suffered the same fate as Lambert. Which, at the time, G’s father had seemed to truly believe.

All G remembered of that day was the scream that seemed to go on for an eternity. That and the

smell.

He glanced at the lone candle his captors allowed in his locked tower room, and then looked closer at the small flame on the wick. Never had something so innocuous seemed so ominous.

He held his hand over the flame.

“God’s teeth!” he exclaimed, pulling his hand back after a mere instant. He hadn’t felt so much pain in his entire life, which, in the next instant, he decided was a sad statement because what nineteen-year-old man has only ever felt the pain of a candle on his skin?

One who spends most of his nights attending plays and poetry readings.

He sighed. Usually he composed stanzas in his head to calm his anxiety, but at the moment G had no desire to find a phrase that rhymed with “charred flesh.”

He examined the palm of his right hand, expecting to see burned skin, but of course there was nothing. Not even a little red.

Now that the pain had subsided (not that there’d been very much of it to begin with) he turned his thoughts toward Jane, specifically the way she’d refused to denounce him as a heretic. He closed his eyes and remembered her confident posture as she stood by him, so sure in her decision, even though she could’ve easily sacrificed him to buy her own escape.

She wouldn’t betray him.

Foolish, loyal, beautiful girl. At least her death would come much quicker than his.

He looked out the window. From this vantage point, he could almost see the place where Jane would suffer her fate, inside the courtyard of the Tower. For G, though, he knew he would be executed on Tower Hill, where the rest of the common criminals and heretics took their last breaths.

That’s where he’d be burned.

It was a sad day when he yearned for a nice, tidy beheading. Instead of trying to compose morbid poetry ( to be, or not to be, that was the question . . . ), he decided to carve a name into the stone wall.

Jane’s name, of course.

J

Jane. He wondered if she was thinking of him, too. If he would ever see her again.

A

He’d never see a lot of people again. He’d never kiss his mother on the cheek, or make fun of Stan (who wasn’t so bad, was he? Not really. It’d been unfair for him to resent Stan all this time, G

thought). He’d never give Billingsly another ridiculous order, or make Tempie laugh, or try to irritate his father just to see the aggravation on the old man’s face.

N

His father. G chipped harder at the stone. His father. Who had orchestrated this entire mess. Who would undoubtedly be fine, so long as he could switch to the winning side.

E

Who’d let his own son burn if it would save his life.

G decided that he couldn’t think about it anymore. He put the finishing touches on the e of Jane’s name, and then paced around the room, looking for something, anything, to get his mind off burning flesh. He found a few books, skimmed through the first few pages of each, and then tossed them one by one to the side. Maybe this had been meant to be Jane’s room. She was probably locked somewhere with a barrel of apples.

A soft flutter at the door made him stop his pacing. Someone had slipped a piece of parchment underneath.

He hurried over and unfolded it and saw Jane’s familiar handwriting. His heart pounded. He’d never received a love letter before, and although he knew his letter would most likely also be a good-bye letter, he felt some wild hope that she would confess some depth of feeling for him.

Dearest Edward,

I hoped to visit you this morning, but when I arrived at the palace I was informed that you are not receiving visitors. I must confess my surprise and disappointment that you would not see even me, but I know there must be a good reason, and I suspect that this self-imposed isolation means that your illness is taking its toll. For this I am so very sorry, cousin, and I wish there was something I could do to make you well again.

I’m sure you must be wondering what it is I came to see you about this morning, mere hours

after my wedding. My dear cousin, the wedding is precisely the topic I wanted to discuss with you. Or rather, my newly acquired husband.

Gifford is a horse.

I’m certain you knew this, what with your referrals to “his condition” and assumptions that I would find it intriguing. What I cannot fathom is why you chose not to tell me. We’ve always told each other everything, have we not? I consider you to be my most trusted confidant, my dearest and most beloved friend. Why then, did you neglect this rather critical detail? It doesn’t make sense.

But perhaps in this, too, I wonder now, you felt you had a good reason.

I hope that we will be able to speak more on this subject when I return from my honeymoon in the country.

All my love,

Jane

G refolded the letter, resisting the urge to crumple it up and toss it in the corner. He wasn’t offended by her surprise at his condition, but did she need to sign it “all my love”? All her love seemed a little excessive.

It was abundantly clear to G that Jane loved Edward; he’d never forget the look on her face when she’d been told that the king was dead. But had she loved him loved him? Was she thinking about her cousin right now, preparing herself to join her beloved in death?

Not that it really mattered. G tried to shake his insecurity away and instead be grateful to whoever had given this to him. His wife’s hand had written this letter. He could picture her face as she wrote it, her mouth pursing and brow furrowing the way it did when she concentrated. He was about to place the paper in his own coat pocket when he noticed something written in different handwriting near the corner of one of the folded edges.

It was one word.

Skunk

Well, that was a surprising word. No beauty in a word like skunk.

He didn’t recognize the handwriting. But no matter who wrote it, it was his only connection to Jane. G placed it in his breast pocket and for a moment pressed it against his chest.

Some time later he heard a scratching coming from the door. G shook his head, chalking the noise up to random castle creaks and groans, but then he heard it again. A distinct scratching sound.

He raised the candle, which only had an inch of light left, and walked cautiously to the door, just in time to see two beady little eyes peeking in from underneath. He barely had time to register the eyes when an entire furry body snaked its way inside his chamber, flat against the ground.

G yelped and stepped back. (He definitely did not scream like a little girl.)

Once it passed the doorframe, the creature seemed to puff itself back into shape, just as G grabbed the nearest thing he could chuck at it. A pillow. He took aim and threw it, but the little rodent dodged.

It was too long to be a mouse, or a rat, but too short to be . . . what other kind of rodent was there?

It looked like a cat and a snake had a baby together.

G stalked over to the thing and stomped his foot near it.

“Go away, you scruffy squirrel!”

The creature shied away from his foot, and he stomped again, in the direction of the door. “Shoo!

There’s nothing to see here! Go on out the way you came in.”

But the rodent made no move toward the door. Instead, it scurried over to the bed, and scampered up the hanging tassels to the bedcovers and then to the head of the bed, where it nestled itself down on top of one of the pillows.

“Get off, you nasty rat!” G grabbed one of the books he had discarded and raised it above his head.

At this, the rodent sprang to attention, on all fours, long tail fluffed out. G waved the book as a threatening move, and the rodent did the strangest thing. It moved its head in a side-to-side motion, mirroring the motion of the book, its beady eyes wide and fixated on the tome.

G jerked the book forward about an inch, and the rodent flinched.

“All right, let’s come to an agreement.” G gently lowered the book to the bed, and that’s when the rodent did something even stranger. It scurried over to the book and nestled on top of it, like a mama bird would nestle over her eggs.

“Wait. Jane?” G said.

The rodent made a nodding motion.

“Jane? ” he said again.

The rodent nodded again, this time in a more exaggerated way.

“Jane. You’re a . . . a . . . rat.”

Jane froze, and then darted frantically around the bed, then around the room, then scaled the bedpost and darted in and out of the tassels. G was worried she would do something crazy like hurl herself off the bed to her death.

“Wait! Wait. You’re not a rat. I only said rat because . . . well, I wasn’t thinking. But you’re not a rat.”

She froze on top of the bedposts, waiting expectantly.

She wanted him to tell her what she was.

“You’re a . . . a . . . well, it’s actually something I’ve not seen maybe ever. But you have fur—

beautiful fur,” he added when she started shaking. “And two lovely eyes, four strong, if tiny, legs—but not too tiny,” he added again. “Can you please come down from there before I continue?”

She stamped her foot before climbing down the poster. He could almost hear her huffing. Lord, it was so obvious she was Jane. How had he not known the second her beady eyes appeared under the

door?

She settled herself on the bed and he sat down next to her. He was tempted to pet her as he would a dog, but he resisted. She might find that demeaning.

He faced her.

“Okay, so you are a . . . a . . . an E∂ian,” he said, opting for the safest reference to her appearance.

“I don’t suppose you’re a typical E∂ian who can change back and forth at will; otherwise, you would’ve changed back to tell me who you were yourself.” He paused. “I know that sounded very roundabout, but my meaning is, you can’t control the change, can you?”

She nodded.

“Yes, you can’t control the change? Or yes, you can?” He realized how stupid the questions were.

“Never mind. I’ll phrase it this way. Can you control the change?”

She shook her head.

“All right. We are getting somewhere. Although, very slowly, and I worry about how quickly the

sun will soon be rising. So what are we going to do?” He sighed. “If only we had a horse.”

If hedgehogs or badgers could look exasperated, Jane did. She jumped off the bed and scurried to the door and went under it and out, then under it and back in.

G smacked his head. “Right! We have something better than a horse. We have a . . . weasel?”

Jane rolled over and played dead.

“Not a weasel, my lady, but whatever you are, I am catching your meaning. You can sneak in and

out and around the tower. And possibly steal a key?”

She nodded.

“And bring the key here, and we’ll unlock the door, descend the stairs, take the guard at the bottom by surprise, knock him out, steal his sword to dispatch any other guards we may come across, go to the stables, steal a horse, and head for the hills.”

She nodded again, and this time did a scurry about the bed that sort of resembled a happy dance.

“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? The way you explain it, I must say, it sounds very convoluted.”

Jane didn’t stick around to argue. She scampered out the door (which involved flattening herself in a move that defied physics) and left G pacing and waiting. And waiting and pacing. And then pacing and waiting some more. All the while, looking out the window for signs of dawn. If Jane didn’t return in time, escape would be impossible. He wouldn’t be able to fit out the door.

Maybe his captors didn’t know about the daylight curse, and if Jane’s plan didn’t work, the sheer bulkiness of his physique would delay the whole burning-at-the-stake thing. Or maybe they did know,

and they would come to fetch him sooner than the sunrise.

“Hurry, my lady,” he whispered as he paced and waited. “Please hurry.”

Eventually, he heard the soft clinging of metal far away, and it got closer and closer and G

imagined a badger carrying a set of keys up a flight of stone stairs. He went and stood by the door, and soon enough, Jane appeared underneath.

She dropped a set of keys at his feet and nudged them as if she were in a hurry.

He snatched them up and wondered if her getaway wasn’t exactly clean.

It wasn’t. He heard footsteps charging up the stairwell.

Only, there were at least ten keys on the ring.

“Which one?” he muttered. He shoved the first one in the lock and jangled it about. No luck.

As he tried the second, Jane climbed up his pants and shirt and traversed across his arm as if to add urgency to the situation.

“I’m going as fast as I can!”

Third key. The lock didn’t budge.

The footsteps got closer and closer.

Fourth key. Nothing.

Jane dug her tiny claws into his wrist.

“You’re not helping,” G pointed out.

The guard was just outside the door. “Where are you, ye little rat!”

Jane dug her claws in again.

“Don’t worry, my sweet. He didn’t mean it.”

The fifth key did the trick. The lock clicked. All three of them heard it. Just as the guard charged the heavy wooden door, G pulled it wide open. The guard fell in and G struck him on the head with the bedpost. The guard crumpled to the floor, unmoving, but breathing.

“Quick!” G whisked Jane up to his shoulder and grabbed the guard’s sword.

As he crept down the stairs, it occurred to him that as a weasel, she could’ve saved herself and left him to die. Again.

But when the time came, she didn’t. Again.

This was the perfect time of night to escape the Tower of London, mostly because it was the time with the fewest number of guards, and the ones on duty were either exhausted or sneaking sips from a hidden flask.

Nevertheless, G and Jane ran into three guards. After all, they were royal prisoners. They couldn’t expect to make it to the stables completely unhindered.

The first guard G dispatched quickly in a move that Jane would probably describe as elegant swordsmanship, but he knew was really the result of the sword slipping from his sweaty hand. As he lunged to retrieve it before it hit the ground, he plunged the sword through the heart of a guard who was just rounding the corner.

The second encounter was not so graceful. The guard raised his sword and his other hand in a fighting stance, and G did the same, hoping it wasn’t obvious he’d skipped out on half of his childhood fencing lessons in favor of playing his favorite rhyming game with one of his nannies.

The two stood there for a long time, staring, preparing for what? G wondered.

Attack/counterattack? Someone to give the go-ahead?

Jane, impatient with the stare down, scampered off G’s shoulder, across the floor to the guard, up his leg, and inside his shirt.

The guard did some strange jerky motions, not unlike a young child learning the famed estampie dance from Spain. G used the distraction to dispatch the man, making sure to aim his sword away from any bulky parts where Jane might be.

The third guard came along, saw the bleeding second guard, looked at Gifford with his sword raised (a formidable sight, if one wasn’t aware of his sword skills), and took off running.

G scooped Jane up and sprinted away as well. He started toward the stables where he’d first been held.

“We must hurry,” he said, trying not to imagine what he looked like, talking to the hedgehog on his shoulder. “That one will probably sound an alarm. We need a horse.”

The little rodent dug her claws into his shoulder.

“Yes, yes, but we need one that stays a horse. Especially if soldiers will be chasing us soon.”

He opened the stable door as quietly as possible, backed inside, looking for any pursuers, and when there were none, he shut the door, turned around, and nearly ran into the pointy end of a man’s sword.

The sword’s owner was a tall man with a beard and a uniform, but not the soldier kind of uniform.

More like the hired-help kind.

G put his hand on his rat in an automatic protective motion.

“Please,” he said. But before he could go on, the man lowered his sword.

“Are you Gifford?”

G didn’t know if he should try to deny his identity, but there was no point. He nodded.

“Where’s the queen?” the man said.

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

The man pushed by him and opened the door a crack, peeked out, and then shut it again.

“Where’s the queen?” he said again.

“I’m afraid you won’t believe me if I tell you,” G responded.

“Try me.”

G took Jane off his shoulder—she was trembling—and cradled her in his arms. “She’s here.”

The man’s scowl softened, and he leaned forward with a smile. “Ah! She’s a wee ferret. She’s a

beau’iful thing.”

“Ferret!” G exclaimed. “That’s what you are, my dear, a ferret.” He’d heard of the creatures, but he’d never seen one. “See? So much better than a rat.”

The man grabbed G’s arm and pulled him toward the stables. “We’d best be getting you on your

way, if you have any hope of escaping.”

“Who are you?” G asked again. “Are you the one who slid the letter under my door?”

The man nodded. “Name’s Peter Bannister. I’m the royal kennel master. I was loyal to King Edward. Sent my daughter to protect him, but a lot of good that did.”

“Protect him? From what? ‘The Affliction’?”

Peter opened one of the stalls and hoisted a saddle onto the steed inside. “From the likes of your dirty father. The king never had ‘the Affliction.’”

G stood still with his mouth open in surprise.

“There’s no time to explain. Get on yer horse. Follow my daughter. She’ll lead you safely away.”

While G mounted the horse (with Jane on his shoulder), Peter disappeared down toward the end of the stables and out the door that led to the kennels. He returned moments later with a beautiful Afghan hound.

“There’s a good girl,” he said, ruffling the dog’s fur. “Follow Petunia, my lord. She’ll help you.”

“I thought you said we were to follow your daughter.”

Just then a horn blew, and then another. Peter ’s eyes went wide. “Go!”

He threw open the stable doors and then G and Jane and their horse and Petunia-the-dog galloped away into the night.

(In Which We Throw History Out the Window)

Hey, there! It’s us, your friendly neighborhood narrators. We just wanted to take a break for a minute to tell you something important: up until now, what we’ve shown you has been loosely based on what we’ve been able to uncover in our research, filling in the blanks where needed.

But from this point on, dear reader, we are going to go deep, deep, abyss-to-the-inner-crust-of-the-earth deep into the stuff the historians don’t want you to know about, the stuff they will go to extreme lengths to hide. (Because can you imagine the cost and hassle of rewriting all of the history books?) We’ve traversed the great plains of Hertfordshire, spelunked the dark tunnels of Piccadilly, hiked the rolling hills of the Cotswolds searching for the descendants of our lovers and the poisoned king, and we have compiled what we so delicately refer to as . . . THE TRUTH. (Because of the danger, we considered changing our names. But we didn’t. Still, we sleep with swords under our pillows.)

If the truth of what happened to our heroes and heroine scares you—and God’s teeth, it should scare you—do not venture past this point.

But if you are a bucker of the system, a friend of truth, an ally of love, and a believer in magic, then read on.

Edward

“Take that, you lily-livered scut!” Gracie shouted, swinging her sword.

Edward sidestepped the blow in the nick of time. He puffed out his chest. “That’s King Lily-Livered Scut to you.”

She laughed. “Yes, Sire,” she said. “Of course. How could I forget?”

His heart was pounding from more than just the exertion of the fight. This whole sparring-with-a-girl situation made him wildly uncomfortable. It wasn’t proper, of course. What if he were to hurt her? But Gran had said that was nonsense and sent them outside to “work up a sweat.”

Right. Edward was definitely sweating now. Gracie was making sure of that, what with the distracting trousers that hugged her in all the right places as she parried and thrust at him, her eyes bright and cheeks flushed, the sheen of her own perspiration on her forehead and what glimpses of her neck he could see around the tumble of black curls. It was outright unfair, he thought. How could he be expected to concentrate?

“Your Majesty.” She grinned and swiped at him again. He struck back at her lightly, a series of moves designed to impress her with his vast knowledge of swordplay, and she retreated.

“You’re not bad. For a girl,” he said.

Her next blow glanced off his shoulder, not hard but certainly unexpected. Somehow she’d made it past his superior defense techniques, but it must have been blind luck. He darted away, regained his footing, then advanced on her again. She retreated. She was open; she left him all kinds of vulnerable places to strike. Still, he could not bring himself to really hit her.

“Come on, Sire,” she scoffed as his broom gently grazed her leg. “Enough with the chivalry.”

“My lady,” he said gallantly, “I’m willing to stop whenever you are. Perhaps you’d be better off sticking to more womanly pursuits, like embroidery or music or—”

She bashed him in the ribs. If it’d been a real sword in her hand, instead of half of a broken broomstick, he would have been done for. As it was, he went to his knees, the wind knocked out of him. She rapped his hand then, hard enough that he dropped his broom, and she kicked it out of the way. Before he could reach for it, she lifted her foot and sent him sprawling into the grass. When he looked up, the blunt end of her broomstick was at his throat.

Beaten. By a girl.

Inconceivable.

His mind whirled with excuses. He was still getting over the effects of the poison, of course. His twisted ankle remained a bit tender, not to mention the dog bite on his leg. A broom was not the same as a good sword in your hand—it was a poor replacement, in fact, different to balance, difficult to hold. The sun was in his eyes.

“Do you yield?” she asked.

He laughed up at her and rubbed his knuckles where she’d struck him. “Hey, that hurt.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Sire,” Gracie said, but she didn’t look sorry. “Now, does England yield?”

“To Scotland?”

“Aye.”

“Never.” He grabbed her broom, a move he’d never be able to pull off with a real sword, and pulled her down to him. They wrestled, which gave Edward some lovely opportunities to touch her, to feel the gentle curves of her body against his. But Gracie was a wild thing is his arms, and not in the good way (although it certainly wasn’t in a bad way, either). Within moments she’d somehow managed to flip him and was sitting on his chest, pinning his arms.

Inconceivable.

“Do you yield?” she asked breathlessly.

He was going to say no again, but then he got looking at her eyelashes, which were so long that they cast shadows on her rosy cheeks. And he knew he’d say yes to just about anything she asked of him.

“Yes,” he conceded. “I yield.” He looked up at her, panting. “I’m a bit rusty, I’m afraid.” That and, before now, people usually had let him win.

She got off him and picked up her broom. He tried not to look disappointed.

“You’re getting better,” she said, although he knew she wasn’t referring to his fighting, but his condition in general. He was getting better. Even after a mere two days at the abandoned castle under Gran’s torturous but effective care, his body felt stronger, his thoughts clearer. He hardly coughed anymore.

He was going to live.

Gracie reached down to offer to help him to his feet. “Do you want to make a real go of it now, Sire? Are we done playing with our dolls?”

“Call me Edward,” he said, scrambling up without her help.

She dropped back into fighting stance. Edward grabbed his broom out of the grass. He wiped sweat off his brow and smiled.

“Take that, you beef-witted varlet!” He made an honest try at hitting her this time. She dodged easily, almost skipped out of his way. Edward had the sudden suspicion that up to now she’d been going easy on him.

“Who are you calling beef-witted?” she laughed at him. “Your mother was a hamster, and your father stank of elderberries!” And away they went, whirling and stabbing with their brooms, almost dancing as they moved about the field.

She was good. Really good.

“Where did you learn to fight like this?” he panted as she nearly disarmed him again. Not for the first time it occurred to him that in spite of the hours he’d spent in Gracie’s company, he still knew next to nothing about her.

She tossed her hair out of her face, then brought her broom down hard against his. He only just managed to push her off.

“It was just something I picked up along the way,” she answered, as slippery as ever when it came to this type of question. “I prefer knives, though. Nothing beats a sharp knife in your boot.”

“Along your way to where?” he pressed. “Why are you in England?”

“Mind your own business!” She jabbed at him with her broom, but he parried. “You beetle-headed, flap-ear ’d knave!”

A laugh burst from him. “You cankerblossom!” he cried, aiming a blow that made her duck. “But

seriously, Gracie. Don’t you think it’s about time you told me something about yourself?”

“What you see is what you get, Sire.” She gave him a quick bow, then swung at him again. “You

poisonous bunch-backed toad!”

Sire, again. He might have preferred toad.

“Enough.” He sighed, then suddenly threw his broomstick to the ground. “I don’t want to play games anymore.”

Gracie lowered her own broomstick uncertainly. “Sire?”

“Perhaps you’d better be on your way, Gracie. I appreciate all you’ve done for me, but I’m sure you have better things to do than play at swords. You said you would see me to my grandmother, and you did. You don’t have to stay.”

His heart was beating fast again. He was taking a gamble, he knew. Calling her bluff.

Her eyebrows came together. “You don’t trust me? After everything?”

“I want to trust you, really I do, but I don’t know you,” he said. “I’m grateful for what you’ve done to help me, but I don’t understand your reasons for doing so. You could be a spy for Mary Queen of Scots, for all I know.” He shuddered at the thought.

Gracie stared at him for a few tense heartbeats, her brow still furrowed, and then she let the broomstick drop to the ground.

“Fine,” she said irritably. “Come on.”

She walked to the edge of the grounds where the forest began, away from the ruins of the castle and out of earshot of anyone who might hear them. He followed. She spent a few minutes picking up pieces of wood from the forest floor and then throwing them down again, as if she was searching for something. (He hoped that she hadn’t at long last decided that he wasn’t worth all this aggravation, and was choosing a branch to club him with.) Finally, she seemed to find one she liked. She sat down against an elm tree. Edward lowered himself to the ground a few feet away. He waited for her to speak.

“You asked me once when it was that I knew I was a fox.” She drew her knife out of her boot and started stripping down the piece of wood in her hand. “I was seven.”

She was going to tell him a sad story; he could tell by the way the light had gone out of her remarkable eyes. He was tempted to stop her, because he hated sad stories, and he had no right to demand something so personal from her, but then again, there was truth to what he’d just told her. He needed to know who she was.

Gracie was deftly shaping the wood with her knife, her gaze fixed on her work so she didn’t have to look at him as she talked. “That night I woke to our cottage burning. We were all inside, my ma and da and brothers—I had two brothers—and they’d blocked the door from the outside, boarded the windows, too.”

“The English,” he said, and she didn’t answer, but if it’d been anyone else, he knew she would have corrected him.

“My family was all E∂ians, as I told you. My da was a beautiful red stag, and my mum a doe, which is why they got on so well. My brother Fergus was a black horse with a white star on his forehead.” She laughed softly. “My brother Daniel was a big, lumbering hound. Myself, I’d never changed before. That night was the first time.”

She fell silent. Edward shifted uncomfortably.

“The rest of my family were too big to get out of the cottage,” she continued after a moment.

“Only I could squeeze out. My da told me I had to go. He said I should make my way south, to a convent in France where I had an aunt. He even drew me a kind of map, as the house was filling with

smoke, and tied it to my neck with my mum’s handkerchief.”

She closed her eyes.

“Why?” Edward asked softly. “The English soldiers just . . . burned houses with people inside them?”

“They burned any place that housed E∂ians.” With her knife she stabbed at the piece of wood fiercely, chips littering the ground near her feet. The carving was taking on a shape now, but Edward couldn’t tell what. “And they burned the homes of those who would protect them.”

He wasn’t so naive as to deny that such things had happened. Under his father ’s orders, undoubtedly. Edward wanted to believe that, as king, he wouldn’t have authorized this kind of abuse.

But even in that, he wasn’t entirely sure. He’d been awfully hands-off in the running of the country.

He’d signed the papers his advisors had thrust at him. He’d trusted them to do what was best for the kingdom.

The world felt different to him now. He felt different.

“Did you ever make it to France?” he asked.

She gave a bitter laugh. “I tried. I lost the map after the first week, so after that I just ran south until my paws bled. I nearly starved, because I hadn’t yet learned to hunt or steal. I would have died if . . .”

She stopped whittling momentarily and swallowed hard, like this next part pained her to speak of even more than losing her family.

“If . . . ?” Edward prompted gently, when she didn’t finish her thought.

She looked up and met his eyes. “If the Pack hadn’t found me.”

Edward sucked in a breath. “Oh,” he said, trying to sound like this was no big deal. “The Pack.”

“They weren’t always so bad as they are now,” Gracie explained. “In the beginning, the Pack was about securing safety for the E∂ian people. Yes, we stole and we plundered and occasionally we got into unfortunate scrapes with certain soldiers, but for the most part we kept to the shadows. We survived. We helped one another.”

She brushed an errant curl from her face. “The leader was like a father to me. He took me in when I had no one else. He taught me everything I know, and not just how to get by. He taught me to read and write. Mend a shirt. Figure numbers. Handle a bow, a sword, a knife. Carve and whittle. And he also taught me history and philosophy and the like.”

“What happened to him?” he asked, because he knew from her clouded expression that something

had. Not long ago, he thought.

“He got old.” Gracie resumed her whittling. “Another man—Thomas Archer is his name—

challenged him for the leadership, and won. After that things were different. Archer believes that E∂ians should do more than simply survive. He believes that we are one with nature, and therefore we should dominate it. Take what we want. Punish anyone who would challenge or harm E∂ians. Archer gathered up a group of men who become wolves, and they started to go about making trouble.”

“So you left,” Edward assumed.

“Yes.” She frowned in concentration as she began working on the finer details of her carving. “I went off one night and didn’t return. Which didn’t sit well with Archer. I was useful to him.”

“So that’s why you were so keen to avoid them.”

She coughed lightly. “Er, yes. Archer put a price on my head.”

“How much?” Edward asked.

She glanced at him. “Why do you want to know?”

“We’re short of money, of course. Every little bit helps.”

She caught on that he was joking. Her dimples appeared. “Ten sovereigns.”

His eyes widened. “Ten sovereigns! How fast can we get to this Archer fellow?”

“The Pack uses a tavern as their headquarters,” she said matter-of-factly, as if turning her in was a real possibility. “The Shaggy Dog. It’s about half a day’s ride from here, I’d say.”

She was finished with her carving. She wiped her knife and slid it gently back into her boot.

Edward leaned forward to look at the figure. It was fox, which actually bore a remarkable resemblance to Gracie in her E∂ian form, gracefully suspended in the act of running.

“Is there anything you can’t do?” he asked.

“Needlepoint,” she said, smiling. She put the fox into his hand. “I can only carve foxes. Everything else I try ends up looking like a lumpy dog.”

Together they gazed down at the little wooden fox. “It’s nice,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I only have one more question, then,” he said.

She nodded. “Ask it.”

“If the English killed your family, forced you from your home, hunted you, hurt you at every turn, then why did you help me? And don’t give me that rot about being a friend to the pathetic creatures of the world. Tell me why.”

It was the first time he’d ever seen her look embarrassed. She gave a little sigh. “The truth?”

“The truth.”

“I liked the look of you.”

He sat back, amazed. He thought (although he wasn’t entirely sure) that she meant that she’d found him good-looking. “You liked—”

“You had kind eyes. A nice smile.” She was blushing.

This was wonderful, wonderful news. “Have you seen your own eyes?” he said impulsively.

“Green like . . . forest moss.”

“Moss?”

“Like pools of . . .” He cursed himself that he was not more of a poet.

“Yes?” Her lips twitched as she clearly tried not to laugh at him.

“Beautiful eyes,” he stumbled on.

“Pools of beautiful eyes?”

“Yes. Exactly. And your hair. And your smile, as well, is so . . . And you’re funny and clever. And brave. I’ve never met a girl like you.”

“Oh, I’m not so very brave.” She was looking at him. That way. He could smell her, the lavender soap from Gran’s bathtub mixed with a woodsy smell that never seemed to leave her.

He glanced down at her mouth. He couldn’t help it.

And (miracle of all miracles) she looked down at his.

He wet his lips nervously. What if he didn’t do it correctly? What if their noses bumped? What if she found his lips chapped? What if his breath was foul?

“Gracie,” he murmured, her name a kind of music on his lips. “Grace.” Their faces were close.

Almost close enough.

His heart started to beat like a war drum. He inched even closer.

“Sire,” she breathed. “I—”

“Please call me Edward,” he said. “Things don’t have to be so formal between us.”

Before he lost his nerve he reached out and tucked one of her wild curls behind her ear.

He leaned in. This was it. His first kiss. His first k—

“BOY!” yelled a distant voice. “WHERE ARE YOU, BOY!”

Grace drew back abruptly. “Your granny is calling you.”

“She can wait,” he said.

“IT’S TIME FOR YOUR MEDICINE!” Gran called out.

Gracie jumped to her feet. “You should go in.”

“BOY!”

She hastily brushed off her trousers. “Besides, I just remembered some chores your sister wanted me to get done. Some very important chores. Full of . . . tasks.”

“Tasks?” Edward said, doubtful.

“Yes, tasks. Lots of them.”

“Gracie,” he started as she backed away from him. “Wait.”

“GET IN HERE, BOY!”

He watched helplessly as Gracie set off toward the keep, almost at a run.

“BOY!”

At that moment we should confess that Edward briefly considered murdering his dear sweet grandmother. And he might have gotten away with it, too, on account of the rest of the world thinking the old lady was already dead.

When he entered the keep, Gran was waiting for him with one of her nasty potions.

“Ah, there you are, boy. Drink up.”

“I wish you’d stop calling me boy,” he muttered.

“And what would you have me call you?”

“I’m a man,” he said.

She threw back her grizzled head and laughed heartily. “That’s cute. Tell me another one.”

She handed him a steaming goblet. He protested— How much of this stuff are you going to make me drink, anyway? The poison is gone, isn’t it? This tastes like rotten apples—but she made him choke it down. Gran had made him suffer through many terrible things in the name of ridding his body of the poison. The first day, in addition to the rotten apple brew she made him guzzle by the jugful, she’d forced him to stand for twenty minutes under the spray of an icy waterfall, then bathe in a tub of boiled milk. On the second day she’d wrapped a chicken gizzard around his neck, stuck a lump of charcoal under his tongue, and made him say the alphabet backward.

“What was the alphabet part for?” he’d asked after he finally reached a.

“Nothing,” Gran had chortled. “I just wanted to hear you say it.”

Gran delighted in torturing him.

“And when you’re done with that, go see your sister. If you’re not feeling too manly to speak with a woman,” Gran chortled now as he gulped down the last of the potion.

He did what she told him, but only because he’d been wanting to talk to Bess anyway. Not because he was a little boy who was scared of his grandmother.

He found his sister waiting for him in his chamber. “Come. Sit,” she said, and pointed him to a chair. Edward sat. On the table in front of him there was a map of Europe with several wooden figures placed upon it in strategic positions. The figures all resembled lumpy dogs.

One of the ways Gracie was making herself useful.

His gaze fell on London, and he turned his thoughts to Jane. Bess had a network of E∂ian raven

spies at the Tower of London, and occasionally a raven made its way to Helmsley with news, the most recent of which being that the new Queen Mary had rounded up all the known E∂ians on the staff and meant to make an example of them in a large bonfire at the end of the month. And after that she was

planning to send soldiers into London to gather up the E∂ians from there, as well.

Mary’s purge of E∂ians was already well under way.

But, in spite of Bess’s best efforts, there had strangely been no word of what had become of his cousin. It was as if Jane and Gifford had simply up and vanished from London the same day that Mary had arrived there. Edward assumed that Mary probably had Jane secretly locked up in a tower somewhere, if he knew his sister. But he also knew Jane, and he knew Jane could be . . . spirited . . .

when challenged, and Mary taking away her throne would be the biggest challenge of all. His cousin had a troublesome habit of speaking her mind in tense situations.

And Mary was easily offended and rather too fond of saying, “Off with her head!”

In other words, Edward was worried.

But they couldn’t rescue Jane or stop the E∂ian bonfire—not yet. They weren’t ready to take on

Mary’s considerable forces, i.e., the English army. At least, not according to Bess, who seemed to be working out a plan.

Edward looked over the map and the wooden figures on the table before him. “These are parts of

an army?” he asked Bess incredulously. “Whose?”

Her lips turned up in what was not quite a smile. “Mine. I have my contacts, my favors owed.

When I found out that you were being poisoned and Mary was building a secret army to make herself queen, I thought I might put together a secret army of my own.” She smoothed her hand over the map, and her smile vanished. “But it’s not enough men, Edward. Mary’s army is greater by half. She has the support of both the Spanish and the Holy Roman Emperor. The Spanish armada is formidable.

Unbeatable, they say. I don’t know yet how we’re going to overcome them.”

He glanced up at his sister. Her face was drawn in concentration. She was staring at a line of ships in the English Channel.

“Who do these belong to?” he asked, picking up a ship and turning it over in his hand.

“France. I believe their King Henry will support you, not Mary, as the rightful monarch, once he sees that you’re alive. He’s got to be afraid of a woman usurping the throne the way she did. It’s the only solution I can think of.”

Edward had underestimated Bess. He knew that now. She knew the world in a way that Edward himself didn’t fully understand.

“If we could get ships and troops from France,” Bess continued, almost to herself, “and perhaps at the same time seek the support of Mary Queen of Scots, reinforcements from Scotland, then we might stand a chance. . . .”

He felt his face drain of color. “Did you say . . . Mary Queen of Scots?”

Bess didn’t seem to notice his dismay. “Of course, who knows the state of the Scottish army? And help from the French king won’t come cheap. He’ll want something from you in return, probably, and you’ll forever be in his debt if you succeed, but it’s the only way.”

The only way. To regain his throne. To save Jane.

Edward swallowed. “Sounds like I’m going to France,” he said lightly, but his heart was beating fast. “When do I leave?”

Bess bit her lip. “I want you to rest a few days more. Gather your strength. You’re going to need it.”

“Can’t we send someone to retrieve Jane?”

“Who would we send? Gran?” Bess shook her head.

“Gran’s not a terrible idea.”

“I know Jane is dear to you,” Bess said. “I also know that she’s in danger. But Jane is one person,

Edward. There are thousands of lives at stake. There’s a kingdom on the edge of a knife. We must tread carefully.”

He sighed. On the map, London was just a finger ’s length from Helmsley. But Jane was very far

away.

“Very well,” he said tersely. “A few more days, and I’ll depart for France.” He rose from the chair, crossed to the window, and slung his leg up onto the sill. He wanted to be a bird now. Then he could fly away to Jane. To at least tell her that he hadn’t forgotten her. That he was coming for her, even if it took longer than he meant to.

Bess slipped out of the room behind him, closing the door.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. The sky overhead was blue and beckoning, but he resisted its call. “I’m sorry, Jane.” A wave of melancholy overtook him. “Oh, Janey, where are you?”

Jane

Jane, as it happened, was fleeing for her life.

After escaping the city, they’d started in . . . some direction. Still in her ferret state, Jane clung to Gifford’s shoulder while he rode their stolen horse out of London as fast as they could go. Pet ran on ahead of them, leading the way. To where, Jane couldn’t tell.

It was away from Mary’s soldiers; that was all that mattered.

The roads would be the first place anyone would look, so they diverted into the forest. The hooves of their stolen steed beat the ground in a relentless tempo. Hounds bayed in the distance, making Pet lift her nose to the wind. It seemed their pursuers gained on them. Jane huddled in the curve of Gifford’s neck, terrified and exhausted, as they veered here and there, lost in the dark, dark night.

Gifford hunched lower over the horse. Jane scrambled to adjust her weight, but he scooped her up and held her against his chest. “I have a plan,” he said.

Wonderful. Jane loved plans.

He glanced down at her. “It’s a good plan. I think.”

Jane bit him—not hard—urging him to just get it out.

“Shortly, the sun will rise and I will begin my daily departure from my two-legged self to my four-legged self, and then we will be able to move more quickly. I’ll send my equine friend here off on another path to create a diversion. Meanwhile, you will remain in your ferrety form and I will carry you . . . somewhere safe.”

Jane cocked her head. It wasn’t a terrible plan (although it was a tad vague), but what about Horse Rule 3? (No riding the horse.)

Gifford shook his head. “I know what you’re thinking, dear, but now’s not the time for such rules.

We need to be fast. You weigh next to nothing in this form. As long as we can find a way to secure you to me without the use of those magnificent claws, I’ll be able to run at top speed.”

That sounded good to Jane.

“Excellent,” said Gifford. “I’m glad we’re agreed.”

They careened down a narrow deer trail. The minutes stretched like hours. With the trees growing tall and ancient all around them, it was difficult to track the moon and stars. But eventually the woods lightened to a soft purple, and birds began to sing, and Jane felt herself breathe more easily. This terrible night was almost over, and she’d survived it. They were still being hunted down like dogs, sure. But things never seemed as bad in the light of day.

Gifford called to Pet and reined in the horse.

They were just slowing to a trot when Jane changed.

One instant, she was a ferret, cupped in Gifford’s hand and pressed against his chest. The next, she was engulfed in a blinding white light and then she was a girl, sitting sideways on the saddle with her

legs hanging off one side, and she was most definitely naked.

Their stolen horse snorted and stopped, disgusted with the sudden weight of two people.

“Jane! This wasn’t part of the plan!” Gifford untied his cloak and threw it around her shoulders.

“You didn’t bite me when I explained it, so I assumed we were in agreement.”

Jane scrambled off the saddle and landed in an undignified heap on the ground. She tried to get up, but her legs were wobbly after the sudden transformation.

Gifford dismounted and knelt beside her. “Are you all right?”

She nodded.

There’d been so much she’d wanted to tell him before, when she’d been locked in the Tower, but

now (possibly for the first time in her life) Jane felt tongue-tied.

Gifford looked like he wanted to say something, too. He took her hands in his, fingers grazing the rings of cuts and bruises on her wrists from the shackles, and she sucked in a sharp breath. Her wrists hadn’t hurt so much as a ferret, though there’d been a shadow of pain. Now they felt like they were on fire.

“You’re wounded,” Gifford observed.

“It’s nothing.” She tried to smile at him. “So, I suppose I can’t control the change yet.”

He arched an eyebrow at her. “What’s that, you say? You can’t control the change? How’s that possible, when you’ve read so very many books on E∂ians?”

Her face felt hot. She sat up straighter. “Well, these are just less-than-ideal conditions. I will be able to perfect the change with a bit of practice, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will. You should try. Change back, and we’ll go,” he said.

He was teasing her. She wasn’t sure if she liked it. She took a deep breath and concentrated on the idea of becoming a ferret again, because that was the plan, but nothing happened. She tried again.

Nothing.

Gifford’s gaze dropped to her collarbone. Then the shape of her under the cloth. “Wait. Never mind. Stay just like that.”

Jane yanked the cloak more tightly around her and jumped to her feet. “Gifford Dudley! Eyes to

yourself.”

He laughed and began taking off his boots. And then his socks. And then his belt.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s morning,” he explained as he continued undressing. “These are my only clothes—the guards

gave them to me when I was moved from the stables to the Tower—so it would be a real shame to

ruin them in my transformation.”

His shirt went next, revealing the contours of his chest. Jane tried not to stare. When he began tugging at his trousers, she meep ed, clapped her hands over her eyes, and spun away. “Have you no shame?”

“None at all.”

“And I don’t suppose you brought clothes for me?”

He whinnied in reply.

Jane turned around. “No clothes for me?” she repeated to her husband, the horse.

Gifford didn’t answer.

She bit her lip and eyed the clothing strewn over the ground. Trousers. How degrading. But less degrading, possibly, than spending the day wrapped in a thin cloak and nothing else.

A sharp bark pierced the air, startling her. Pet had circled back to find them all just standing around doing nothing. She barked again, and Jane remembered the soldiers still pursuing them.

They had to hurry.

Gifford’s plan had been all well and good, but what kind of plan was go somewhere safe? Now that she was the sole human of the group, the decisions were up to her, she supposed. Because no one here was capable of talking back.

First, she decided, she would get dressed.

“Gifford.” She cleared her throat. “I don’t want to question your honor, but that’s exactly what I’m doing.” She threw the cloak over his head so that he couldn’t peek at her while she put on the clothes he’d just discarded.

Gifford-the-horse made a huffing sound, but held still as she dressed. His clothes were warm and slightly sweaty. They smelled of horse. Everything was much too big, but she tightened the belt as small as it would go and rolled the hems of her pants and sleeves. Then she tied her hair into a quick braid and freed Gifford of his blind.

“So I’m to ride on your back?” she asked nervously. “And break Horse Rule three?”

He tossed his head in the affirmative.

She tromped over in too-large boots to inspect the other horse’s saddle.

She’d read about saddles in The Great Saddle Controversy: Pros and Cons of Various Saddles and the Best Choice for a Patriotic Englishman. This saddle only vaguely resembled the ones she’d seen sketched in the book, but how hard could it be? Seat, saddle tree, girth, blanket. There was a small saddlebag as well, but Jane didn’t open it to inspect its contents. No time.

Pet let out a yip. Hurry, she seemed to say.

“Hold your horses,” Jane muttered as she began to unsaddle the borrowed horse. This proved to

be a challenge, since the horse was much taller than she, and the saddle weighed at least half what she did, but finally she managed to haul it off and dump it on the ground.

The pad of blanket underneath was damp with sweat, but she didn’t have a choice except to drape it over Gifford’s back with an apology. Still, she was wearing his clothes. He could wear their horse’s blanket.

Next came the saddle again. Gifford was at least kind enough to walk over to a large rock, flat enough for Jane to stand on. But his movement had gotten the blanket all out of place, so she had to drop the saddle, fix the blanket, and urge Gifford to stay still while she adjusted the saddle into place.

With some difficulty, she fitted the girth strap into its buckle and tugged as tight as she dared. When she hopped off the rock to inspect her work, she realized horse-Gifford looked a lot . . . rounder than normal. “Are you holding your breath?”

Gifford blew out and resumed his normal proportions while Jane tried again to tighten the girth.

By now, Pet was running circles around the group. Jane gave the girth strap one more good yank

—Gifford dramatically heaved a breath—and then reached for the other horse’s bridle.

Gifford shied away from her, snorting. The message was clear: she might be able to break Horse

Rules 1 and 3, but Horse Rule 2 still stood. No bridling the horse.

“Fine, but at least let me take this off. I don’t want him to trip on the reins.” She unbuckled the other horse’s bridle and let it slide to the ground. Then she grabbed the saddlebag and strapped it onto Gifford.

Pet whined and barked and circled again, tighter. Both horses’ ears flickered backward. Even Jane could hear the pounding of hooves now. Mary’s men were catching up.

She threw herself onto Gifford’s back and tried not to fall off as he launched himself like an arrow in the direction they’d been heading before, the other horse following close behind.

Jane tried to keep her head down. Twigs and brush snapped around her as Gifford ran tirelessly

on. He leapt and swerved and pounded through the trees and close underbrush, sure-footed and strong, and even when the forest became too thick for speed, he stubbornly continued forward.

They’d been going for a while when, as abruptly as he’d started, Gifford stopped. The other horse stopped, too, and Pet, who sat down a few feet away. For a minute they all just stood there, breathing hard.

“What are we doing?” Jane hissed.

The other horse began ripping up bites of grass. Gifford bobbed his head, as if acknowledging a good idea, and nibbled on his own patch of greenery.

“Gifford, this is not the ideal time to take a break,” Jane admonished him, leaning over his neck.

“The soldiers are still close.”

Gifford shook his head so his mane rubbed across her face. She spat out horsehair, straining to hear anything under the wind rustling trees and the horse teeth grinding grass into a gross, green pulp.

“This is stupid,” she commented.

Then, without warning, Gifford turned on the other horse and bit the air close to his nose.

The horse—previously believing Gifford to be a friendly man-horse—reared up and screamed.

Jane shrieked and clutched the pommel as tightly as she could while Gifford pushed forward, snapping and lunging at the other horse. He circled around him, blocking the jagged path of the way they’d come until the poor creature had no choice but to peel off into the woods.

They listened to the horse crash through the underbrush. Then Jane, Gifford, and Pet were alone.

Jane pressed her hands against her chest and dropped her forehead against Gifford’s neck. “That was mean,” she said, and reached forward to flick his ear. “He was a nice horse.”

Gifford blew out a breath and immediately began picking his way through the woods, doubling back to the deer trail.

So as to leave less of a trail, Jane realized. Now anyone who followed them here would likely follow the new trail the other horse had left, not expecting Jane and Gifford to go back the way they’d come.

“I see now,” Jane said. “I guess I forgot the plan. That was still mean, though. You should try to be nicer to the other horses. You’re herd animals. Who will you run with if he goes back to tell the others of your two-faced personality? Who will you compare apple notes with? Soon you won’t have any friends but me.”

They ran on and on until the sky turned a fiery red. They’d lost their pursuers hours ago, no baying dogs or thundering horses behind them now, but they still kept up a steady pace through the woods.

She was just about to suggest that they make camp when they came upon a small, abandoned farm.

Gifford paused at the edge of the trees, giving Jane a chance to appraise the tumbledown cottage and the barn tucked behind it.

“This seems a good place to spend the night, doesn’t it?”

Gifford made a noise that sounded like assent and she slid from his back to look around. Pet ran with her, tail flagged with canine joy, stopping every few feet to check for danger. They found none.

The cottage was in bad shape, the thatched roof caved in and the rooms full of birds and mouse nests, but the barn still seemed intact. They could take shelter there.

Jane’s legs were shaky from riding so long, and her whole body felt weak with hunger, but she

was able to haul open the barn door just wide enough for a saddled horse to fit through, and then Gifford trotted inside, pausing to nose at her shoulder as he passed.

“I’m so hungry I could eat a horse. Oh. Sorry, G. Not you, of course.” She pulled the door closed.

There was a rusty lantern hanging on the wall, and she moved to light it. Then she turned to Gifford.

“Now let me take that saddle before you ruin it when you change.”

Pet zipped around the barn, sniffing here and there. Then, just as Jane was about to get to work, Pet ran back to the door and scratched to be let out. She looked decidedly uncomfortable.

“You should have gone before we came inside,” Jane muttered and opened the door a crack.

Alone with her horse husband, Jane set about unbuckling the girth and relieving him of his humiliation. He shook and stretched at the sudden freedom, then—to Jane’s horror—rolled on to his back and rubbed himself against the dirt floor.

“Now that’s just ridiculous.” Jane snapped the blanket, making drops of sweat fly off, and laid it over a post to dry. The saddle followed.

It wasn’t long before sundown, so she dropped the cloak near him and dug through the saddlebag

to search for additional clothing.

Nothing.

Instead she found a bag of cured meat and two containers of water. She’d drunk an entire flask of water and wolfed down nearly half the meat before she realized she ought to wait for Gifford to change, and give him the bigger share. Surely he was as hungry and thirsty as she was. He’d been on his feet all day.

“It seems we’re going to have to fight for the clothes,” Jane said. “One of us should get the shirt and trousers, and the other the cloak. As for the boots, they don’t fit me anyway, so you’ll just have to keep carrying me.”

A burst of light filled the barn, and then Gifford said, “As you wish.”

“G!” Jane spun around to find Gifford just pulling the cloak around himself. Impetuously she ran to embrace him, in spite of their awkward (and scandalous, though they were married, so did it really count as scandalous?) clothing situation.

“Jane.” He wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head.

It surprised her, this sudden gesture of affection, but she welcomed it.

“We survived the day,” she said against his chest. “We both kept our heads. Hoorah for us.”

A laugh rumbled through him. “So we did. Hoorah.”

She pulled away to smile up at him, and felt a paper crinkle in her breast pocket.

“What’s this?” She vaguely remembered feeling a folded parchment in the shirt earlier, but she’d been too busy fleeing for her life to give it any attention. She took it out and instantly recognized her own handwriting.

It was the letter she’d sent to Edward before she’d left for her honeymoon.

“Peter Bannister slid that under my door in Beauchamp Tower.” Almost hesitantly, Gifford brushed Jane’s face and smoothed back her hair. “I thought you might want to keep it.”

“Thank you.” All at once she felt safe, for the first time since their last night in the country house.

She was tempted to snuggle back into the circle of his arms, but the letter seemed important. “Why would Peter Bannister want you to have this?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I thought he was just giving me something of yours. To comfort me.”

She turned the paper over. On the back there was a single word scrawled: skunk.

Her breath caught. “This is Edward’s handwriting.”

Gifford frowned. “Edward’s?”

“Edward’s! I’d know his writing anywhere. You see how he shapes the s? When we were younger we had this one terrible tutor—Richard Cox was his name—and he was always going on about

Edward’s ghastly penmanship. ‘You should write like a king,’ he always chided him. He made the king copy pages and pages of the letter s.” She smiled at the memory. “Poor, dear Edward.”

“Yes, poor, dear Edward,” Gifford agreed faintly. “So what does skunk mean?”

“I don’t know. I—” She gasped. “Our gran—my great-grandmother, his grandmother—turned into a skunk. She was banished to an old abandoned castle in the north years ago. I’ve visited her there. It’s called Helmsley.”

“Does that mean Edward is alive?”

“I think it does.” She hugged Gifford again, elated by the idea of seeing her cousin. “If Edward’s alive, then he’s heading to Gran’s and we can go there, too, and then everything will be all right, you’ll see, and you and I can—”

Jane turned into a ferret.

Gifford

Before G had time to be surprised about Jane’s transformation, something scratched at the barn door.

G partly drew his sword from its sheath. (Not that he was really any good with a sword, but G was masterful at this particular bluff—to act like he could fight. Sometimes the act was all that was needed.)

“Who’s there?” he called out, his heart hammering.

There was an urgent whine in response.

G opened the door and Pet flew in. She let out a couple of shrill barks, ran out the door, ran back to Gifford, ran outside, and then stared out into the night, one paw lifted, frozen.

“What’s she trying to say?” G asked Jane-the-ferret. Jane responded by scurrying up G’s leg, then up his shirt, then snaking around his neck and ending up on top of his head.

At this point, G realized he’d just asked a ferret what the dog said.

With his Jane hat in place, G squinted into the darkness, trying to figure out what had gotten Pet in such a fluster. Pet ran a few yards out, turned, and panted at G. She leaned even farther away from the barn as if she would take off in that direction if only G would follow.

“Pet,” G said. “Remember the bad soldiers. Right now is not a good time to travel, especially when I’m not a horse, and therefore we have no speed.”

Pet darted back inside the barn, and with a flash of light, suddenly she was a girl.

A naked girl with long, tangled blond hair.

Naked.

With no clothes on.

“I caught His Majesty’s scent!” she exclaimed.

A soft tail swept across G’s cheeks and came to rest right in front of his eyes, but G could still see the flash of light as Pet transformed back into a dog.

He stood there for a long moment, flummoxed.

“Did you see the . . . less formally attired girl who was just here?” he asked Jane. She dug her claws into his head. “Did you have any idea Pet was a girl? Although she didn’t look very comfortable as a girl. She didn’t make any motion to cover herself.” This time, Jane scratched his face. “Not that I noticed.”

Pet emitted a high-pitched bark again and pointed her nose outside the barn, and it wasn’t until that moment that G remembered she had said words. While standing there. Naked.

“You caught King Edward’s scent?” G said.

Pet barked twice and ran back to the door.

“We can’t go now,” G argued. “It’s too dangerous.”

With another flash, she was the naked girl. “We have to go now! It’s already faint, and the rain will

make it worse.” She flashed to the dog again. This time, Jane hadn’t had a chance to cover his eyes.

How did Pet switch forms so easily, when G, and now Jane apparently, were governed by the sun?

He’d have to focus on that later.

“Pet, we have no supplies.”

The dog growled.

“All right, all right. We go now.”

G grabbed his cloak and saddlebag, removed his lady from his head to set her on his shoulder, and they followed Pet out into the night.

Pet was a fast tracker. With her nose to the ground, she slipped along, somehow maintaining a swift pace without breaking contact between her nostrils and the dirt. G tried to keep up. At least the moon was especially bright tonight, making it easier for G to keep from stumbling.

They had to stop often so that G could catch his breath. During one of these rests, with ferret-Jane asleep around his neck, Pet flashed into a girl and stood before him. “Why can’t you just change?”

G averted his eyes from her southern hemisphere, and then from her northern hemisphere, and then decided the only safe place to look was the stars.

“I can’t control it. It’s a curse. When the sun’s down, I’m human. When it’s up, I’m a steed.” Okay, steed was probably pushing it.

Pet groaned. “Get yer house in order.”

“My house? I have no house.”

“Not the one over there,” she said, pointing in the direction of London. (He could see her pointing out of the corner of his eye, even though his gaze was still averted.) “Your house in here.” She poked his forehead and then his chest.

“Ow,” G said. Her fingers were incredibly strong. “Ow. How am I supposed to—”

But she flashed back to her dog form and began running again before he could finish his question.

They ran and rested and ran again. Breathless and panting, G longed for the sunrise, partly because it would give his human feet a break, and partly because Pet seemed thoroughly unimpressed by his long-distance running, and she refused to hide it.

Then Pet stopped and looked around, confused. She sniffed in one direction, then the other, then the other . . . and didn’t pick one. She sniffed out every possible path, and even up the trunks of a few trees, and then she lay down and whimpered, her brown eyes drooping at the corners.

“What’s the matter, girl?” G crouched down and stroked Pet’s head.

A flash of light, and Pet was a girl, and G was still crouched over her, stroking her hair. It was a move that definitely breached the boundaries of propriety. He leapt back so quickly he almost threw Jane-the-ferret into the trees.

Pet-the-girl looked like she might cry. “His Majesty was traveling with one other person. I was tracking both of their scents.” Her nose wrinkled as if she found the smell of this mystery person unpleasant. “But His Majesty’s scent, it . . . it stops. Something bad happened here.”

Before G could ask her to explain, she flashed back into a dog. She seemed more comfortable that way, as if she could better manage her despair in that form.

G felt his little ferret shaking on his shoulder, and knew that Jane must be fearing the worst for Edward.

“He’s okay,” G whispered, then faced the dog. “Pet, we’ll follow the second scent. If it doesn’t lead us to Edward, it will certainly lead us to answers.” His wife trembled again. “But I’m sure it will lead us to Edward.”

Jane gave a ferrety nod and flattened herself, ready for him to start running once more.

G wasn’t nearly as excited to be reunited with Poor, Dear Edward as Jane was, though.

He wondered if that made him a bad person.

Several hours later, and after a too-brief nap, G became a horse, and Jane became a girl.

He wondered what they were going to do with no saddle (which they’d left in their rush from the barn), but Jane didn’t hesitate to climb up on his back.

(At this particular era in time, it was scandalous for a woman to ride with no saddle. It would be considered reprehensible—and possibly justification for a prison sentence—for a woman to ride with no saddle on a horse who is really a man. Even if that man were her husband.)

No one had ever ridden G before. It was a strange, but not entirely unpleasant sensation to feel Jane’s weight on his back, her legs gripping him around the middle.

“Do you mind if I hold on to your mane?” she asked, in as proper a voice as she would’ve used at a dinner party when asking, “Would you mind passing the butter?”

G held his head back toward her in response.

She took a handful, but she didn’t hold too tightly.

“Let’s go find Edward, Pet,” she said to the waiting dog. “This scent must lead us to Helmsley.”

Yes, G thought a bit glumly. Let’s find Edward.

They walked for hours, until he felt Jane slump against his neck and then slip dangerously to the side. G lurched the opposite way to counterbalance, and she was able to right herself.

“I’m sorry,” Jane said. “I’ll hold on tighter.”

They needed food, G thought. Neither of them had eaten more than a few bites of dried meat for

almost two days. Everything from the saddlebag was gone now, and the bag itself left behind because even that small weight would slow them.

“We need food,” Jane said, as if she’d read his mind.

But in order to get food, they would have to forage (none of them had experience), or they would have to hunt (none of them had ever killed an animal), or they would have to head closer to civilization (where there might be soldiers who wanted to kill them). And he couldn’t do any of these things in his current state. All he could do as a horse was try to walk evenly.

“I’ll find something,” she announced. G stopped, and she slid from his back. He waited as she wandered off, returning a few minutes later with a small handful of dark purple berries. “I gathered all I could find. They’re Dorset berries. They’re safe. I read about them in Poisonous and Nonpoisonous Berries of the Wild: the Joys of Surviving England on a Budget. At least, I think they’re the safe ones. The pictures in the book weren’t very clear.”

With that shining endorsement, she laid the berries out on a piece of cloth, divided them up into three even groups, placed one pile in front of Pet and another in the palm of her hand. She lifted it to G’s mouth, and he ate them, trying desperately not to chomp off one of her fingers in his excitement over food.

Jane looked at her hands, now covered with horse slobber. “Gross.” She wiped her palms down

G’s flank. “You can have that back.”

Then she ate the other pile.

“We’ll need to go to a village,” she said, her lips stained purple.

Again, exactly what G had been thinking.

Soon enough they hit a road, and it was only a little while after that they came upon a small town,

centered around a giant tavern with a wooden sign above its door that bore the silhouette of a mangy-looking dog. It was nearly dusk and the three weary travelers had no money and nothing to trade with, so they stayed at the edge of the forest to come up with a plan.

Jane loved coming up with plans.

She climbed down from G and put the cloak over his back, anticipating the change. Then, she crept up behind a tree and peeked around the edge of the trunk to survey the village.

The sun touched the horizon. In a flash, G was a man. He held the cloak around him and jogged

over to Jane.

There was a brightness in her eyes and a smile on her face that made his heart lift.

“There’s a storehouse in the back of the tavern,” she said excitedly. “I saw a man loading dead rabbits and cured beef inside.”

“Oh. I’m sure they lock it up. We’d have better luck if I broke into a house.”

“We’re not going to steal it!” She shook her head, as though she couldn’t believe he would suggest such a thing. “I just meant they have food. And we can get some. By we, I mean you. You’ll have to go in there and do something in trade.”

G imagined standing in the corner, reading poetry for a different group of strangers, a ferret riding on his shoulder. He imagined the ferret biting him if she didn’t like the poem. Not that he’d had a chance to prepare anything. Or bring a page with anything. The first time he’d read for a crowd, he’d meant to recite the poem from memory—he’d gotten to “all the world’s a blah” before his mind went blank—and he’d mumbled a few words that vaguely rhymed and then fled.

“I’m not sure that’s the best course,” he said. “My skills are somewhat limited, thanks to my daily horse diversion, and I haven’t— In a while— I mean—”

Jane blushed bright red. “Anyway, we’re married. And do you think anyone would really pay you

for that?”

G blinked a few times before it hit him. She meant—ah—consummation. And that no one would

pay him for it sounded something like an insult, but there was no time for offended feelings now.

“Oh, ah, I don’t— Rather, I haven’t—”

“Never mind that.” Jane waved the topic away. “Don’t do whatever you were thinking about doing.

Just clean some tables or scrub the floor. Taverns always have dirty floors, don’t they? What with the sloshing ale and the vomiting.”

Jane seemed rather overcritical of taverns in general.

“I see. I can do that.” He started down the hill, but she stopped him. Probably good. He was wearing only the cloak, he realized.

“Wait! I’m going with you.”

“But you’re about to change,” he pointed out.

“I’ll go as a ferret. In your boot.”

“Jane,” he protested. “This could be dangerous. We don’t know what to expect in there. I won’t be able to concentrate if I’m worrying about you.”

“But—”

“Please. Stay here and stay safe.”

She frowned and looked like she was about to protest, but then with a flash of light, her clothes fell to the ground and she was a ferret.

G took the clothes and dressed. They were still warm from the heat of her body, and still smelled of her faint perfume. He was tempted to take a moment to breathe it in, but Jane-the-ferret was edging toward his boot. “No, darling. Stay here. I’ll come right back. I promise.”

She stopped, let out a long ferret sigh, and deflated until she was lying flat on the ground. She looked unbearably bored.

“Consider taking a nap,” he said. “You’ve earned it.”

The inside of the tavern was well lit and filled with men and women in plain but sturdy clothes, most covered with some kind of fur, as though everyone worked with animals. They didn’t have the look of farmers. An odd stink rode under the scents of roasted meat and bread, but the food made his stomach grumble loudly. It was all he could do to keep from launching himself onto the nearest plate.

Conversation died as everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to look at him.

“Ah, hello.” He gathered his courage. This was just like reading poetry, but subtract poems and add people casually placing hunting knives and daggers on their tables. One of the women was filing her fingernails into sharp points, like claws.

Just like reading poetry.

G regathered his courage and strode to the far end of the room, toward the bar. He had to squeeze in between two burly men with tear-shaped scars on their faces. They all smelled vaguely like wet dog. A young man at the end of the bar leaned forward and smirked at him in a decidedly unpleasant manner.

The bartender eyed him. “What do you want?”

“I—” G had never needed to admit to not having money before. “I don’t suppose you have any work that needs doing around here?”

“Work?” This fellow clearly had not so much brain as ear wax.

“I could clean the tables or scrub the floor.”

The bartender pointed to a haggard-looking serving wench, who scowled at him. “Nell here does

that.”

“Or I could peel potatoes. Or carrots. Or onions. Or any root vegetable, really.” G had never peeled anything before, but how hard could it be?

“We have someone who does that, too,” the man said. “Why don’t you push off. This isn’t the place for you.”

G would have suggested yet more menial tasks he’d never attempted, but at that moment, he put

together the hints: the wet-dog smell; the fur on everyone’s clothes; the defensive/protective behavior when he, a stranger, entered.

That, and they were eating beef.

Cow.

Possibly that village’s only cow.

All at once, he knew. This was the Pack.

“Er, yes, perhaps I should be pushing off, as you suggest—” he started to say.

“Rat!” Someone near the door lurched from his chair, making it topple over behind him. “There’s a rat!”

It couldn’t be Jane, he thought. He’d told her to stay put.

“It’s not a rat, you daft idiot,” cried another. “It’s a squirrel!”

“It’s some kind of weasel!”

Bollocks. It was his wife.

“It’s dinner, that’s what it is.” That was the man directly to G’s right. “And he’s a spy. Asking all those questions about vegetables.”

“She’s clearly a ferret!” G yelled as he lunged toward the dear little creature dashing about on the floor. But Jane was too far away and everyone was suddenly moving, weapons in hand as they rushed

toward G. He tried to dart to one side, but the man who wanted to eat Jane for supper threw out his arm and caught G in the throat. G immediately dropped and gagged.

Over the thunder of footfalls on hardwood and shouts of “Get the rat!” Gifford heard the most terrifying sound of all: a loud shriek, followed by silence.

Someone had stepped on Jane.

G shoved himself up and pushed through the group until he reached his wife, who looked like she was preparing for another good scurry. Nothing broken, then. Probably. Hopefully. G grabbed her up in his arms.

From the exit, a series of loud barks sounded: Pet.

G tucked the ferret against his chest and turned to flee. There were a half dozen people in the way.

He curled his shoulders around Jane and ran head-on into them, barreling through the press of people and—after a few bright bursts of light—dogs and wolves. If there’d been any doubt before that this was the Pack, it was gone now. But somehow, in spite of the various daggers and swords they slashed at him, G finally made it to the door.

Pet was on the other side, snarling and biting at those who would follow (gosh, we love that dog), and she stayed back to give G time to escape. He ran as fast as he could as a man, and after a few minutes he found himself alone in the forest, just a shuddering Jane against his chest. He let himself slow down. It was then that he finally registered the stabs of pain in his arms and legs. He must have been cut during the scuffle.

G dropped to one knee to catch his breath, and relaxed his hold on Jane. “Well, at least no one will ever say that our married life has not been exciting, right, my dear? But I thought we agreed that it would be for the best if you stayed in the woods.”

She didn’t respond.

All at once he became aware of the blood soaking the front of his shirt and how unusually quiet she was.

Jane was never quiet.

She was hurt.

G threw off his cloak, laid it on the ground, and placed the ferret on top. It was too dark for him to see anything besides the outline of her small body and her breath coming in fast, short gasps. He ran his fingers down her side and discovered a long, deep gash. He tore a piece from his shirt and wrapped the cloth around her, hoping to stanch the flow of blood.

“Jane?” His voice shook. “Tell me you’re all right.”

Of course, ferret-Jane couldn’t answer. She just looked up at him, limp in the bundle of the cloak.

A tiny whimper escaped her.

Brush crackled and G whirled, but it was Pet.

In a flash of light, she was a naked girl. “The other dogs won’t follow.” She flashed into a dog again, came over, sniffed at Jane, and whined. G closed his eyes and bowed his head.

“Jane. Jane, you stubborn girl.” He carefully picked her up and cradled her against him. “I’m going to get you to Helmsley. Don’t leave me before then, Jane. Don’t leave me. Go, Pet!”

The dog took off and G followed her, running like he’d never run before. He ran flat out for at least ten minutes, and then he kept on running, because Jane was depending on him, and now it was his turn to save her life.

Edward

A dog was barking. Stupid dog.

Edward had been lying awake for hours, trying to sleep, but he found his bed uncomfortable, and his head full of women: Mary with her great velvet-encased rear end upon his throne, which irked him. Jane shut up inside a cold, dark room somewhere, weeping because she thought he was dead, which—okay, well, Edward liked the idea of Jane mourning him more than he would have admitted

out loud. It did seem appropriate that she would grieve for him; she was his best friend, after all. But the idea of Jane locked away in London and him here, helpless to go to her, nettled him. And then there was Bess with her complicated plans that all seemed to come down to Edward entreating the King of France—one of his least favorite people—for help, which felt an awful lot like begging, and kings did not beg. Plus Gran with her disgusting tonics and her razor tongue and the infuriating way she had of making him feel like a boy who had only played as king.

And Gracie. Gracie, Gracie.

The way she’d said she liked his smile.

The surprising roughness of her hand against his when she’d given him the little wooden fox.

Her trousers, because she was too stubborn to wear skirts like a proper female.

Her finger against his lips back in the barn, her eyes full of danger and fun.

Her untamable hair.

Her laugh.

Of course she was always laughing at him, it seemed. Mocking him. Knocking him onto his backside. Disobeying his commands, even the simple ones like, Call me Edward. How hard could it be to call him Edward?

Edward was vexed.

The dog was still barking, a sound that bounced off the stone walls of the old keep, loud and constant. Edward turned over onto his side and yanked at the tangled covers. The mattress was lumpy, stuffed with a combination of wool and straw. In the palace, he’d slept on a feather bed with fine sheets and the softest of furs. He’d never had to clean his own shirt. Or see to his own chamber pot.

Or subsist on rabbit stew for three nights in a row.

Bark, bark, bark, went the dog.

And let’s not forget the women. He found himself suddenly overtaken by women, and not the demure and silent young ladies that fawned over him at court. Oh, no. He had to be surrounded by opinionated women who delighted in bossing him around.

Aggravating, unkissable women.

And still the blasted dog would not stop barking!

Even the dogs here are ill-mannered, he thought as he crammed a pillow over his head and pressed

it to his ear. In the palace, the dogs never barked all night. That was not allowed. Pet certainly never barked, unless there was something wrong. Something urgent. Pet never—

Edward sat up.

Of course at that exact moment the barking stopped. The night fell so silent that he was afraid that his eardrums would burst, he was straining so hard to listen. Then he heard a door bang somewhere in the keep, and muffled voices in the hallway. Alarmed voices.

Edward got out of bed and quickly put on his pants and boots. More doors were slamming downstairs, and there was the scrape of heavy furniture being dragged across the floor. The castle could be under attack—it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. If Mary caught on that he was alive, she’d send soldiers to dispatch him straight away.

Edward looked around for a sword, but all he could find was a butter knife and his half of the broken broomstick, which would have to do. He stuck the knife in his boot, tightened his grip on the broom, threw open his chamber door, and stepped out into the hall.

Immediately he was hit with an invisible wall of Gran’s skunk stench, so strong it could have knocked him over. Another ominous sign.

Edward crept down the stairs, his heart thundering, his hair practically standing on end. The entire population of the castle added up to seven people: Edward, Gracie, Bess, Gran, a cook, an old lady-in-waiting who served as a housekeeper, and an ancient man-at-arms who could hardly lift his sword. If they were set upon by soldiers, they were done for. His head would be delivered to Mary in a basket, come morning.

The main hall was deserted, not even the fireplace flickering, but Edward could hear voices. He followed the sound to the kitchens. Banging. Yelling. Carefully, he pushed open the door a crack.

What he saw through the crack was Gran. The old lady was moving with uncharacteristic swiftness around the kitchen, lighting candles, followed closely by a drawn and grim-faced Bess.

“Yarrow, that’s what I need,” Gran said to Bess. “It’s a purple star-shaped flower. It should be in my storeroom hanging from the rafters. And horsetail, if you can find it. Go!”

Bess darted out of the room through the back door, which led out into the ruined courtyard. Then Gran put her foot up on a chair and hiked up her gown, showing a purple-veined leg. She started to hack at her underskirt with a kitchen knife. Edward must have made a sound then, because Gran looked up.

“Get in here, boy,” she barked.

Edward obeyed. No one else was in the kitchen. The long table in the center had been cleared off, and in the middle there was a cloak, and something on it—something dark and furry. An animal of some kind.

“Are you cooking something?” Edward asked stupidly. “What’s happening?”

Gran tossed him what was left of her undergarments. “Here. Tear this into strips.”

Before he could form a coherent protest, the door to the courtyard burst open, and Gracie and a stranger came in, lugging a large bucket of water between them. They went straight to the fire and poured the water into the cauldron that hung over the flames.

“Good. Now go to Elizabeth in the storeroom and help her find what I need. You know something

of plants, I think?” Gran said to Gracie, who nodded and slipped out again.

“You,” Gran said to the man who’d helped Gracie bring in the bucket. “Sit down before you fall

down. I don’t want to be stitching up your head tonight, as well.”

The man swallowed like it would hurt him to attempt to speak. He was sweat-stained and unwashed, and he looked exhausted. He pulled a chair over to the table and sank into it, gazing down

at the tiny creature. It was a mink, Edward thought, similar to a pelt his sister Mary wore as a scarf around her neck in the winter months. Beautiful, soft fur. But why all this fuss over a mink?

The man reached out a hand to stroke the small head, with such tenderness that Edward’s breath

caught. But the creature didn’t stir.

The man’s lips moved, a word that resembled please.

“Edward. The linens,” Gran snapped.

The man looked up at Edward and met his eyes.

It was Gifford Dudley.

Jane’s husband. Here. The look on his face like his heart was being rent in two. Like the little mink on the table meant more to him than anything else in the world. Like it was him dying.

Edward’s breath left his lungs.

“Is that Jane?” he gasped. “Jane! Is that Jane?”

Gran grabbed him by the collar and dragged him away from the table. “Yes, it’s Jane, and she’s

hurt, and I’m really going to need those linens, boy.”

Immediately Edward set to tearing up the linens, all the while watching Gifford, who kept his eyes on the table—Jane! Jane!—his expression so miserable and so lost that it was no wonder Edward hadn’t recognized him at first.

What had happened to them?

The water in the cauldron was hot. Edward finished tearing up Gran’s underskirt, and Bess and Gracie returned with the herbs. Gran brought a candlestick over to the table and peeled the bandages back to reveal the mink’s long, blood-streaked body. Edward’s heart was in his throat as Gran peered at the small form.

“She was wounded in this form, not as a human?” she asked Gifford gruffly.

Gifford nodded. “We were trying to . . . I don’t know what happened, really.” His voice faded. “It was so fast.”

Bess handed Gran a bowl of the paste she’d made from the herbs, and a basin of hot water. Gran

began to clean Jane’s wounds. Within moments, the water was pink.

Edward felt light-headed. And also like he might lose his rabbit-stew dinner.

“Edward,” Gran said quietly, her eyes never leaving her work. “You sit down, too.”

He sat and took some deep breaths until he felt marginally less queasy. “Jane’s an E∂ian,” he whispered as he watched Gran tend to the little creature.

“So it would seem,” Gran said.

“All this time, it’s all she ever wanted, to be an E∂ian. What . . . what is she, exactly?” Edward asked.

“A ferret,” Gifford answered tonelessly. “She’s a ferret.”

“She’d be better off a girl, right now,” Gran said. “If you’re hurt as a human, the wound will be less in your E∂ian form—not gone, mind you, but less. If you’re in the animal form when you come to harm . . .” Her lips tightened as she stared down at ferret-Jane. “It would be better if she were human. I could see her wounds more clearly without the fur, for one thing.”

“Can’t we get her to change somehow?” Edward asked, his voice cracking.

Gran shook her head. “The body will stay in whatever shape it feels safest, which is typically the animal. There has to be a conscious decision to overcome the fear, and prompt the change. No. We must wait for her to wake up.” She drew the cloak up over the ferret’s body like she was tucking a child into bed. “We must wait,” she said again.

But what if she doesn’t wake up? thought Edward, but he didn’t say it. He couldn’t.

Gran put one hand on Edward’s shoulder and the other on Gifford’s. “It’s late. I don’t suppose I’m going to convince either of you to get some rest?”

They both shook their heads.

She sighed. “All right. You watch over her, then. Come wake me if anything happens.”

It was morning, the sun not yet visible but lighting the eastern sky, when Jane changed. Edward would not have believed it if he hadn’t seen it—the ferret one moment, his cousin the next, lying curled under the cloak. He jumped to his feet and ran to fetch Gran, but he’d only gone a few steps when he heard Jane moan a name.

“G,” she said.

Gifford. Her husband, he remembered with a pang. Gifford was her husband because Edward had

asked her to marry the young lord, even though she’d begged him not to make her go through with it.

She’d listened to Edward. Which was why she was lying there now in bandages.

It was all his fault. He was a terrible best friend.

He turned. Gifford was holding Jane’s hand. He brought it to his face and pressed it to his cheek, then kissed her palm. “Jane,” he whispered. “Wake up.”

Her eyes moved behind her eyelids, then fluttered open. “G,” she said again, and the corner of her mouth lifted in a smile. “I thought I might not see you again. . . .”

“You’ll have to work harder than that to be rid of me,” Gifford said.

Edward suddenly felt like he was intruding on something intimate. He took a step backward toward the exit, and his foot shuffled against the rough stone floor.

Jane looked over Gifford’s shoulder and saw him.

“Edward,” she breathed, her brown eyes widening. “EDWARD.”

She gave a choked cry and reached out. Of course he went to her. Gifford straightened and moved out of his way so that Edward could sit beside her and clasp her hand in his.

“You’re alive,” Jane said. “I kept asking to see your body, but they wouldn’t let me, and I thought that perhaps it was all a ruse and you weren’t really gone, that they were lying to me, that you were out there somewhere, and that meant that I wasn’t really the queen and I shouldn’t be there, but it felt like wishful thinking.”

All of those words seemed to exhaust her, and she whimpered and sank back on the table. He noticed, then, that there was blood seeping through the cloak. He turned to ask Gifford to go get Gran, but Gifford had already gone. Gran came hustling through the door, rolling up her sleeves.

“Gran,” Jane said. “We found you, after all.”

“Be quiet, dear,” Gran said. “Rest now.”

Jane sighed and closed her eyes. Gran smoothed the red hair back from Jane’s forehead and started to draw the cloak away from her. Then she stopped and glared at Edward.

“Out with you,” she ordered. “You, too, horse boy.”

Edward turned to see Gifford standing in the doorway, his expression tight. They went outside together, where the first rays of sun were touching the highest stones of the keep.

“I have to go,” Gifford said. “Will you . . . ?”

“I’ll stay with her,” Edward offered.

Gifford lowered his head and nodded stiffly toward his chest. “Thank you.”

Then he was moving away from Edward in long strides across the grass, shedding his clothes as

he went, until a light flashed and he was no longer walking, but galloping across the field.

Edward sat down on the ground next to the door and leaned against the wall, drawing his knees up

to his chest. He was cold, and he was tired, but he didn’t care. He’d be there for Jane the minute Gran allowed him back into the room.

“Sire,” said a soft voice. He glanced up. Gracie was holding a cup of something out to him. He

took it. It was hot, steam curling off the top. It warmed his hands.

“Please say this isn’t one of Gran’s potions,” he said.

“Only one way to find out,” she replied.

He took a sip.

Tea. No milk or sugar, but tea, all the same.

“Thank you,” he said. “You’re perfect—I mean, it’s perfect. Thank you.”

“Well, that’s what the English drink in times of crisis, I hear.” She lifted her arms over her head and stretched, then yawned, then smiled. “We Scots prefer whisky.”

He was too tired to smile back properly. He drank the tea slowly, savoring the heat that filled his belly. He felt his shoulders start to relax.

“You really love her, don’t you?” Gracie asked him as she took the empty cup from his hand.

“Jane.”

“Yes, I love her,” he said. “We’ve known each other all our lives.”

He was about to say something more, about how Jane was like a sister to him, that kind of affection between them, but then he heard a mad, joyful little bark, and Pet was on him.

The dog wiggled and danced all over him, whining and whimpering and yipping, her tail wagging

like mad. He grinned and tried to pet her, but she wouldn’t hold still. It was only when she started to lick his face that he remembered that there was a girl someone in there, a person, and he sobered and tried to get to his feet.

“Someone’s happy to see you,” Gracie remarked.

“Uh . . . yes,” he said. “Down, Pet. Down.”

There was a flash, and she was a naked girl.

“Your Majesty,” she said earnestly. “I am so glad to see you. I followed your scent all the way here, and I thought I’d lost it once, but I found it again. I would have come more quickly, but you told me to protect Jane, so I stayed with them.”

He resisted the urge to say “good girl” and pat her on the head. “Well done, Pet,” he said instead.

“You did well to stay with Jane.”

He would never get used to Pet being a naked girl. Her hair was long and thick and it fell over her in all the needed places, but it still shocked him every single time.

He wasn’t the only one. Gracie was standing there with her mouth open. It was the most taken aback he’d ever seen her. He would have laughed if the whole situation weren’t so completely uncomfortable.

“So, Pet,” he said, and cleared his throat. “I’d like you to meet Gracie MacTavish. Gracie, this is Petunia Bannister, my . . . er . . .” Bodyguard felt like the wrong word. Protector seemed unmanly.

Companion could be taken the wrong way. “Watch . . . person,” he settled on finally.

Pet cocked her head to one side and stared at Gracie. Then she sniffed the air. “Fox,” she deduced, her nose wrinkling in disgust. “So you’re the one I smelled.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Gracie said wryly.

In a flash, Pet was a dog again. She crouched next to Edward’s feet, gave Gracie a baleful stare, and then growled low in her throat.

“I’m sorry,” Edward said, mortified on so many levels. “She’s never been too fond of strangers.”

He bent to admonish the hound. “Gracie saved my life, Pet. She’s my friend.”

Pet laid her head down on her paws and sighed heavily.

He glanced up to find Gracie staring at him. “What?” he asked. “I know it’s a bit unconventional, but her family has been serving the royal line for generations, apparently, and I only knew she was an E∂ian a few weeks ago, I swear.”

“Is that what I am? Your friend?” Gracie asked.

“Of course,” he said.

“Because I saved your life?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I mean—” He didn’t know which answer she wanted. He paused to collect himself. “Do you consider me your friend?”

Gracie shook her head. “I don’t know what to consider you, Sire.”

His teeth came together. “Edward,” he corrected.

Pet growled again. He frowned at her, and she fell silent.

“Is there anything else I don’t know about you?” Gracie asked. “Any more surprises we have in

store?”

There was so much she didn’t know about him, he thought, that he would like her to know. But he answered, “No. I think that’s it.”

“All right, then.” She gave a little bow. “Your Majesty. Pet. I must take my leave for now. Your granny has asked me to procure some items for her, and I cannot refuse the old lady.”

“Procure, as in steal?” Edward asked.

Dimples. “It’s best not to ask too many questions, Sire. You worry yourself about your Jane. Leave me to my own devices.”

Your Jane. He settled back into his spot against the wall. Your Jane, like Jane belonged to him somehow, and had that been an edge in Gracie’s voice when she said it? Like she was jealous? Like she wished that she could be his Gracie?

He could only hope.

“She’s going to live,” Gran announced sometime later, startling Edward from where he was most definitely not sleeping. “She’s asking for you. I’ve put her in your bed, as it’s the most comfortable in the keep. Don’t wear her out with talking. She’ll heal quickly, but she needs rest.”

He told Pet to stay, and ran all the way up the stairs.

Jane was sitting propped up with pillows. She looked tired, and vaguely ill, with lavender circles under her eyes and her lips pale as chalk, but she smiled at him bravely.

“You’re alive,” she felt compelled to point out again.

“So are you,” he replied, sitting down carefully next to her. “We’re miracles, you and I.”

“I’m a ferret,” she said like she was confessing a great sin that she wasn’t sorry for.

“I noticed that, too. I’m a kestrel. Pleased to make your acquaintance. And it would be rather splendid, except that when I fly I seem to lose my brain. I’m working on it. Flying should be useful, when I can control it more. I can fly ahead and scout. Spy on people. I can’t wait to spy on people. Just think of all the dirt I’ll dig up.”

She fingered the edge of the scratchy linen sheet. “That’s wonderful.”

“So we’re E∂ians,” he said jubilantly. “At last!”

She smiled again, but her heart wasn’t in it. She was still hurting, he thought. He took her hand.

“Janey. You’re going to be all right now. Gran says so, and you dare not defy Gran.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Well, I’m going to be fine. I promise.”

He glanced out the window, where the sun was making its descent in the sky. “It will be dusk soon,

and your husband will return. Promise him, too.”

“How is he?” she asked in a wavering voice. “Is he very angry with me?”

“Why would Gifford be angry?”

“He told me to stay behind when he went into the tavern. But I went in anyway.”

Now there was a big surprise.

“He’s not angry. He’s worried about you, of course,” Edward answered. “Does his breath smell of hay? I often wondered.”

Jane smacked him, then winced. “We had a fight, when I became queen. Dudley wanted me to make

him king, as an equal, but I refused.”

“Smart girl, I’d say. I think he’s forgiven you,” Edward said.

It was undeniable, the way Gifford felt about Jane. The man had been in agony at the thought of losing her. His love had been like a light burning in the room last night, clear to anyone who saw it, from the look on his face when he thought she might be dying, to how he’d paced the room and fretted about her those long hours before she’d become a girl again. Edward had not been able to stop thinking about the way Gifford had held Jane’s hand to his cheek and kissed it. Edward hadn’t ever known that depth of feeling. Not romantically, anyway.

Gifford loved Jane. And judging by her face when she talked about her husband, Jane loved Gifford, too. They loved each other. Even if they hadn’t admitted it to themselves yet.

Edward smiled.

Maybe there was going to be a happy ending to this story, after all.

Jane

“The key to changing to your animal form,” Gran said, “is to know your heart’s desire.”

Right, Jane thought. My heart’s desire.

It was late afternoon, and Jane, Edward, and Gifford were standing just off the worn path that ran around the ruins. The keep lifted high above them, blocking the worst of the sun’s glare and casting heavy shadows over the piles of fallen stone and the thick green grass. Gran stood opposite them, while Gracie circled the group with a stern expression on her face, her arms crossed over her chest.

Jane had a headache.

“Be honest with yourself,” continued Gran. “If, in the moment you want to change, you do not know why you want to become a bird or ferret or horse—”

Gifford snorted. He was a horse already.

“—or human, then you will stay exactly as you are.”

“What about curses?” Jane asked.

“What about curses?” A pungent, garbage odor slipped into the air, making Jane cough at the sour taste in the back of her throat. Gran had never been very patient, and the more annoyed she became, the worse she smelled.

“How are we supposed to control our changes if we’re cursed?”

“What makes you think you’re cursed?”

“Gifford spends his days as a horse and his nights as a man. Every day, without fail, he changes.”

Jane used to blame him for his struggles. She’d thought of him as undisciplined. Now she had a bit more sympathy. “And, for the time being, anyway, I spend my nights as a ferret.”

At least she had every night since the Tower. The sun went down, and flash—Jane was a ferret, whether she wanted to change or not. It was a problem. The first step, she thought, was admitting it.

“That’s why we’re here.” Gran’s odor grew stronger. “Because you lot need to learn to control yourselves.”

“Isn’t the point of a curse that it can’t be controlled?” Jane gestured toward Gifford, who’d bent his head to nip at the grass. “We need to break the curses first, and then learn how to control the change.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Edward said. “Good thinking, Janey.”

“That sounds stupid, if you ask me,” Gracie said, staring flatly at Jane. “You’re not cursed. You’re just stubborn.”

“Gracie’s right.” Gran let out an aggravated sigh. “You’re not cursed. There’s something in you making you want to change when you do.”

“Well, changing because of the position of the sun definitely sounds like a curse to me,” Jane argued.

“Me too.” Edward frowned. “I think it’s likely that Gifford was cursed, and Jane, you got this curse because you married him. Which means this is partially my fault. I’m so sorry.”

Jane touched Edward’s arm, consolingly. “It’s not your fault.”

Gifford gave another loud snort, and something large and ploppy dropped from his hindquarters.

He never had the best manners in his horse form.

Jane smoothed down the edges of her borrowed dress. The cut and colors were decades out of fashion, but that sort of thing had never bothered her. She was just grateful to have something more dignified than trousers. Then again, Gracie had made trousers look like the most fashionable things a woman had ever worn. Edward certainly seemed to appreciate the view, from the way he kept gazing at her with his mouth open.

She was almost embarrassed for him. Really.

“You both must have a reason to change with the sun,” Gracie said.

“That’s right,” Gran agreed. “It’s a matter of the heart, like I was saying. When you truly want to control your forms, you will.”

This was all feeling very judgmental to Jane. “How can you say that? No one wants to control their change more than I!”

Gran clucked disapprovingly. “Tell me about when you first changed.”

“It was in my time of great emotional need,” Jane said with a lift of her chin. “Just like in the stories. I wanted to avoid getting my head chopped off. And I wanted to save Gifford from being burned at the stake. So I became a ferret and rescued him.”

“A very noble first change.” Edward smiled her way. “And mine, of course, was wanting to avoid

being murdered in my bed. I needed to escape, so I did.”

Gran glanced at Gifford as though she expected him to tell the story of his first change, but he just blew out a breath and gazed toward the field surrounding the old castle, like there were places he’d rather be.

“What about your first change, Gran?” Jane asked.

“One of my maids forgot the fruit with my breakfast. I became a skunk and sprayed her.”

Gracie laughed. “That isn’t true, is it?”

Gran lifted an eyebrow. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“I’m calling you a storyteller.”

“Fine. The gardener killed a rosebush and I found myself agitated.”

“Gran!” Edward said. “Tell us the truth.”

“Ah, the truth is a slippery thing,” Gran said, but then she sighed. “Very well. One of my ladies-in-waiting spent the night with my husband.” She waited a beat to make sure they understood what that meant. “I didn’t find out until court, and there in front of everyone, I transformed into a skunk and sprayed in every direction. I was aiming for my cheating husband, you see, and my traitorous lady.

But skunks have poor vision, so I had to guess. I guessed incorrectly a few times.”

Jane choked back a laugh. It was an amusing idea, but that had been a time when being an E∂ian

was punishable by death.

That was the time Mary wanted to resurrect. Which was a sobering thought.

“It took me some time to control it, too, at first, if you want to know,” Gran admitted gruffly. “I don’t think I understood my heart’s desire back then. I was ruled by baser things.”

Jane gazed down at her feet for a minute. Was she not being honest with herself? What did her heart want?

“All right,” Edward said. “I’m ready to try.”

“Good.” Gran gave two sharp claps. “No more talk of curses.”

“Close your eyes,” Gracie advised. “Sometimes that helps. Think of what you like about your other form. Think about what you want to do in that form.”

Jane had always been a fantastic student. She immediately closed her eyes and recalled what it was like being a ferret. She’d loved being so useful. The way she could hear and smell everything. And she was quite portable, easily draped over Gifford’s shoulder. There wasn’t a better creature to be.

“I want to be a ferret,” she whispered. “I want to be a ferret.”

“Silently, Jane.” Edward sounded vaguely annoyed. “You’re not the only one trying to concentrate.”

She glanced over at her cousin. He was still too thin, too pale with his recent illness—poisoning, she reminded herself—but he did look better. Stronger. Very much alive.

As she watched, the tension around his shoulders eased. His eyes were closed, and he was smiling as if he were picturing something wonderful.

“Sky,” he murmured.

His light flashed so bright that Jane had to squeeze her eyes shut. She heard the flap of wings.

Feathers rustling. When she looked up again, Edward was in the air.

She put her hands on her hips. “How did he do that?”

“Just how we said.” Gracie looked from Jane to Gifford, who was still eating grass. “He wanted to become a kestrel enough. It was his heart’s desire.”

Jane was pretty sure that her heart’s desire was to be a ferret, but here she was. Two legs. Upright.

Not enough fur. Eyes decidedly not beady.

She poked Gifford. “What about you? Did you even try?”

He lifted his head and angled for ear scratches.

“Unbelievable!” She stepped back and folded her arms. “Don’t you want to be a man during the

day? If it’s all about desire, why do you not desire to be a man?”

He ignored her and wandered away, seemingly satisfied to be a horse.

Meanwhile, Edward was soaring and diving with abandon back and forth above them, and soon he

gave a great hawk-like cry, and vanished over the trees.

“I’d better go after him,” Gracie said. “Looks like he’s caught up in that bird joy again.” Then right there in front of Jane, Gran, and Gifford—who was aiming for a field to run in, not even noticing the ladies anymore—Gracie shimmied out of her trousers and turned into a fox so quickly Jane didn’t have time to protest.

Jane turned to Gran. “Now what?” Edward was a bird and loved it too much. Gifford was a horse

and wouldn’t try to fix it. Gracie and Gran could change at will and didn’t see why Jane couldn’t.

Jane didn’t see why she couldn’t change, either.

“Now you try again,” Gran said. “Or I’ll turn into a skunk and spray you.”

She closed her eyes. She imagined herself being a ferret. She put her whole heart into it.

“You’re just making your nose twitch,” Gran said.

“Shh.” Jane pictured being ferret-like.

“Now you’re just crouching.”

Jane sighed, frustrated.

“Did you just meow?” Gran said.

Jane made fists and stomped her feet. She wanted to scream, but she refrained from saying anything except an earnest whisper. “I desperately, desperately want to be a ferret right now.”

But every time she checked, she was still a girl.

Jane was still a ferret when she awakened the following morning.

Because she had turned into a ferret . . . eventually. When the sun fell below the horizon. Just like before.

Gran and Gracie could ignore the evidence all they wanted, but Jane knew better. A curse was a

curse.

She was curled up on the pillow next to Gifford’s head. He was snoring a little, so quietly it would have been nothing to her human ears, but her ferret ears were much better and he sounded like a thunderstorm. With a mind to make him stop, she stretched and bumped her nose against his eyelid.

He groaned and waved her away.

She bumped his eyelid again.

“That’s cold,” he grumbled.

She nipped his nose lightly.

He sat up with a start, definitely awake now. “My lady! If you wanted to wake me, you’ve succeeded. But you don’t have to take off my nose.” He was grinning, though.

Jane made a low chuckling noise and danced across the bed, the mattress giving an extra spring to her jumping.

“Most undignified, my darling. But quite charming.” Gifford laughed and excused himself from

the room. “I’ll return once you’ve changed.”

A few minutes later she became a girl again. Just like that: the sun was coming up, and she changed without even trying. It was mystifying that she was still, after all this time, completely unable to control her E∂ian self.

She’d only just managed to get all the pieces of her secondhand dress in their proper places when Gifford knocked and came back into the chamber.

“Need help with the laces?” he asked.

“Yes. Thank you.” She turned so he could access the ribbons along the back of her gown.

He swept her tumble of red hair over her shoulder, his hand lingering there for a moment before he saw to the fastening of her gown. “Anything for my wife.”

She was coming to like that word— wife. Especially the way he said it.

“So what’s the plan for today?” he asked as he fastened a hook at the top of the gown, his fingers brushing the skin between her shoulder blades. Jane shivered. “Are we storming any castles?”

“No, but we’re starting our long journey to France tomorrow. So we need to pack.”

“I wasn’t aware that we had any possessions that would need packing.” He pulled the laces tight, but not too tight. She appreciated that.

“Bess is arranging for a finer gown for me to wear,” Jane explained. “For the French court.

Edward says he wants me with him when he makes his appeal to the king.”

Gifford cleared his throat. “Ah. I see. Edward wants you with him.” He finished with her dress quickly and stepped back. “There.”

“It makes sense that I should be there, in case I’m needed to validate Edward’s story.”

“Yes, of course,” he said stiffly. His expression was suddenly blank. “The sun’s almost up. I should go.”

She followed him as he made his way outside. “Wait, G—”

“Have a good day, my lady,” he said, and jogged off, pulling at his clothes.

“Have a good day,” she called after him lamely.

Then he was a horse. She watched him trot through the gardens and jump a low section of the crumbling wall.

She sighed.

Gifford had been acting strangely since they’d escaped London. For the most part, he was warm

and affectionate with her. He teased her, but never with an intent to hurt her feelings. He often held her hand. He called her pet names, like “my darling” and “my sweet.” Those things shouldn’t have had such an effect on her, but they did. Being with him made her breath come quicker and her heart pound and her palms get all clammy. It made her wish she could remain human all the time so that they could stay together.

But then there were other times, especially when they were around Edward and Bess and Gran, when Gifford retreated behind a wall of silence, his jaw set in a way she recognized as anger. She wondered if he blamed her for all that had happened.

They had no home now, no safe place to go except for this broken-down abbey. No title or position. No possessions, as he’d pointed out.

That was hardly her fault, but still. She’d been awful to him in London. They’d had an actual fight.

She’d thrown pillows at his head.

No wonder he hadn’t even been trying during their training session with Gran and Gracie. He was probably happy to avoid her company.

Jane watched him canter across the field, his head high, mane streaming. He seemed so content as a horse. And it wasn’t as though she’d given him much of a reason to try to be a man.

Her chin lifted. They had so little time together now—just a few minutes at the start and end of every day. She’d have to use those precious minutes wisely.

She’d have to try harder to win back his trust.

When she came into the kitchen later, Gracie, Bess, and Edward were discussing the best routes to take to France.

Bess unfolded a map and spread it across the table. “If we want to move quickly—”

“And we do,” said Edward.

“—then we need to take the most direct route with the best roads,” Bess finished.

Jane stood on tiptoe to peek around Edward’s shoulder. “Let’s do that.”

“But there are a few problems with this route,” Gracie said. “Mary’s men will be looking for all of you, and this road”—she dragged her finger over a line—“takes us dangerously close to the Shaggy Dog.”

“The Shaggy Dog?” repeated Jane.

“From the description that Gifford gave us,” Edward said, “that’s the tavern you were attacked in.

The headquarters of the Pack.”

Jane shivered. “What are our other options?”

“Longer paths on poorer roads.” Edward pointed out a few. They did look rather out of the way.

“So what will we do?” Jane asked.

“I . . .” Edward drummed his fingers on the map. “Speed is of the essence. But so is safety. What do the rest of you think?”

“Long way,” Gracie replied immediately. “The Pack is bad news.”

“Short way,” Bess said. “We’re taking back a kingdom. We should be bold. And swift.”

Everyone looked at Jane, who consoled herself with the reminder that, though she was a tiebreaker, this would still be Edward’s decision. He was the king. “Short way,” she said. “I agree with Bess.”

Gracie glared. Edward looked uncomfortable. Bess gave a faint smile.

“Furthermore,” Jane said, “I think we should recruit the Pack to our side.”

“Are you daft?” cried Gracie. “They almost killed you.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“They’re not just some random bandits, you know,” Gracie said. “They’re a well-run

organization. And they see themselves as superior to humans. They certainly don’t answer to any king. They’ll use your pretty feathers to stuff their pillows, Sire.”

“Right. Recruiting the Pack sounds like a terrible idea,” agreed Edward.

“But we need anyone who isn’t already on Mary’s side,” Jane argued. “We could use all the help

we can get.”

“Not their kind of help!” Gracie shook her head. “Tell her, Edward.”

“What do you think, sister?” Edward turned to Bess, who looked thoughtful.

“I have my army, of course, and France will hopefully agree to loan us some of theirs once you

ask King Henry. But that still might not be enough men to take back your crown.” Bess tapped the place on the map where the Shaggy Dog was located. “Besides, I’ve been thinking that perhaps it’s not enough to simply take back your crown.”

Edward stared at her. “What do you mean?”

“This country is divided. E∂ians and Verities are at each other ’s throats. The people are caught in the middle, and they are suffering for it. It’s one thing to win back your crown, Edward. It’s quite another to win back your country. Your people. You will need both sides to do that. Verities and E∂ians. You must unite them. And to do that, you’ll need the Pack.”

“You’re right,” Edward said.

“You’re crazy, is what you are.” Gracie’s green eyes were filled with worry—though that worry

was masked with a practiced expression of annoyance. “If you go to the Pack, you’ll die.” She turned to Jane. “I don’t want to hear a rumor about Thomas Archer wearing a ferret stole come this winter.”

Jane shivered. She didn’t want to be a ferret stole, either. She remembered the danger of the Pack well enough. The gash in her side was still stitched and healing. And she remembered the villagers and their poor cow.

That was just the kind of thing that had to stop if things were going to get better for England.

Which meant that Bess was right. I was right, Jane thought, silently congratulating herself for having the idea.

“Thank you very much for your concern,” she said to Gracie, “but I think we should go.”

“What do you mean ‘we’?” Edward turned to Jane, his eyebrows raised in alarm. “You’re staying

here to recover from your injuries.”

“My injuries? I’m quite recovered now, really.” Mostly.

“Even so, you’re not going. The Pack is too dangerous.”

Gracie straightened. “That’s right, Your Majesty. The key word here is dangerous.”

“Why are you so afraid of them?” Edward turned on Gracie. “I’ve never known you to balk at danger before.”

“I am not afraid!” Gracie bristled. “I just don’t want to . . . see Archer again.”

“Why not?” Bess folded her hands in front of her.

“Because he’s my ex,” Gracie blurted out.

“Ex?” Jane had no idea what that meant.

Bess leaned toward Jane, keeping her voice low. “Former paramour.”

“Oh!” Jane nodded, finally understanding. “They had a romantic relationship.”

“What?” Edward’s face turned bright red as he looked at Gracie. “You had a relationship with

him? Archer?”

“My affairs are my own business, Sire.” Gracie tugged a hand through her mess of black curls.

“But it does mean I know far more about the Pack than any of you, so you’d best take my advice. Stay away from them. They’re trouble. Especially Archer.”

“Especially.” Edward frowned and turned back to Jane. “All right. I’ve made my decision. I’m going to recruit the Pack. But you’re staying here. So are Bess and Gracie.”

Bess lifted an eyebrow. “I’m not staying here.”

“If you’re going to insist on this fool’s errand of yours, I should go with you, too.” Gracie stalked forward, her hands in fists at her sides. “Archer won’t be reasonable. It’s not in his nature to do anything unless it directly benefits himself. But perhaps I can keep you from getting yourselves killed.”

“No,” Edward protested. “You’re staying here, too. To—uh—guard Jane.”

The Scot’s green eyes shot daggers at Edward. Jane almost felt bad for her cousin. “Oh, and I suppose you’ll let Gifford go with you?” Gracie huffed.

“He’s a strong young man—”

“He’s a horse!” Jane and Gracie yelled at exactly the same time. They paused, glanced at each other, and Jane understood immediately that they were now on the same side. “Allow us to tell you exactly why we’re going with you.” With a quick nod, she indicated Gracie go first.

“I know the Pack, for one. I know their tricks and hideouts. And furthermore, when you lot get hungry and start looking for bugs to eat, I’ll be the one to find something you’ll actually want to eat.

Not to mention I’m quick with weapons and the king needs all the protecting he can get.”

“Now stop right there—”

But Jane was ready now. “To complement Gracie’s considerable skills with violence and illegal

activities, I have read at least twice as many books as you, Edward. Likely three or four times, which means I’m quite knowledgeable on an assortment of subjects that might come in handy.”

“Just because we’re girls doesn’t mean you have to coddle us,” Gracie said. “The truth is, you need us. You need me, especially, if you want to face the Pack.”

“It’s not because you’re girls.” Edward’s face was red again. “All right, fine. I suppose you’d just follow us anyway and then we’d have to rescue you in addition to everything else that awaits us. I guess you can come.”

“Fine,” said Gracie. “Then it’s settled.”

But Jane had a feeling that it was still anything but.

The group’s mood was somber as they approached the Shaggy Dog—Gracie had told them over and

over that this was a bad idea. That it wasn’t going to work. That they were all going to die and become pillows and stoles.

“Well,” Bess said as they were finally making their way down the main street of the village toward the tavern. “If anyone’s inclined toward prayer, now might be the time.”

“Yes. Last chance to call it off,” Gracie said.

“You can still wait with the horses,” Edward said. “I can do this on my own.”

“Shut up, bird boy.”

There were five horses with them—four normal and one very special, in Jane’s opinion—and they tied the four real horses to a post. Then they were standing at the tavern steps. The sign over the door squeaked on its post—the image of a dog with vague scratches in the paint to signal shagginess.

It looked different in the daylight. And smaller, now that she wasn’t a tiny ferret with blurry vision.

Still, Jane shivered. This was where she’d almost died just days ago.

Edward said, “Gifford—”

The fifth horse snorted.

“Call him G,” Jane translated.

“G, watch our mounts.”

Gracie began changing the knots on the horses’ leads. “This is a better knot for our situation. If we run out screaming, we—or G—can just pull the ends of these and flee.”

The whites around Gifford’s eyes shone.

“I agree,” Jane said to him, and turned to Gracie. “Do you think fleeing will be necessary?”

Gracie nodded toward a corner on the far side of the street where a man disappeared behind a butcher shop. Then to the rooftop of an apothecary. The streets were eerily empty for this time of day.

“They know we’re here. Maybe they haven’t done anything yet, but they know.”

Jane petted Gifford’s soft cheek. He blew out a breath and dropped his chin on her shoulder, pulling her into what might have been a horse version of a hug. She put her arms around his neck for a moment and breathed in the warm scent of his fur.

“I’ll be fine,” she whispered by his ear. “They won’t recognize me. But if anything bad happens, you have my permission to kick down the door.” She rubbed his forehead before hurrying after the others into the tavern.

“I’m here to speak with Thomas Archer,” Edward called as the door swung shut behind them.

There were seven people in the taproom—five drinking at tables, one working at the bar, and one in deep conversation with the bartender—and all of them stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at Edward.

“Who are you?” asked the bartender.

“I’m the King of England,” Edward announced. “And I want to speak to Thomas Archer.”

One of the drinkers laughed. “The king is dead. So is the new queen. The new new queen sits on

the throne now. Mary.”

“She is not the rightful queen,” Jane objected.

Bess bumped Jane’s arm in warning. Then, subtly, she nodded toward Gracie, whose gaze was fixed on the man sitting at the bar. The Scot’s hands were clenched into fists at her sides.

No question about it: that man was Archer.

His back was turned to them, but there was enough to reveal him as a young man. His form was

slender and straight. Strands of black hair curled over his collar.

“He is the king,” Gracie said to him alone. “He’s telling the truth.”

Slowly, the young man at the bar turned around. He had a striking face, with sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw. He looked Gracie up and down. “So, the little fox returns. With a king, no less. You’re looking fine, Gracie. Did you miss me?”

“Not even a little.”

“Aw, now.” Archer grinned and pressed a hand to his chest. “You wound me, lass. Do it again.”

Edward reddened and strode up to the bar, pulling out a handful of coins, which he slapped down in front of Archer. “Ten sovereigns. To pay off the bounty on her head.”

Archer looked from Edward to the coins, and back. “Bounty? Is that what she told you?”

Edward pushed the coins toward Archer. “And now with that matter out of the way, I wish to recruit you to my cause.”

Archer remained sitting. “And what cause is that?”

“I want to get my kingdom back.”

Another drinker laughed. “Mary has an army, from what I hear. You have a fox, a grand lady”—

he nodded respectfully at Bess—“and a redhead.”

“Hey, Jane’s hair isn’t that bad.” Edward ceased the truly inspiring defense of her hair and composed himself. “What I mean to say is, I intend to take back the throne, and as citizens of England, the Pack should be with me.”

Archer scoffed. “What has England done for us?”

“You’re E∂ians,” Edward said.

“Guilty as charged. But I don’t see why that means we need to side with you, boy king.”

“Mary is Verity, through and through. Even now she is hunting down E∂ians with the intent of purging them from England.”

“I know,” said Archer grimly. “Haven’t you heard that the royal servants have already been interrogated, and anyone thought to be an E∂ian has been jailed? They’ll be burned in less than a fortnight, I hear.” He took a deep drink from his mug of ale. “But we E∂ians have survived hundreds of years of persecution. What does it matter to us if the reigning monarch is E∂ian or Verity?”

Bess stepped forward. Everyone looked to her—there was just something about Bess that commanded a room. “Freedom,” she said to answer his question. “Real freedom, Mister Archer.

You’ll be equals to Verities. No longer persecuted.”

“Begging your pardon, my lady, but King Henry made the same promise when he transformed into a lion, and that didn’t change much for us.” Archer shook his head. “Be king or don’t. It doesn’t matter to me.”

This wasn’t going well.

“But I am your king!” Edward said. He was saying that a lot lately. Too much.

“Nope,” said Archer. “But if you leave now, I might let you walk out of here with your lives.

Because I’m feeling generous today.”

Like we mentioned earlier, there were seven people in the tavern, and now six of them had some

sort of weapon drawn.

The members of Edward’s party exchanged anxious glances. Well, they’d tried and failed. Gracie

had been right: there was no reasoning with Archer. Perhaps they’d just have to consider it a victory if they got out of there alive.

Edward sighed. “All right. Come on.”

He turned to go.

Jane stepped forward. “Wait. You’ll join us,” she said to Archer. “And it will be for one very simple reason.”

Everyone was looking at her now.

“Times are hard.” Jane hid her trembling hands behind her back and moved to stand before Archer. “You’re a powerful band, but that doesn’t make you immune to the world’s problems. The Pack is being hunted. You say you’re not concerned about the mass burnings Mary has scheduled for the E∂ians, but I heard your voice catch when you talked about it. Likely some of those palace servants work for you, and you know there’s nothing that you can do to help them. But Edward could help them. He could stop the huntings. The burnings. The endless circle of killing and being killed. If you align yourself with the king, it will benefit the entire Pack. Are you so full of pride that you don’t see that?”

Archer lifted an eyebrow in Edward’s direction, and Edward took the opportunity to puff out his chest. “If I regain my throne, the Pack will be pardoned, on the condition all illegal activities cease.

And I will make this country safe for E∂ians. I swear it on my life.”

“Right. But why do you care so much about E∂ians?” Archer challenged.

“Because he is an E∂ian,” Jane said.

Archer ’s gaze swung appraisingly to Edward. “You? You’re an E∂ian?”

“Yes.” Edward met the Pack leader ’s stare. “I am.”

“What creature?”

Edward looked down at his hands. “A type of bird. Like a falcon.”

The side of Archer ’s mouth curled up. “Interesting.”

“We do not make these promises lightly, Mister Archer,” Bess cut in, before the man could ask them to prove their E∂ian status and they’d all have to get naked. “A pardon, food, medical supplies, coin, whatever you need: all will be made available to you.”

Archer ’s eyes flashed greedily. They’d done it, Jane thought. He would agree to fight alongside them.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said after a long moment. “I just don’t believe you’re the kind of king I want to fight for.”

Edward was flabbergasted. “Why?”

“Let’s be honest.” Archer leaned back in his chair. “The kingdom wasn’t in the greatest shape before you allegedly died. Verities still hunted E∂ians. The authorities were corrupt. Even a shilling isn’t worth what it used to be. You never did anything to help us then. You may be an E∂ian, and you act like you’re the one in charge, but your ladies have been the ones making all the compelling arguments.” Archer gestured at the others in the tavern. “We have a decent life here. None of us want to risk our skins for someone who hasn’t proven he’s worth the effort.”

Edward took a deep breath. “How would you have me prove my worth?”

“There’s something I want,” Archer said, and Jane suspected he’d had this in mind all along, maybe even before they’d made their initial plea. “If you can deliver this item, I will join you.”

“What is it?” Bess asked.

Archer looked at Gracie. “I want Gracie to return the item she stole from me.”

After a moment of surprise, Jane and Edward both turned to Gracie.

“Well?” said Jane.

“Go jump in a river,” Gracie said to Archer. “You’re not getting it.”

“It belongs to the leader of the Pack,” he argued.

“It was Ben’s, and he’d have wanted me to have it.”

“Er, Gracie, the fate of the kingdom is at stake,” Edward murmured, but she ignored him.

“I offered you ten sovereigns for it,” Archer said. “You could buy a hundred knives with that.”