My Lady Jane by Cynthia Hand, Brodi Ashton, Jodi Meadows (4)

“A knife?” Edward gaped at Gracie. “The bounty was over a knife?”

“My knife.” Gracie’s hand went to the pearl-handled knife strapped to her hip. “I can’t give it up. I won’t.”

Jane thought all this fuss over a knife was a bit excessive, even if it was an attractive weapon, to be sure. But then Edward sighed and touched Gracie’s shoulder. “All right.” He turned to Archer. “There must be something else I can give you.”

Archer ’s eyes went back and forth from Edward to Gracie, stopping at where Edward’s hand rested on the girl’s shoulder. He scowled. “I want the knife. There is nothing else I desire.”

“The knife is not mine to give. It’s Gracie’s,” Edward said. “But there must be something else. A task, perhaps. Something I could do for you.”

There was a heavy silence throughout the room. Finally, Archer laughed and said, “All right, then.

Kill the Great White Bear of Rhyl.”

Jane scoffed. “That’s an absurd demand. The Great White Bear is a myth. I’ve read every book on the subject, and all the experts agree that the beast is nothing more than a fiction.” Legend had it that the Great White Bear was tall as the Cliffs of Dover. As wide as the English Channel. Mothers and fathers often told their children the Bear would come after them if they didn’t go to bed on time or do their chores, but that was all. An old wives’ tale. A fable.

“Oh, the bear is real, all right.” One of the men at a table pointed to a set of long scars that ran down the side of his face. Claw marks. “It doesn’t live but a few miles from here. It attacks this village regularly. Steals food. Plunders far more than the Pack does.”

Archer gave a rueful grin. “That’s my condition. Kill the bear. Take it or leave it.”

“Excuse us for a moment.” Edward gestured for Bess, Gracie, and Jane to join him in the corner.

They huddled together and spoke in low voices. “What do you think?”

“The GWBR?” Jane shook her head. “I don’t believe it exists.”

“Or it does exist, and Archer ’s just trying to get me killed for his own amusement,” Edward said grimly.

“Either way, it’s a diversion.” Bess frowned. “We have France to see to. A country to regain. We don’t have time for a goose chase—or a bear hunt.”

Edward nodded. “I know. But if it’s the only way to get the Pack on our side . . .”

“What about the knife?” Jane snapped. “Let’s just give him the stupid knife.”

Grace straightened. “My knife is not stupid. It’s the only thing I have left of Ben. Archer only wants it because he knows that.”

“You’re not giving him the knife.” Edward reassured Gracie. Of course. He liked her. He was showing off. And Archer was competition. But this was not the time to go around proving his dominance.

“The question remains.” Bess kept her eyes on her brother. “Do we do it?”

“You said before—we probably don’t have enough men to take on Mary’s army,” Edward’s jaw

tightened. “We need them. Whatever it takes.”

He stepped out of the huddle and faced Archer once more. “Very well. I’ll do it.”

Archer glanced from Gracie to Jane to Bess to Edward, and at last gave a slow, easy nod. “Fine.

We have a deal.” He slammed a fist down on the bar. “Time to celebrate!”

While the others passed drinks all around, Jane went outside to move the horses into the stable, and to tell Gifford the news.

They were going to fight a mythic bear.

Gifford

As soon as the sun touched the horizon, G flashed into a human, and Jane hurried him inside and started talking. Fast.

“You heard me tell you we’re going to kill the GWBR?” He nodded, and she embraced him quickly, for their time was short. “Good. Now, I’ve saved all my bear knowledge for when you’re human so you’ll remember easier. Firstly, bears are always hungry. So when you encounter the bear, don’t act like food.”

“Huh?”

“I read it in a book last summer, called—”

G held up a hand. “Don’t tell me the name! No time.”

“Right. As I was saying, bears are always hungry. Try not to act like food.”

“How does one act like food?”

“I’m simply telling you what I know.” Anticipating her change, she adjusted her skirt underneath her cloak, and in her haste, she flashed G the briefest of glimpses of the milky white skin of her leg.

G stopped breathing.

“The next thing you should do is try to make yourself appear bigger than you are.”

G didn’t say anything; he still wasn’t breathing. Because, soft skin.

“Maybe hold your cloak above your head. Or puff out your chest. G, are you listening?”

G squeezed his eyes shut and scratched his forehead and tried to focus on bears and not skin. “Yes.

Don’t act like food, make myself look bigger. Anything else to add?”

“Yes. Use anything at your disposal to defend yourself. Rocks, sticks, anything. Only don’t bend down to pick it up, because then you’ll appear smaller and more vulnerable.”

G sighed. “So, grab any weapons that happen to be at shoulder level.”

There was a knock at the door and Edward stuck his head in, Gracie and Bess standing just behind him. G waved them in.

Jane kept talking. “And if worse comes to worst, play dead. But if the bear starts licking your wounds, that means he’s planning on eating you, and you should do something else.”

“So, play dead unless he starts eating me.”

She shrugged helplessly. “I’ll do whatever I can, of course. I’ll distract him and then run up a tree to safety.”

G shot a look toward Edward, surprised that the king had let her believe she would be accompanying them. Edward smiled in a she’s-not-my-wife-I-shouldn’t-have-to-tell-her-no kind of way.

Should G inform her that she wasn’t coming? The last time he’d told her that, she’d come anyway, and she’d gotten hurt.

He wasn’t about to let that happen again.

Jane didn’t notice the exchange of glances. “I have the perfect way to distract the bear,” she said. “I read in a book once that bears can’t turn their heads very far in either direction, so I was thinking I could climb up onto his back and pull his fur, and he’ll spin about trying to get me, and that’s when you and Edward can go in for the kill.”

It was almost dark. They had only seconds before Jane would change. G had to tell her. “You won’t be there.”

“How will I not be there?” She narrowed her eyes at him.

“How? Because you’re not coming.”

“Oh, I’m going with you. I won’t have it any other way. Tell him, Edward.”

Edward scratched the back of his neck, but he didn’t answer. When she realized she would be getting no help from her cousin, she turned back to G. “You are my husband, not my master.”

“Yes, my lady,” he said. “You will always get your way. Except for right in this instance. And any others which may endanger your life.”

“Gifford Dudley, you do not get to decide when my life may or may not be in danger.”

G bowed his head. “Of course, Jane. And in the future, I will most definitely keep that in mind. But not tonight.”

Jane pressed her lips together in a thin line. “You can’t stop me.”

His eyes happened upon an empty birdcage in the corner of the room. “And I would never dream

of it. Except tonight, when I will do whatever it takes to stop you, even if it means locking you up.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Not even if a hundred Carpathian bulls threatened to trample me. Except tonight, of course, I’m going to have to lock you up unless you promise not to come with us.”

She gasped in outrage. “You can’t treat me like this! You can’t catch me!” she said with enough force that the air around her trembled. With a flash, she was a ferret, but G was ready to pounce.

Before she could shake off the disorienting haze of the transformation, he had her by the scruff.

“I would never treat you like this,” he whispered in her ear. “Except tonight.”

Then he placed the squirming ferret inside the cage and latched it.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Gracie remarked. She and Bess had been silent up to then, but they looked tense.

“I’m sure,” G said, and he was. “I want you to promise me that you won’t let her out. That you’ll protect her.”

The princess nodded and settled into a chair beside Jane’s cage. “I suppose this time we’re actually staying behind to guard Jane. I’d object, but I don’t know how I’d be useful in a bear hunt.”

“I won’t let her out,” Gracie agreed. “But she is going to murder you later, I think.”

She sat down at the edge of the bed.

“Wait, Bess and Gracie are both going to stay behind?” Edward looked startled. “Why shouldn’t Gracie come? She’d be useful.”

“I don’t trust the Pack,” said Gracie. “Especially Archer. I should stick around here in case he’s up to something while you’re gone. Keep an eye on him. And Bess can stay with Jane to make sure she doesn’t ferret her way out of that cage.”

“Can you use ferret as a verb?” G asked.

She shrugged. “You can now.”

Edward’s eyebrows were furrowed.

“Sire?” G said. “Are you troubled?”

“No. Everything is fine. With Gracie. Staying behind. With the Pack. And . . . Archer. That’s fine.”

“Right,” G said slowly. He picked up his sword. “We are off, then?”

“Without hesitation,” Edward said.

And for a few moments, they hesitated. Then they were off.

It was just G and the king, then, alone on this quest, and as the dirt path passed beneath them, G could not help the niggling memory that had been pricking at the back of his brain ever since they’d arrived at Helmsley. It was the image of his half-conscious wife pushing him out of the way so she could get to Edward. Yes, she had believed her cousin was dead, and it must have come as a happy shock to see him alive.

And yet, the niggling thought . . . well . . . niggled.

G remembered how close he’d been to losing her. How weak she’d been. How much blood she’d

lost. It wasn’t until her eyes had fluttered open that G realized the hold she had on his heart.

But then she had stopped just short of shoving him out of the way because she’d seen Edward. It turned out that the most important person to her, the one she wanted to embrace upon defying death, was Edward. Her dearest and most beloved friend—wasn’t that how she’d phrased it in the letter?

Maybe hunting a legendary bear would be a welcome distraction from his thoughts, which he was

sure were irrational. After all, Jane had never come right out and said that she was in love with Edward, and she was the type to tell him how things stood. And Gifford knew she was fond of him—

he did. She smiled at him. She always hugged him after the change. She tried to translate his horse-thoughts to the others.

But she’d signed that letter to Edward with “all my love.”

Yes. Hunting bears. Right. Here they were.

But that niggling thought still niggled.

And of course he was happy that her dear cousin was alive, but it was also a bit troubling. After all, G knew from Edward’s pre-wedding talk, the one that went something like, “Hurt my cousin and I’ll kill you, even if I’m dead,” that Edward loved Jane, and maybe in more than a cousin kind of way.

Perhaps he’d only betrothed Jane to G because he was dying, and now that he wasn’t dying, perhaps he regretted the arranged marriage, and perhaps Jane was thinking the same thing.

Oh Lord. Too many perhaps es. Perhaps he should focus on how to kill a giant bear.

But then G wanted to ask Edward about his feelings toward Jane, and, more specifically, what the two of them did while he was a horse and they were alone and human.

G did not like to entertain the thought of all the hours they’d had to spend together while he was a horse. But he was the one who was actually married to Jane, he reminded himself. Not only that, but kestrels were hunting birds, and would no sooner hesitate to eat a ferret than they would a squirrel.

There. G was her husband, and Edward might eat her. Those were two very good reasons why Jane

should stay with G. And hair! G couldn’t believe he’d forgotten about his full and rich locks that outshone the sad ponytails of most other men in the kingdom. Even the king’s.

So, he was her husband, Edward might eat her, and no one’s hair could rival his.

G sighed. None of that could really compete with the King of England.

So instead of asking Edward those questions, he said, “Did Jane tell you all she knows about bears?”

“Yes,” the king replied. “Don’t act like food, inexplicably double your height and weight, and play dead unless it doesn’t work.”

“She didn’t, perhaps, mention how we might kill the beast?”

“No,” Edward said. “Her information was more the useless type.”

They traveled onward in silence for a while, until—

“Sire, you love Jane.” G hadn’t meant to blurt it out, but there it was.

“Of course I do. She’s family.”

“But you, Your Majesty, I think, love her love her.”

Edward didn’t protest, although he looked a little confused, possibly due to the phrasing.

G let the rest spill out. “And I know you arranged for our marriage at a time when you thought

you would die, and now you’re not going to die, and if you want her for yourself, I will step aside. I will do the honorable thing.” His voice cracked in an embarrassing way at the end.

“Gifford,” the king said.

“Call me G,” G said.

The king ignored him. “Your wife loves you.”

G looked at the king and raised an eyebrow.

“She does. She leaves your favorite apples in the stables, even though she has to walk over a mile to get them. She brushes your mane, and is meticulous about picking the burrs out of your coat.”

“That’s all just logical horse maintenance.” G lowered his eyes. “She didn’t want me to be her king. She didn’t want me ruling by her side.”

“That was when she didn’t know who to trust. Believe me, Gifford, Jane loves you.”

G was silent for a moment, hoping it was true.

“At least, she loved you before you threw her in a cage.”

And there was that.

Edward was quiet for a moment and then sighed. G thought he might be about to confess something. Like how even though yes, Jane loved G (or so Edward claimed), that was just too bad because the king was in love with Jane, too, and now it was going to be G’s duty as a citizen of England to give her up to the king. For the sake of the country.

“What did you think of Gracie?” Edward said, while at the same time G blurted out, “You can’t have her!”

“Sorry, who?” G said.

“Gracie.”

“Oh. I like her.”

Edward pressed his lips together and nodded. “And that whole thing with Thomas Archer . . . You don’t suppose that there’s anything between them?”

“Jane said Gracie wouldn’t give up the knife.”

“No, I mean romantically.”

“Ah. Romantically. Well, Jane mentioned Archer was Gracie’s ex, so I suppose there used to be something romantic between them.”

Edward’s shoulders slumped.

G added, “As for whether it’s still there, I don’t know. But then, I wasn’t actually inside the tavern when they were in the same room.”

Edward sighed again. “I wish I knew what to say to her. Every time I try to tell her how I feel, I end up looking stupid.”

G literally sighed in relief. Praise the heavens above—Edward fancied Gracie! Of course he did!

Gracie was very fetching, if you liked that kind of beauty. G preferred redheads, of course. Warm brown eyes. Soft skin. Bookish. Opinionated. But Gracie was lovely; yes, he could concede that.

G wanted to sing, he was so happy. And he knew just what Edward meant about looking stupid.

“Yes, well, love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind,” he said.

“What?” Edward gazed at him blankly.

“I mean to say, the course of true love never did run smooth,” G clarified. That was good, he thought. He’d have to write that down later.

“Is that from a play?” Edward asked.

“No, it’s . . . um . . . just a thought I had.”

“Hmm. You’re a bit of a poet, aren’t you?” the king said.

G felt heat rise in his face. “I dabble.”

“I like poetry,” said the king. “And plays. I used to put on little theatricals at the palace. If we survive this, and if I get my crown back, and if there’s time, I’d like to open a theater someday.”

“If we survive this, you totally should,” G agreed.

They both tightened their grips on their swords and coughed in a manly way that meant that they weren’t scared of a silly old bear. “Do you know any poems about courage?” Edward asked after a moment.

G didn’t. He endeavored to make something up. “Um . . . cowards die many times before their deaths,” he said. “The valiant never taste of death but once. Screw your courage to the sticking-place, and we’ll not fail.”

“The sticking-place?”

G shrugged. “It’s the best I could do on such short notice.”

“That’s good,” commented Edward. “You should write that down.”

The map Archer had given them was easy to follow, and the journey was short, but G couldn’t figure out if it was really short or it only seemed short because he was dreading killing a giant bear. They had packed up weapons of all sorts: broadswords, battle-axes, a mace. Jane had even made them a

“tincture” she’d told Edward would burn the bear ’s eyes.

The map didn’t lead them to an exact location, just a valley near Rhyl in which the bear had most frequently been seen. Of course, that information was based on rumors and reports. As they got closer, G began hoping the reports were wrong, but soon realized they weren’t, because the ground was dotted with bear droppings. G knew they were bear droppings, because the only other animal capable of such sizable droppings in this part of the world was a horse, and G knew the droppings weren’t of a horse, because he was sort of an expert.

“We’re getting close,” he said to the king.

“You remember our plan?” Edward said.

G nodded.

The two wound their way through trees and brush until Edward came to a jolting halt. And then G

did, too. And then Edward said to G, “I think we’re going to need a bigger sword.”

The beast was huge. This was one of those times when the English language was inadequate to fully describe the bear ’s girth. The thing was eating fruit from a tree, and to get the fruit, he didn’t even have to stand on his hind legs. And he didn’t just eat the fruit, he ate the leaves and the branch as well, because his mouth was huge and he could.

The ground trembled as he walked to the next tree.

G turned toward Edward and bowed. “It’s been a pleasure, Sire, but this is where I leave you.” He was jesting only in part.

“What about your talk of courage?”

“Fiction, Your Majesty.”

Edward sighed. “Stop playing. We stick to the plan.”

“What about giving him a chance to surrender?”

“Shut up.” Edward let out a war cry. The bear turned, roared so loudly G thought his eardrums would burst, and charged after the king, who turned and ran back into the forest.

G was alone. He let out a breath and climbed a tree. Because that was the plan. Minutes later, or maybe seconds, or hours, Edward came running back to him, shouting, “Gifford! Be ready!”

G lit the torch he’d been holding.

The bear had been chasing Edward, but now he followed the light and placed his front paws on the tree, which gave G the perfect angle to pour Jane’s tincture into his eyes.

The bear let out a terrible growl and a cry, and then with a whimper, he let his front paws scrape down the bark.

Now was the time Edward was going to go in for the kill, except the bear began to run around in circles, frantic, roaring. And then, with the force of a battering ram, he collided with the trunk of a tree.

G’s tree.

He fell through the air.

The brunt of the impact was softened by landing on the bear ’s back, a fact that G would have celebrated, had it not been the case that he had just fallen onto the world’s most giant bear.

Thankfully the collision with the tree had stunned the bear, and G was able to gather his brain and climb off the beast. Where was Edward with his sword? But of course, it was pitch-dark now, because G’s torch had gone out on the way down from the tree, and Edward couldn’t very well stab the bear without risking stabbing G at the same time.

“Gifford?” Edward called.

The sound seemed to rouse the beast. G thought quickly. He didn’t have a weapon with him (because he was supposed to watch from the tree as Edward killed the bear) and he couldn’t very well kill a bear with his own hands, so he did the only thing he could.

He played dead. And acted like he wasn’t food.

“I’m dead, Sire,” G said. He didn’t know why he didn’t say, “I’m playing dead,” except on the off chance the bear understood English. He wouldn’t have said anything at all, but he wanted Edward to know that G would be on the ground, and so aim his sword anywhere but at the ground.

There was no reply.

Gifford tried to think of what his lady told him to do in this situation, but then he was thinking of his lady, and that flash of flesh, and the possibility that she might love him, and then the possibility that he might never see her again, which got him thinking about the bear again.

G closed his eyes and tried to still his labored breathing. The bear growled and whined and sniffed and pawed at the ground—and then pawed at G.

It was all he could do not to move. Or scream. Where was Edward? Had he left G here to die?

The bear sniffed G’s leg. G tried to make his leg look less like food. The bear pushed G’s shoulder, and pushed again as though trying to turn him over. G wasn’t sure whether complying would make him seem more dead or less dead. But then again, if he were actually dead, he wouldn’t fight being turned over.

When the bear pushed again, G turned over onto his stomach.

The bear pawed at G’s back again, and then did something that made G’s blood run cold. He sniffed the back of G’s head, and licked.

Licking means eating, G thought. Licking means eating!

Jane had told him to play dead, unless the bear was about to eat him, but she didn’t say how he was supposed to get out of such a vulnerable position. The bear licked the back of G’s neck, and G was just about to try to spring to his feet and run for it, when suddenly the bear reared his head, let out a roar, and collapsed against G.

And just as suddenly, G realized he would most likely not die of a bear bite, but of being smothered by a bear. When his lady received the news, he hoped the king would tell her he died of a bear bite. Not because the bear essentially sat on him. He felt a hand grasp his own, and Edward was pulling him out from under the dead bear, who’d not once acted un-bearlike. The Great White Bear of Rhyl was definitely not an E∂ian. Which comforted G.

“I used the broadsword and stabbed the base of the bear ’s neck. That did the trick.”

“Wonderful,” G said. “But never forget, I weakened him in the first place by falling on him.”

“You’re right,” Edward said good-naturedly.

They both stood there panting for a while. “You know, Sire, with you being king, and also now a legendary bear killer, I’d say you will be able to woo any woman you desire.”

“And your wife might fall in love with you all over again.”

“If she ever forgives me for putting her in a cage.”

Edward didn’t respond. Then something seemed to occur to him. “Oh, bollocks,” he said. “Now

there’s nothing left on our to-do list but go talk to the King of France.”

“I’ve never been to France,” G said, “but I enjoy cheese.”

“I like cheese, too,” agreed Edward, as if they had just found yet another thing they had in common.

The sun rose during their trip back, and G arrived at the Shaggy Dog as a horse. Gracie, Bess, and Jane were standing in the doorway of the tavern waiting for them, although Jane’s expression quickly turned from relief to anger. She glared at him. Said no words. Spoke only with her narrowed eyes.

Suddenly, G wanted to go back to the bear.

She took a deep breath and turned to Edward, her expression softening as she touched a scratch on his face. “Darling cousin, you’re hurt.”

Edward smiled. “It’s just a flesh wound.”

“Come inside. I will tend to it myself.”

G snorted and threw his head back. Jane raised her eyebrows. “And you.”

He sheepishly nudged her shoulder with his nose. She seemed unmoved.

“I would sooner face a thousand Carpathian bulls than banish you from the tavern.” She scowled.

“Except in this instance.” She pointed to the forest. “Go to your room.”

It was going to be an awkward trip to France.

Edward

It took them four days to get to Paris. And now Gracie was wearing a dress.

“What are you staring at?” she asked when Edward could not stop ogling her.

“You,” he replied. “You’re a girl. I mean, a woman. I’m amazed at the transformation.”

“I clean up nicely when the situation calls for it.” She tugged at the bodice of her gown to cover more of her cleavage. “But it doesn’t suit me, I find.”

The gown was gray velvet, and it cinched her in at the waist and exposed the upper swell of her chest, a side of her that Edward had never seen before, and it made his eyes wander to places they shouldn’t. She was beautiful, but she was right; the finery didn’t suit her. The gown diminished her somehow, pushed and squeezed and swallowed her in yards of fabric.

“Thank you for doing this,” he murmured.

“You’re welcome.” Her hand rose self-consciously to touch the back of her pinned-up hair. “But I don’t really know how I’ll be any help to you with the King of France.”

“Not with the king,” Edward said. “With Mary Queen of Scots. Who lives with the King of France.”

He couldn’t help the shudder that passed through him.

Gracie’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Why, because we’re both Scottish?”

“Because she hates me, and I need her to like me. I think that if anyone can get her to like me, Gracie, it’s you. Because you’re Scottish, yes. And because you’re you.”

Her cheeks colored slightly. She nodded. “So she hates you. Why?”

“Because she was supposed to be my wife.”

“What?” Gracie exclaimed. “When was this?”

“When I was three.”

Yes, Edward had been a lad of three tender years when his father betrothed him to Mary, who’d

been a baby at the time but a queen already, since her father had died when she was six days old. Such a match would have unified England and Scotland for good, in the Lion King’s way of thinking.

Henry had even wanted Mary to live with them at the palace, so he would oversee her upbringing and teach her to think like a proper Englishwoman.

Mary’s legal guardians had other ideas. They’d signed a treaty approving the engagement, but they didn’t honor it. So later, when King Henry received word that Mary’s regents had accepted another offer of marriage, this one from the King of France, pairing her with the French dauphin, Francis, King Henry had eaten the messenger immediately and remained a roaring lion for days.

Then he’d invaded Scotland.

For years Henry’s soldiers had chased the fledgling queen from place to place all around the Scottish countryside, but they never managed to capture her. It was believed to be E∂ian magic that

enabled her to escape them. She had a habit of vanishing like smoke from the tightest of spaces. And so Henry, who was usually more tolerant of E∂ians, since he himself had proved to be one, had punished the Scottish E∂ians for harboring her. This was most likely why, Edward knew, the cottage belonging to Gracie’s family had been burned. Because his father had been angry with a toddler.

The people called it the Rough Wooing. Emphasis on rough.

Edward had been a child through all of this, but he remembered being told that he was going to

marry a queen, and he remembered staring up at a portrait of Mary Queen of Scots that hung in one of the palace hallways. The girl couldn’t have been older than four years old when the portrait had been commissioned, yet she still held herself like a queen. She accused Edward with her dark eyes. I loathe you, the painting almost seemed to sneer at him. I will always hate you. You’d better hope that we don’t get married. I will make your life a living nightmare.

That was the one bit of relief Edward had experienced after his father died. He no longer needed to pursue Mary Queen of Scots. She slipped away to the custody of the French king and his family at the Louvre Palace, where she’d been residing ever since.

They’d met once, he and Mary, a few years back. He’d been traveling to Paris to craft a peace treaty with the French king. Mary had been eight. She’d been presented to him as the intended of Francis, the dauphin (which Edward kept thinking sounded like the word dolphin, which seemed an odd term for a prince). Mary had curtsied. Edward had bowed. She’d glared at him, every bit as vengeful as her portrait. He’d tried to ease the tension by complimenting her shoes.

She’d responded by stamping on his foot.

Hard.

She’d been sent straightaway to her chambers, because young ladies should not assault kings, but Edward hadn’t truly minded. He’d been overjoyed, in fact, by the idea that he wouldn’t be expected to talk to her, and that he wasn’t likely ever to see her again. Ever.

But now here he was, back in the Louvre Palace, here to plead his case before the king, and of course it would be wise for him to draw Scotland to his cause as well. At least that’s what Bess said, and Edward always believed what Bess said.

None of this he felt like explaining to Gracie, of course. “Just talk to her, if you get the opportunity,” he said. “You don’t have to sing my praises. Just tell her what you know of my situation.

See if she’ll be amenable to helping us, in whatever she has the power to do, which may not be much, really, not from here, and she’s only a young girl, but—”

“All right,” Gracie said, holding up her hand. “I’ll talk to her.”

“Thank you.” She owed him that much, he felt, after the lengths he’d gone to ensuring that she could keep her pretty knife.

There was a tap on the door, and Jane and Bess entered, both appearing fatigued after the week’s activities with the Pack and the bear and their most recent stealthy boat ride across the English Channel. Jane, especially, looked peaked, like she hadn’t slept.

“Edward,” she greeted him. “You’re like a proper king again.”

Yes, he was once again wearing tights, gold-embroidered pumpkin pants, a silk undershirt, a gold-and-cream brocaded doublet with puffy sleeves, and a fur-trimmed velvet robe to top it off. He had forgotten how heavy all these layers of clothing were, when he’d been dressing like a peasant for weeks. He could feel the weight like the physical manifestation of all that he was responsible for, pulling him downward.

“You ladies are quite splendid, as well,” he said, looking from Gracie to Jane to Bess and back to Gracie.

Jane stood in front of him and smoothed down the fur at the edge of his robe. “This isn’t ferret, I hope.”

“White-spotted ermine,” he answered. “Although I believe I shall give up fur, when all of this is done. I would hate to be wearing some unfortunate E∂ian by mistake.”

“I feel the same,” she said.

“How’s Gifford?” Edward asked, because suddenly he felt the young lord’s absence keenly. If Jane was like a sister to him, then perhaps Gifford would be his brother now. His friend. Nothing says friendship like staring down into the jaws of angry death together, he reasoned. “Is he still in the doghouse for locking you up?”

“He’s in the stables,” Jane said stiffly.

“Don’t punish him too long, Janey,” Edward entreated on Gifford’s behalf. “He only did it to keep you from harm.”

“But that’s the problem.” She settled with a sigh onto one of the parlor chairs. “I just don’t know how to talk him about it. Every time I try, I feel like I say something shrewish and high-pitched and stupid. Which is unlike me.”

He stifled a smile. “Anyway, I’m glad to have you along,” he said. “I’d rather face a giant mythical bear, I think, than have this meeting.”

Gracie seemed surprised at this. “This will be nothing, won’t it, after all the other trouble you’ve had? All you have to do is talk to the man.”

“I have to be the King of England,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I will have to speak to Henry as one king to another.” A task that frightened him, in some ways, much more than facing any beast.

“You are the king,” said Bess quietly. “It’s as simple as that, Edward. Be yourself.”

“So the King of France is named Henry. That won’t be confusing, will it?” said Gracie, fidgeting again with the neckline of her dress.

“It’s easy to remember this king,” Edward mused. “He is King Henry, and his wife is Queen Catherine. Like my father without all his extra wives.”

The door to the parlor opened, and an opulently dressed steward entered and bowed low to Edward. “His Majesty will see you now, Your Majesty.”

“No, not confusing at all,” muttered Gracie. She turned to address the steward. “Can you find me an audience with the young Queen Mary? I’m a Scot, you see, and I have some news for her from home. Nothing important, of course, but something that she’ll find entertaining.”

The steward looked slightly put out by the informal nature of her request. “I’ll see if the queen is receiving visitors,” he said. “Wait here.”

Jane stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Good luck, cousin.”

Gracie was frowning, he noticed. He delighted in the thought that she might be jealous of Jane kissing him. And he also knew a perfect opportunity when he saw it. He turned to Gracie. “Don’t I get a good luck kiss from you as well? I’m going to need as much luck as I can get.”

Her green eyes narrowed as she looked at him. “I’m not sure I’m terribly lucky.”

“You’re lucky for me.”

“Oh, all right.” Her lips were a quick, warm brush against his cheek. “Good luck, Sire.”

“Your Majesty?” the steward prompted.

It was time.

He tried not to think too hard about how this one meeting would make or break them. They needed soldiers. And ships. And steel. Without the French king’s help, they could not hope to overcome Mary.

Everything was riding on this single encounter. On his words.

His knees were trembling, he realized, ever so slightly. Even a kiss from Gracie was not enough to overcome his nerves.

“Remember what we talked about,” Bess told him as they moved forward through the door.

He nodded.

“Stay with that and you’ll be fine,” she said. “Stick to the plan. Play to the king’s weaknesses and your strengths.”

“I’ll do my best,” Edward said. That was all that he could do.

The King of France was nothing like Edward’s father had been. This particular Henry was a cool, collected sort of man with a well-trimmed beard who liked to wear white fur and heels that elevated his height. He was fond of dogs, but he was not an E∂ian or a supporter of their cause. He was quite vocal, instead, about how distasteful he found those people who became animals, like such a thing was a matter of rude behavior. This made Edward’s position a bit precarious, under the circumstances.

Still, King Henry was proving to be sympathetic to Edward’s plight. He wanted to hear all about how Edward had lost his throne, like it was the best kind of royal gossip.

“So this Mary herself took part in the plot to poison you?” the king asked in horror when Edward reached that part of his story.

“She put the fork to my lips,” Edward answered. “But I wouldn’t take it.”

“Such brazenness,” King Henry exclaimed. “This woman attempting to murder a king, her own brother, no less. Such audacity. And however did you escape?”

Edward took a deep breath. Be yourself, Bess had told him, but what she really meant was, Be yourself unless you sometimes find yourself turning into a bird, in which case, don’t be that—don’t admit that, ever. Be a respectable Verity, for heaven’s sake.

“One of my servants smuggled me out,” he lied smoothly. “In the back of a hay cart. It was quite the terrible ordeal.”

“Ha!” The king was greatly amused by this. “A hay cart. Imagine.”

He laughed, and the members of the court laughed with him.

“So you see,” Edward continued delicately when the merriment died down. “If my sister is allowed to sit unchallenged on my throne, it will send a dangerous message to rest of the world: that any grasping, covetous woman of royal blood can reach for the crown and succeed in taking it, even from a rightful, ruling king. Then queens will start popping up all over Europe like rabbits in a garden. It will be chaos.”

He tried to sound supremely confident. Bess had coached him to say all of this about the awful precedent Mary would set and the terrifying anarchy of women, but for some reason he felt unsettled when he spoke the words, especially with Jane and Bess standing behind him, these two women who he now held in the highest possible regard.

King Henry leaned forward on his throne. “Well, that makes sense. Yes, they’re always reaching, aren’t they?” He cast a quick accusatory glance at Queen Catherine beside him. She was a notorious schemer, Edward knew from Bess, and the French king often worried that his own wife would be the end of him someday, so his son would end up on the throne and she could rule as regent.

“Yes, they reach far above their station,” Edward agreed. “And you and I both know that it is a man’s place, not a woman’s, to rule a country. Women are ill designed for such a task.”

“But you yourself put a woman on the throne, did you not?” King Henry asked, gesturing to Jane.

The court fell silent.

Edward glanced at his cousin. Her eyes were closed. Her lips moved like she was counting backward from ten.

Edward turned quickly back to the king.

“My desire was for my crown to pass to my cousin’s male heirs,” Edward explained. “Naturally.

Of course I couldn’t have considered Jane a queen on her own merits.”

Oh, she was going to stab him in his sleep. At least she was being mercifully silent. For now.

Edward cleared his throat. “But unfortunately, I became ill so quickly that there simply wasn’t time for Jane to produce a male heir. And in the absence of a boy to inherit the throne, Dudley persuaded me to amend the line of succession to name Jane as the ruler, to be followed by her sons, of course. A decision I regret, but there wasn’t much of a choice at that point.”

“Hmm. Well, it doesn’t matter,” King Henry said thoughtfully. “If they’d succeeded in poisoning you without such an amendment, Mary would still be sitting on your throne now, wouldn’t she?”

“Correct.” Edward raised his hands, palms up, like, What’s a fellow to do?

“And so you are here, asking for my help,” King Henry said, a gleam in his eyes as if Edward were kneeling before him in supplication.

Edward was not going to do any kneeling, of course. He straightened his shoulders. “Mary cannot be allowed to get away with such treason,” he said, meeting the king eye to eye. “I have some ships and armies of my own, of course, but Mary needs her comeuppance. I thought it would please you, perhaps, to stand with me on this matter. We could send a different message to the world: that a king will not be cowed by some conniving, middle-aged female suffering from delusions of grandeur. We are men. We are kings. We will not yield on such matters.”

Queen Catherine was shooting daggers at him with her eyes, but he forced himself to concentrate on the French king.

And the king was feeling generous.

“Very well,” Henry said after a long, dramatic pause. “You shall have French ships at your disposal, and you shall have French soldiers, as well, as many as I can spare. Get rid of that ridiculous cow who dares to call herself a queen.”

It took an effort for Edward not to sway on his feet, so great was the relief he felt in this moment.

“I will,” he promised. “You have my thanks.”

“And I will expect that in the future, our countries will be better friends,” the king said.

He was indebting himself to France, Edward knew. The man would have more than just his thanks.

But that was the price of his crown. He must be willing to pay it.

“Undoubtedly,” he said.

“And if I may give you some advice,” King Henry added. “From one king to another.”

“Of course. I’d be thankful for any wisdom you could offer me.”

“The thing for you do, young man, is to find yourself a wife. As soon as possible, I should think.

Produce a son of your own. I have three sons, myself, and a number of bastards. It’s very comforting for me to know that I will find never myself in your predicament. My bloodline is secure. You should see to yours.”

Edward tried to thaw himself quickly, because at the word wife, his chest seemed to have frozen over. He couldn’t get proper air in his lungs.

A wife.

King Henry was right.

Edward could marry. He would have to marry. And soon.

“A wise prescription,” he managed to get out. “Again, I thank you.”

“Perhaps you will consider my daughter, Elisabeth,” Henry said, and Queen Catherine roughly pushed a young girl forward. The girl had been dressed extravagantly in an attempt to disguise the fact that she was quite plain. She curtseyed deeply before him.

“Uh . . . yes, I shall consider her,” he said. “Mademoiselle.”

“Votre Altesse.” (Which means, for those of you who don’t speak French, Your Highness.) The little princess didn’t meet his eyes.

He was in a bit of daze as he took his leave. He had not been considering all that was going to be expected from him, if indeed he took back his throne.

He had forgotten that, as the ruler of England, he would never truly be free.

King Henry held a celebration that night in Edward’s honor, so of course Edward had to attend, even though he would have liked to have spent some time alone to sort out his thoughts. This discussion of women and their merit had left him confused about how he actually felt on the subject. He wished that Jane was there to talk to (and possibly apologize to, but why would he need to apologize? He’d only said what Bess had told him to say, and besides, it was true, wasn’t it? Women were the weaker sex, were they not? Wasn’t that even written in the Holy Book?). But Jane was in her ferret state now.

Gifford hadn’t made an appearance. Bess had returned to her chamber to strategize their next move.

And he hadn’t seen Gracie since before he’d spoken with the king.

He wandered among the music and dancing and fancy French pastries. All this was a blatant over-

expenditure of the French king’s wealth, it seemed to Edward. The Louvre Palace was huge, easily three times the size of Edward’s largest palace, and lavishly furnished. Under normal circumstances it would have given Edward a serious case of palace envy, but now he found the entire building rather vulgar.

His old life felt like a lifetime ago.

How was it possible, he thought, to be so lonely when he was surrounded by so many people?

There was a throng of admirers about him, many of them women who had no doubt paid attention when the king had advised Edward to find himself a bride toute suite, but when they spoke to him, he found himself nodding blandly and not listening to their words, just staring into his goblet of wine.

A wife, he kept thinking. Such an intimidating word.

Bollocks.

But he’d be the king again, and he could decide for himself who and when he would marry. There

was that to comfort him. No one could force his hand.

“Your Majesty,” came a high, sweet voice at his side. “I was wondering if you might honor me with a dance.”

He looked up.

It was Mary Queen of Scots. Of course he would have recognized her anywhere, with those eyes

so dark they were almost black, those eyes that had haunted him from her portrait for all those years.

But she looked different from the girl who’d stamped on his foot. Older, of course. She’d been eight then. She must be close to thirteen now. She wore a red satin gown and her black hair was braided and pinned in a complex pattern that must have taken hours. There was even a spot of rouge on her cheeks.

She looked quite grown-up.

“Your Majesty?” she queried.

“Your Majesty,” he answered, and bowed stiffly. “Of course I will dance with you.”

They moved to the center of the floor. The dance was long and complicated and held little

opportunity for talking, a series of seemingly endless turns and whirls that left him breathless. Mary was light on her feet, an experienced dancer. She smiled at him often, which Edward didn’t know what to do with. Did she have a dagger meant for him tucked in the folds of her dress somewhere? Part of him expected to feel it pierce his side at any moment.

The dance ended. He thanked her. He turned to flee.

“Will you walk with me?” she asked, before he could. She held out a small hand.

He nodded and tucked her hand into his arm.

“I spent the afternoon with your lady, Grace,” Mary informed him as they strolled along the outer edge of the room. “I found her stories quite amusing.”

God’s teeth, what had Gracie told her? “Yes, she’s an amusing woman,” he said.

“Quite. It made me miss Scotland, to hear her brogue.” Mary herself had no Scottish accent that Edward could discern. Too many years away from home.

They walked in awkward silence. Edward found himself tongue-tied. He could feel the gaze of others on them, keen and speculative, especially that of the French queen and her dour-looking daughter, Elisabeth.

“You’re taller than I remember,” Mary Queen of Scots said at last.

“Yes, I find you changed as well.”

She flushed. “Forgive me, regarding your foot last time.”

He smiled. “Forgiven,” he said. “I hope we can put all that past ugliness behind us and be friends.”

“Yes. Friends. It’s just, I didn’t like to be told what to do, or to whom I should be married,” she said, her voice lifting a little. “It made me cross to look at you.”

“Believe me, I understand.”

She stopped and pulled her hand from his arm. Her dark eyes were earnest when she gazed up at

him, but not naive. “I still don’t like to be told.” He followed her gaze when she peered out into the center of the room, where Edward spotted a sulky-faced blond boy in splendid clothing.

Ah, the dauphin, he assumed. Prince Francis.

“He seems all right,” Edward observed as they watched the boy grab a handful of sweets from a

passing tray and stuff them into his mouth. Then the crown prince picked his nose, and ate that, too.

“Oh. That’s unfortunate.”

Mary Queen of Scots pursed her lips unhappily. “Sometimes he pulls my hair or calls me names.”

“He’ll grow out of that, I think,” Edward said. And hopefully the nose picking, as well.

The little queen turned to regard Edward with a carefully blank expression that made him feel sad for them both, that they would have learned to wear such masks at their young age. “I think I would like England better than France, don’t you?” she said quietly.

He lowered his voice to match hers. “Definitely. Apart from the food.”

“Oh yes,” Mary agreed. “The food here is good. But the king is quite mad sometimes. And the queen is horrid to me, she hates me, and . . . and this is not a friendly place for people like us.”

Edward was intrigued. Gracie had done her work well on Mary, obviously. She wanted to confide

in him. To trust him. “Like us?” he repeated.

She pulled on his shoulder to make him lean toward her, so she could whisper in his ear. “I hear you’re a kestrel.”

His heart beat faster in spite of himself. This was a country still in the hands of the Verities. It was dangerous, even for him, to admit to being an E∂ian here.

But this journey was about taking risks.

He turned Mary so he could whisper, “I am. What are you?”

She smiled conspiratorially, her dark head close to his, her breath on his cheek. “I’m a mouse.

That’s how I get away if people chase me—I turn into a little black mouse that nobody ever notices.

I’m very good at hiding. And listening. I hear such things, you wouldn’t believe them if I told you.”

She leaned even closer. “I have a secret army, you know, back in Scotland. All of them E∂ians. Isn’t that marvelous?”

“Marvelous,” Edward agreed.

She bit her lip. “I will send my army to help you. But I think someday I might turn into a mouse, and run away from France and never return. Will you help me then?”

His breath caught. “Of course,” he said. “You’ll always be welcome in England, Your Majesty.”

She took his hand and squeezed it. Her fingers were soft, her nails perfectly cut and rounded. “Call me Mary.”

“Mary,” he said, and he became aware of an ache in his chest. He pushed past it. “And you should call me Edward.”

“Edward.” She smiled. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

Yes, he thought, and the ache bloomed into something larger. He understood her. Maybe a little too well.

Mary looked pleased. “And here’s your lady,” she said, glancing past him. “Hello, again.”

“My lady?” Edward turned to see Gracie approaching them in the gray velvet gown. His chest swelled at the sight of her.

“I’m not his lady,” Gracie corrected. “I’m just his friend.”

Queen Catherine was calling for Mary to dance with the dauphin. “He always steps on my feet,”

the little queen said with a scowl, becoming once again the furious girl from her portrait. She swept away to join her betrothed. Edward felt a weight lift at her departure. He offered his hand to Gracie.

“Shall we?”

She shook her head so hard a curl came loose from its pin and tumbled into her face. “I don’t know how to dance.”

“There’s something you don’t know how to do?” he said incredulously. “How can that be?”

She laughed and considered the couples whirling around them. “It is a different world that you live in, Sire. So full of color and music. So very grand. I can see why you’d miss it.”

He didn’t miss it, he thought. Not really.

“Let’s walk along the river,” he suggested. “It’s stuffy in here.”

“If that’s what you command.” She took his arm and he led her outside, where the stars were bright and the palace seemed to stretch on and on against the Seine.

“Let me teach you to dance,” he said when they’d found a quiet place.

“I’m not sure that would be wise,” she answered wryly. “I’d hate for you to die now, after all this trouble I’ve gone to keep you alive.”

“It’s largely a matter of bowing and curtseying.” He dropped into a bow. “Now you.”

Grace stood still for a moment, considering, then slowly and awkwardly curtsied.

“See, that wasn’t so bad. Take my hand,” he directed.

She did.

“Now I’ll draw you toward me, and we’ll bow, and then we’ll step away, and bow.”

They practiced for a while, moving in time to the music that was still spilling from inside the palace.

“You’re quite good at this,” she admitted as he guided her through the steps.

“I’ve had years of lessons. My instructors often said that the key to a successful dance is to make it

seem like you can’t help yourself. You look into your partner ’s eyes, as if that gaze binds you while your body moves to the music.”

They both seemed to be holding their breath as they looked into each other ’s eyes. He put his hands on her waist, and lifted her in a slow circle. Her arms went around his neck as he lowered her to her feet.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked impulsively. “I’ve never kissed a girl before, and I want it to be you.

Will you?” It was terribly inappropriate, what he was asking her, and he knew it. There were rules for people like him. The future could go two ways: he could fight and die in this endeavor to take back his crown, or he could fight and win, and then he’d be the King of England and he’d marry some foreign princess to strengthen the ties between their countries, or one of these days a little black mouse was going to show up at his palace door, and he knew what she’d expect of him, and he knew that he should probably comply. And Gracie would still be a Scottish pickpocket, and he’d have no business kissing her.

But he didn’t care.

“I won’t pretend that I’m a fine lady,” Gracie said, lifting her chin. “It doesn’t matter what dress you put me in. I don’t belong in a palace.”

“I know. Kiss me.”

She gave a little laugh. “You’re a forward one, aren’t you?”

“Grace. I’ve wanted to kiss you from the moment I clapped eyes on you. It’s been agony not kissing you all this time.”

“Agony?” She sounded doubtful.

He cupped her face in his hands. “Poison was less painful, believe me. I nearly strangled Gran that day you carved me the wooden fox at Helmsley. Please put me out of my misery.”

She laughed again, nervously. “All right, then. It’s only a kiss.”

Only a kiss, he told himself.

A kiss. Nothing more.

And then he could surrender to being a grown-up and being a king and doing all the things that

were expected of him.

She shivered and wet her bottom lip with her teeth, and Edward thought he would burst into flames. He leaned closer to her. Fell into those green, green . . . pools of beautiful eyes. He prayed he wouldn’t mess this up. It felt important, as big as winning his country back. Bigger. His eyes closed.

“Wait,” Gracie said. “Sire.”

“Dammit,” he breathed. “Call me Edward.”

“I can’t,” she said, her voice wavering. “I know you want me to. But I can’t forget who you are.

You will always be the king.”

The words were like cold water splashing him. He opened his eyes and drew himself away from

her abruptly. “All right. I understand.”

“I like you. I do. But I can’t—”

He rubbed his hand down the front of his face. “I should go.”

She frowned. “Sire . . .”

“Dammit!” The word burst out of him. Light flared. He was a kestrel. He was flying away. He gave a great cry that pierced the still night air, and then he flew higher, and faster, until Gracie was a speck he could leave behind.

“So. You have all you asked for,” Bess said, much later.

“Right,” he said sarcastically. He leaned against the rail of the fine French ship that was carrying them back to England. The sun was rising. The wind ruffled his hair.

“What’s the matter with you?” Bess wanted to know.

“Nothing. Yes. I have my army.” He was watching Jane and Gifford, who were standing close farther up the bow, spending their few minutes together, that precious and brief window of time before Gifford would change into a horse. How easy it was for them. How simple.

“It’s the strangest army to ever walk this earth,” Bess said with that quiet, almost smug smile of hers. “Made up of Frenchmen and Scots and thousands of E∂ians rallying behind you, brother. We’re going to win, Edward. If we play our cards right.”

“And then I’ll be the King of England again,” he said.

“You never stopped being the king, in my opinion. But now you’ll get to truly rule,” she continued. “You’ll be able to right all of the wrongs of this country. It was true, all that you said to Archer. You can see to it that E∂ians and Verities live side by side in peace. You can change the way things are done, rein in the wild spending and live modestly, see that there’s gold in our coffers again, restructure the taxes to take the burden from the common people, ease their suffering, yet still see to the needs of the nobles. You could be a better king than Father. Wise and just and even-tempered.”

“Better than Father?” He could not conceive of such a thing.

“Yes. England can be prosperous once again. I long to see that day,” his sister said passionately.

He stared off into the horizon, lost in thought. He’d spent the better part of the night flying, and thinking while he flew. It had been the first time he hadn’t lost himself to the bird joy. He supposed that was something of an accomplishment.

“Did you know,” he said after a moment, “that Mary Queen of Scots is a mouse?”

“Of course.”

He glanced up at her, startled. “You knew that? How is it that you know absolutely everything?”

“I’m a cat,” she confessed. “She smelled tasty.”

That drew a startled laugh out from him. “Kestrels eat mice, too.” He remembered the one mouse

he’d killed, the night he first became a bird. He wanted to fly again, to stretch his wings.

“We’ll have to practice restraint, if we encounter her again,” Bess remarked.

“We will,” he said softly.

Bess was scrutinizing his face. “What’s troubling you, Edward? Are you afraid? Of this battle to come?”

“No,” he said without hesitation. His hand curled into a fist on the railing. He looked up at her, his gray eyes fierce and shining. “I am ready to fight.”

But it occurred to Edward, not for the first time since our story began, that he had been a poor excuse for a king before. That he did not deserve to be king now. That someone else (anyone else, really, except for Mary) might be better suited for the job.

Jane

The E∂ian encampment was quiet save for the crackle of campfires and the muted voices of soldiers, who were huddled in groups around the fires, discussing tactics or telling stories they’d never told anyone else, but needed to be told. In case they died in the morning.

The sunlight was fading from the sky. From the opening of her tent, Jane couldn’t see London—

that was hidden by hundreds of other tents. But she knew it was there. Looming large on the landscape of her destiny.

A chestnut horse trotted toward her through the camp.

Gifford.

Jane breathed out a sigh. Many E∂ians had been sent to scout earlier, including Gifford, and she’d worried the whole time he was gone.

She pulled the tent flap wide to let him in and save him the indignity of transforming into a naked man outside. Gifford squeezed past her, carefully avoiding stomping on the lone sleeping pallet, and held still while Jane slung a cloak over his back.

It was the same evening ritual they’d performed since leaving Helmsley, an attempt to hold on to as much of their overlapping human time as possible. Sure, there was the usual scramble for clothes and the impending second change, but they’d made it work so far. Same for a similar morning routine, which was sometimes shortened when neither of them wanted to wake up. Ferrets and young men were both notoriously late sleepers.

But things had been awkward between them since the bear hunt. For obvious reasons.

“I hope your horse time was productive,” Jane said. The tent was dim, lit by a single lantern hanging from the topmost pole. “If we can’t pull this off, we’ll be right back in the Tower waiting for our executions.”

Light flared inside the tent. “Don’t talk like that.” Gifford quickly adjusted the cloak and found the clothes Jane had laid out for him. “We’re going to live tomorrow, and for long after. We’ll have years and years to fight about everything you want to fight about.”

He made it sound like it was a desirable thing.

“I hope so,” Jane said. “I’ve been making a list.”

“I don’t doubt it. What shall we fight about first?”

“I think you know.”

“Uh . . .” He was more or less dressed now, the cloak a crescent moon around his feet. She turned to him and crossed her arms.

“You locked me up. In a cage.” How could he not understand what a problem that was?

“I was trying to keep you safe!” he countered.

Jane threw up her hands. “I don’t want to be kept safe! And I definitely don’t want you to be the

one to decide whether or not I need to be kept safe! That’s not your duty.”

For a few moments, they just stared at each other.

“I’m your husband,” he said at last. “If keeping you safe isn’t my duty, what is?”

For the first time, Jane realized that maybe he was just as uncertain in this relationship as she was.

Maybe he wasn’t as sure of himself as she’d always assumed.

“As my husband,” she said softly, “your duty is to respect me. To trust me. If I say I want to do something, you can’t stop me just because I might get hurt. That’s not living. I need to make my own decisions.”

“When you came after me at the tavern, you nearly died.” He looked wrecked at the memory. “You

nearly died, and then who would I have argued with?”

“You’d have found someone.”

“No.” He stepped toward her. “I only want to argue with you.”

She met his eyes and saw that he meant it. “And I only want to argue with you.”

“I do respect you,” he said earnestly. “And I trust you.” He spoke more hurriedly now; it was almost dark. “I’m sorry, Jane. I shouldn’t have locked you in a cage without your consent, and I shouldn’t have made you believe that what you want isn’t the most important thing to me. I just couldn’t stand the thought of losing you. But I am sorry. Deeply, madly, truly sorry.”

Jane spent a moment untangling that. “So you’re apologizing for locking me in a cage?”

He nodded. “And I’ll apologize every day for the rest of our potentially short lives, if that will help.”

“Quite unnecessary.” She closed the distance between them and looked up (and up and up) to meet his eyes. She shook her index finger at his nose. “But if you ever even think about locking me in a cage again, I will stab you with a knitting needle.”

“It’s as though you’ve reached right into my worst nightmares, my lady.” He grinned.

“And I suppose I’ll try to be less rash when it comes to putting myself in danger. After all, if I died, who would you argue with?”

“I’m glad you’re finally seeing reason.”

She laid her head against his chest. Gifford’s warm breath stirred against her hair, making sparks ignite in her stomach. “Now,” he said. “I want to hear about your day. Did you read any new books?”

“I’ve read all the books we have.” She wrinkled her nose. “Armies aren’t very good about carrying libraries with them. I can’t imagine why. We’d fight so much less if everyone would just sit down and read.”

Gifford’s laugh rumbled through him, loud against her ear. “A question I often ask myself.

Imagine how much money the realm would save if the rulers focused their finances on libraries, rather than wars.”

“Not if I were allowed to shop for books.”

“England would go bankrupt,” he said gravely. “Thank God for wars.”

She pushed him away, playful. “You can’t switch sides like that.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up. “It’s too late. I’ve switched already, and since you’ve forbidden switching that quickly again, I’m stuck opposing you.”

“Congratulations,” she said. “You’ve just described our entire relationship.” She took his hand, her eyes going serious again. “I’m not sorry we got married. About the way it happened, maybe, and all the discomfort we’ve put each other through. But not that we got married.”

The way Gifford smiled was so full of hope and relief, it made Jane’s breath catch, and she had the strongest urge to stand on her toes and press her lips to his. But then he glanced toward the tent

flap. “It’s almost ferret time.”

He tried to pull away, but Jane held tighter to his hands and shook her head.

“I don’t want to change tonight.” She hugged him, burying her face against his shoulder. “I want more than these few minutes, Gifford. G.”

“I know,” he whispered. He held her tight. “Me too.”

Jane clung to him like he was her anchor. Some nights she was resigned to the change, and others she fought and knew she would not win. But right now she resisted the flickers of light with all her will.

She felt the magic fill her. Then it drained away, and Jane opened her eyes, expecting to be small and furry and cupped against Gifford’s chest.

Only the last part was true.

Gifford held her against him, but it was her human hair that he stroked, and her human legs that she stood upon, and her human eyes that met his.

Awe filled his face. “You . . . broke your curse.”

She was still trembling with the anticipation of the change. Maybe they’d been wrong about the time. After weeks of living half lives with short times at sunrise and sunset, they’d both learned how long they typically had together, but maybe they’d been wrong.

“You didn’t want to become a ferret,” Gifford continued, “so you stayed human.”

“It wasn’t that,” she breathed. “I wanted to stay with you. That was my heart’s desire.”

Wonder and disbelief warred on his face, but finally a wide smile won as he cupped her face in his hands.

Heart pounding, Jane leaned forward. They were close. So close.

Cloth rippled and torchlight shone in. “G—” Edward stopped halfway into the tent. “Oh. I’m sorry, Jane, I thought you were a ferret.”

For a moment, Jane wished she were a ferret. It’d be less embarrassing than her cousin walking in on . . . something. A kiss that didn’t happen.

She leaned back and caught her breath, resigned. The kingdom had to come first. “It’s all right. I learned how to control it at last. I think I’ll remain a girl tonight.”

“Good. That’s good.” Edward flashed a tense smile and turned to Gifford. “We’re having a strategical meeting in my tent.”

Gifford turned to look at Jane. “You should come with us.”

Jane froze. Go with them? To plan? To strategize?

Edward stared at Gifford. “We’ll be planning a battle, G. The men, I mean. Well, and Bess, of course.”

“Which is exactly why Jane should join us,” Gifford said. “She’s excellent at planning.”

Jane looked back and forth between them.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s go. I have lots of ideas.”

The three of them walked to the tent where the leaders of their assembled forces—Archer, Bess,

the commanders of the French and Scottish armies—were standing around a table that bore a map of London. Gifford spent a few minutes pointing out different places of interest—what might be a useful hill and where they might focus their attempts to enter the city.

“That’s the plan?” Jane asked after a few minutes of listening to Edward and Archer bicker over the best place to attack the city wall. “To besiege London?”

Edward shrugged. “We have to take London somehow.”

“London has never crumbled under siege, not in all of recorded history,” Jane pointed out.

“But it’s not as though Mary will meet us on the battlefield.” Edward coughed lightly. “She won’t send out her army when she doesn’t think she needs to. The rules of engagement mean nothing to her.”

Jane had a sudden idea.

“Then the rules of engagement must mean nothing to us,” she announced. All the men in the room

frowned. “London cannot be taken. And it doesn’t need to be taken.”

Mary hadn’t needed an army to take London. Yes, she’d had one, but they’d just sat around the wall being scary while Mary intimidated the Privy Council into submission and seized the throne.

“What do you propose, Jane?” Bess gave her an encouraging smile.

“We take Mary.”

“Take her where?” asked the French commander.

“Take her how is probably the better question,” G said.

“Take Mary. Yes, that’s clever,” Bess said, ignoring G’s concern. “All Edward needs to do is show up to confront Mary. When everyone sees that the rightful King of England is alive, they won’t be able to deny his claim to the throne. But it must be in the proper place, where there can be no question about his identity. And we must not give Mary any time to prepare.”

“Mary will be holed up in the Tower of London, won’t she?” G asked. “In the royal apartments at the top of the White Tower?”

Jane slammed her palm on the table. “Then we break into the Tower.”

“The Tower that . . . also hasn’t been breached, ever?” Edward eyed Jane.

“Right, but we have advantages others haven’t.” Jane counted on her fingers. “One: an intimate knowledge of the layout and inner workings of the Tower of London. Two: a kestrel.”

Everyone looked at Edward. (Even the French commander, though he wasn’t sure why everyone

was looking at Edward. In spite of all the hints, he hadn’t figured it out yet.)

“I can’t go in there alone,” Edward protested.

“I’d volunteer,” boasted Archer. “But I can’t fly over the walls.”

(Here, the French commander ’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. France was still a country run by

Verities, after all.)

Edward glared at Archer. “The problem isn’t the walls. It’s that I’d be naked. And unarmed. I’d have to land and change on the Tower Green, conveniently in the very same place Mary executes people like me, and I’d rather not make it that easy for her.”

(Everyone definitely knew what they were talking about now.)

“It’s fine with me if you want to send the bird in.” Archer smirked at Edward. “But we have these armies, you see. Are they for nothing?”

The Scottish and French commanders looked at each other in a moment of mutual solidarity.

“The armies are useful.” Jane wished the others would all just hurry up and understand. “They will be a diversion. Imagine her panic when Mary looks out and sees several thousand soldiers assembled outside the city. Here.” She touched a spot on the map. “On the opposite side of London from the Tower.” She leaned forward over the table eagerly. “Mary doesn’t even know you’re alive, Edward.

As far as she’s aware, I’m the one preparing to attack London. And we’ll let her continue thinking that.”

“Which doesn’t change the problem of a naked bird king standing on the Tower Green,” Archer

said. “Do you have a plan to keep him from getting killed before he surprises Mary?”

“Yes.” Jane grinned. “I do.”

Edward had been planning to attack the city at dawn, but with Jane’s new and improved plan, they were going to hold off until night fell, so that it’d be easier to sneak into the Tower unseen. Which would give them the entire day to prepare.

“I’m going to practice,” Jane announced when she and Gifford returned to their tent together to get some much-needed sleep. She hung a cloak from one of the tent poles to act as a curtain, then took off her clothes. Light flared as she changed from girl to ferret to girl again. It was surprising how easy she found the change now that she knew she could do it. Now that she knew what she truly wanted.

“Show-off,” Gifford said from the other side of the cloak curtain. “You’re probably keeping our neighbors awake with that light.”

She just wished G would want it, too. He’d be much more useful in the morning in his human form. And there were so many other reasons that she wanted him to be with her tomorrow.

Jane turned into a ferret and ran up his leg and side until she perched on his shoulder.

Gifford stroked her fur. “Nicely done, my dear. Now can we go to sleep?”

She considered asking him to practice, too. But if he wanted to, he would suggest it. He would try.

But since he didn’t offer to try, she became a girl again, dressed, and together they squeezed onto the narrow sleeping pallet.

“This is nice,” G said against her hair, pulling her back against his chest. “Thank you for not making me sleep on the floor.”

“You’re welcome,” she murmured. It was more than nice, she thought as she closed her eyes and

tried to quiet her mind. She’d go to bed like this every night, if she could. But this could be their last night together.

It was starting to feel terribly familiar, this feeling that tomorrow they could die.

The sounds of birds singing woke her a few hours later. She stretched her arms and wiggled her toes; she was still a girl.

“Did you sleep?” Gifford’s voice behind her was deep and groggy.

Jane nodded and pulled herself out of their makeshift bed. “Not well, but it was better than nothing.” In truth, she’d tossed and turned for hours. There was much riding on her today.

Gifford sat up and smoothed back his hair. “I didn’t sleep. I kept thinking about you breaking your curse.”

Jane looked over at him, hopeful.

“Your heart’s desire, you said.” He rose to his feet, his clothes all sleep-tousled and a pressure mark running the length of his face. He was beautiful, she thought, if one could call a man beautiful.

There was a question in his eyes, and she knew the answer.

“Gifford, I—” The word balanced on her tongue. Was it so difficult to say? It couldn’t be wrong.

The feeling had been gathering in her since those days in the country house, growing and deepening ever since. And now that she knew the secret to controlling her form, they could actually have a future together.

She desperately wanted a future together.

“Jane.” He glanced at the tent flap. “It’s almost time. The sun.”

“Don’t change,” she whispered. “Stay with me.”

“I want to, but—” He began tugging at his clothes, loosening his shirt collar and picking at the buttons.

“Don’t change!” Jane went to him and took his shoulder, like her touch could break his curse.

“Want to stay with me more than you want to do anything else.”

“I’m sorry, Jane. I wish—”

She grabbed his face and kissed him, shoving her fingers through his hair to draw him closer.

“Stay with me,” she pleaded against his lips. “Don’t change.”

Gifford pulled back for a heartbeat, his eyes wide with surprise. “Jane,” he breathed. “I—”

“Don’t change.” She lifted her gaze to his. “Please.”

“Oh, Jane.” He kissed her. Softly at first, but then she pulled him close and pressed her lips harder to his. And that was it. She could feel him giving in by the way his body pressed against hers, the way one of his hands cupped her cheek, and the way the other slid down her arm. She could feel his desire to stay human in the fevered, desperate way he kissed her. Like he wanted this to last, to make this moment stretch on.

But then he jerked back and threw his shirt free, bright white light enveloping him.

“No!” Jane’s eyes stung with tears.

The light faded, and Gifford stood there as a horse.

Jane pressed her hands to her mouth to hold in a faint sob.

His head dropped.

“It’s all right,” she said tremulously after a long moment. “It’s very difficult to master the change.

Even Gran said she had a hard time with it, remember? You can try again. When you’re better rested.”

She went to lift the flap for him to step out of the tent.

“I’ll see you later,” she said. “Tonight.”

He didn’t look at her as he passed. He just went. Then she was alone in the dim space that still smelled faintly of horse.

She stared down at the tangled blankets they’d shared, trying not to cry. Perhaps she’d put too much hope in his feelings for her. What if he didn’t care about her as much as she cared about him?

What if that was why he hadn’t stayed human? She’d tried. Oh, she’d tried, and they’d kissed. But it hadn’t been enough.

She hadn’t been enough.

Jane spent the day waiting for dusk.

She didn’t see Gifford, except the occasional glimpse of him running with other horses, or resting in the shade. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. Not that she had time to dwell on him.

There was so much to do to prepare for nightfall.

When the sun was almost down she made her way to Edward’s command tent. Gifford trotted toward her, chestnut coat shining in the honey light, and then he vanished into the tent without pausing to acknowledge her whatsoever.

Her heart sank.

She watched as the camp readied itself for battle. The men put on their armor and strapped on shields and swords. The archers tested their bows. The cavalry saddled their horses. And the noncombatants pinned open their tent flaps, preparing to receive the wounded.

There would be wounded. There would be dead.

“All they have to do is look scary.” Edward came outside his tent and saw Jane brooding over the infirmaries. “It’s like you said. They’ll distract Mary from us.”

“I know.” Jane hugged herself. “But some will inevitably be injured. They’re here to draw fire.”

Archer was out there among the assembling troops, ready to lead the Pack into battle. Gracie, she knew, had insisted on joining him in the fight. What if Gracie was hurt? What would it mean to

Edward if she were killed?

A chill ran through her. What if Edward himself was killed? Her plan wasn’t perfect. There were variables she couldn’t possibly account for. He could die.

She didn’t know if she could survive his death a second time. Or Gifford’s.

Gifford.

(At this point we as the narrators would just like to say something about the true danger of this entire situation. We should remind you now that we only promised to tell you an alternate story to what the history books record. You’ll be lucky if you can find a history book that mentions Jane at all

—since she’s often skipped over in the line of English monarchs—but if you do, that book will say that Lady Jane Grey ruled England for nine days, was deposed by Mary, and then had her head chopped off. Well. We already know that didn’t happen in our tale. Our Jane still has her head.

But we can’t promise that Jane’s always going to be safe in the part that’s coming up, or Gifford, or Edward, or any of the other characters you’ve come to know and love. The truth is, any of them could die at any moment, and then, well, Queen Mary would undoubtedly spend the next five years living up to the nickname Bloody Mary by having hundreds of poor E∂ians burned at the stake. So keep that in mind as you read onward.

Anyway, back to Jane and her worrying.)

“We’re all doing this for the same reason,” Edward said gently. “The soldiers know it. They’re willing to sacrifice everything for that reason, if sacrifice is what they must do.”

“What reason is that?”

“To make England the kind of place that we would have it be: a land of peace and prosperity, a kingdom where we are permitted to be our true selves without fear.”

“That’s worth maybe dying for.” Gifford’s voice came from behind her.

She turned. At seeing him as a man again, a shiver ran through her, both delight and sorrow. She’d begged him not to change this morning, and he had anyway.

“See?” Edward nudged Gifford with his elbow. “Even the horse agrees.”

Gifford bowed.

“Screw your courage to the sticking-place, right, G?” Edward said. He clapped Gifford on the shoulder and leaned to kiss Jane’s cheek. “Now I’d better change. To make sure I have time to get hold of the bird joy.”

He’d better get hold of the bird joy, Jane thought. And truly, he’d improved, as far as she’d seen.

But if he wasn’t there when she was ready . . .

Her cousin became a kestrel and flew into the starry sky. She watched him go.

“You don’t have to be the one to do this, Jane,” Gifford said, when they were alone. “There are others who could.”

She smiled at him sadly. “I must do this. I was queen for only nine days, and I don’t wish to be queen again, but I do love England. I want to fight for it. For E∂ians. For us.”

Gifford searched her eyes, stepping close, but he didn’t touch her. Didn’t kiss her. His change this morning was still too thick between them.

“Then let’s go, my lady.”

They returned to the tent and found Pet sitting with her chin on Edward’s chair.

“Come on, Pet.” Jane kept her voice soft. “I know you want to help Edward. We’ll do it just like I told you earlier. Come on.”

Pet whined like maybe she found this whole thing a very dumb idea, but she followed Jane and Gifford out of the camp.

“Don’t worry, Pet,” Gifford said as they walked. “I can defend us, should the need arise.”

Pet whined again, and Jane agreed. She wasn’t totally confident in her husband’s skills as a swordsman. Although she supposed he’d managed well enough with the giant bear.

Trumpets sounded in the distance—the attack on the city had begun. Jane, Gifford, and Pet moved swiftly in the opposite direction, moving parallel to the old Roman wall that protected the city.

“Here.” Jane guided the group to a wide ditch that ran alongside the wall. The high weeds would provide the perfect cover, as long as they stayed quiet. “Keep low.”

Gifford snorted. “That’s easy for you to say.”

She arched her neck to look up at him. “No one asked you to be so tall.” But she was pleased her demure stature was finally good for something. It was an advantage at last. A boon. An asset. A virtue

— She stopped herself from continuing her synonym spiral. There was work to do. “We’ll head for Saint Katherine’s.”

The three of them sneaked as quickly as they dared. Every shout from beyond the wall made the

two (at the moment) humans duck. Pet always turned her ear toward the sound, growing statue still, and then wagged her tail when she was sure that all was clear.

It had been a last-minute idea to send Pet with Jane and Gifford, and Jane was glad for the companionship, even if Pet was sometimes a naked girl and that made everyone uncomfortable. Pet was always good to have in a scrape.

She hoped tonight wouldn’t be too much of a scrape.

Ahead of them, a large priory stood against the darkening sky. Jane knew this land well—she and Edward had sometimes played near here as children. There were several abbeys in this part just outside of London, and a church, gardens, and a hospital. She could already see the Tower and its many structures before them, rising against the night. Torches shone along the walls. She wondered where Edward was—if he was circling overhead already, waiting for her. But she didn’t see him. It was too dark.

“Look here,” Gifford said, glancing around. “We’re on Tower Hill.”

Jane shuddered. They were standing on the ground where Gifford was to have been executed not

so long ago. A huge, newly built pyre stood nearby, stacked with brush just waiting to be lit. Awaiting the E∂ians Mary had been rounding up over the last few weeks. Jane had never seen a burning, but one of her books— The Persecution of E∂ians Throughout the Ages: A Detailed Account of Animal Form Downfall—had indeed given detailed accounts of the way one died when burned at stake. A terrible, painful death.

That was meant to be Gifford. Her Gifford. Her stupid horse husband who didn’t even try to control his form. Who didn’t love her, not the way she loved him. But Jane would fight any war if it meant keeping him safe.

She reached for Gifford’s hand and found him already reaching for hers. If they failed tonight, this pyre would be waiting for both of them by dawn.

They hurried by the Aldgate and farther south down East Smithfield Road, until they reached Saint Katherine’s Abbey. The three of them aimed for the gardens, keeping to the heavy brush and weeds that grew on the river ’s edge.

“This is as far as you go,” Jane said as they settled behind a low wall near the abbey. She pointed across a dark field, toward a small bridge that crossed the moat and led straight into the Tower of London. The Iron Gate—Jane’s destination—stood on the other side, a lowered portcullis blocking the way in. There were four guards on the bridge; it didn’t require much in the way of sentries, which was why she’d chosen it.

She took a moment to catch her breath. The Thames rushed by not twenty feet away, but Jane could hardly hear the noise over the pounding of her own heartbeat as she watched the guards, analyzing their movements, trying to find a pattern.

“I don’t like this.” Gifford glanced at her worriedly. “It’s not safe.”

“It’s not your choice,” she snapped, but softened when he winced. “I must. And you know I must.

I’m the only one who can. A horse would get caught. Even a dog. But not me.”

“My darling, I don’t think ferrets are as stealthy as you imagine.”

Jane pinched his arm. “I’m as stealthy as I need to be. I rescued you from Beauchamp Tower, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but—”

“And I could hold perfectly still if I wanted.”

“Not even while you sleep, my sweet.”

“And I could vanish for hours and you’d never find me.”

“Only because you’d have fallen asleep in the fold of some forgotten blanket.” But he looked terrified. “Please reconsider.”

“It’s the only way,” she said, lifting her eyes to his. Waiting. Hoping. Wanting him to say something more. Hadn’t she proved her feelings last night when she didn’t change? If he’d just say something now, that might help ease the knot of emotions and anxiety.

Pet sighed and rolled onto the ground, bored.

Jane turned into a ferret.

The light from her change must have alerted the guards, because even as Gifford dumped Jane over the low wall they’d been hiding behind—and she crashed and rolled into the weeds on the other side—she heard a shout, and then Pet began barking and Gifford shuffled to another hiding place.

There was no time to worry about them now. Jane took off at a speedy walk—because running ferrets were very bouncy and not stealthy at all. Gifford did have a point about that.

As she sped through the high grass, what had been a short walk suddenly became much longer now that she was tiny. She missed her human sight, too, though as a ferret the darkness wasn’t quite so impenetrable. And also, she could hear the guards far better.

“Look for an E∂ian,” one guard called from the middle of the bridge.

“Kill any animal you see!”

Jane’s tail felt huge and prickly. Instinct urged her to run in the opposite direction. (She had read somewhere that ferrets were fearless creatures, but she didn’t believe that, even if she was a ferret with a human mind. Ferrets wanted to live as much as anyone else.)

“Look, a dog! Get it!”

Boots struck the ground. She couldn’t tell how many went away from the bridge. Surely not all of them—they wouldn’t leave this entrance to the Tower completely unguarded.

She lifted her head, and looked around. Sniffed around, we should say, now that she had such an excellent nose.

First, she smelled the foul odor of sewage from the moat, and she immediately regretted her excellent nose. Then she tried to block out the stink and search for different notes in the air. Plants.

Mold. Sweat.

There were two humans still here, she surmised after a moment of smelling and listening, both with their weapons drawn, ready to kill any animal they saw.

Ready to kill her.

Jane pressed her furry belly to the ground and considered her journey across the bridge. It was a

narrow bridge, at least for a human. As a ferret, she had much more room. She just had to get past the men, squeeze through the closed portcullis, and find the correct tower.

Piece of cake. Right.

Behind her, toward the church where she’d left Gifford and Pet, a dog howled—and suddenly went

silent. “I got one!” called a guard.

A fresh wave of adrenaline rolled over Jane.

(Okay, so we told you that anybody could die at any time, and you seem like you’re getting worried, but Pet’s fine. Jane had foreseen that the guards would spot the flash of her E∂ian change, so she’d recruited Pet to draw away the guards. Which would, in turn, give Gifford time to hide elsewhere while he waited for her to open the gate. Pet was meant to lead the guards into an ambush with some Pack members on the other side of the field, but whether she would accomplish that—or the guards would give up the chase—remains to be seen. But trust us: we’re not the type of narrators who would kill a dog.)

The dog howling was Jane’s signal to go.

Jane scampered onto the wooden bridge and darted down it as fast as her tiny legs could carry her.

“Watch out!” Boots came thumping toward her. “A rat!”

I am not a rat , Jane thought, and dashed straight for the nearest guard. She jumped onto his leg, climbed up to the top of his high boots, and bit hard into the soft flesh behind his knee. Her claws dug into the leather of his boot. Can a rat do this ? she thought smugly.

The guard howled and swatted her off, knocking Jane’s tiny body toward the edge of the bridge.

“Get that rat!”

Her anger fueled her. Jane jumped to all four feet, ignoring the shocks of pain from her tumble, and kept running, darting to and fro. The guards were after her, but she was quick enough that they could never quite catch her. Finally she swerved so that when they bent to scoop her up, they crashed into each other—and Jane was across the bridge, through a hole in the portcullis, and running into the Tower of London at full tilt.

The stone walls rose above her, huge and imposing. Even more so as a ferret.

But, of course, Jane had spent the day memorizing maps of the Tower of London and figuring out

how long it would take her to get from place to place in her E∂ian form. So it was with reasonable certainty that she hastened across the green, squeezed beneath a door, scurried through a few halls, and finally faced an endless set of stairs that would take her to the top of the Constable Tower—the building in the Tower of London that they’d decided would make the best place for their little invasion.

The steps were each as tall as she was.

Speed was important.

But so was stealth.

But so was speed.

Edward was waiting.

She listened hard for anyone moving nearby, but there were no sounds here. Not yet. But the guards she’d evaded on the bridge would soon be after her.

Which meant she needed speed more than stealth right now.

Jane turned into a girl.

She was a naked girl, but there weren’t any options for clothing. As quickly as she could, she hurried up the stone stairs, her bare feet growing more and more chilled with every turn around the narrow stairwell. It was the right decision, because she reached the top more quickly as a human than

she would have as a ferret.

The room with the biggest windows was at the top. Hurriedly, Jane grabbed a fire poker from next to the hearth and crossed to the south-facing window. The windows of the Tower were made of cloudy, ancient glass, and they didn’t open. She felt guilty, but she had no choice. She hit the glass with the poker using all her strength, over and over until it cracked and then shattered, leaving a large gaping hole that opened into the night sky.

That should do it.

Jane dropped the poker and scanned for anything useful. The room was crammed with wardrobes

and cabinets and crates, which was part of the reason they’d chosen this particular part of the Tower of London.

First, they needed clothes. Most of the clothes in the wardrobes were military uniforms, which were all too big for Jane. (Not to mention the indignity of pants.) But since nudity was out of the question, she pulled on the smallest set she could find and laid out another uniform next to the broken window.

“Come on, birdbrain.” She glanced out, but all she saw was dark. From this angle, she couldn’t see much of anything—not the battle where Bess and Archer led their attack on the city wall, not even the place nearby where Gifford was hopefully unharmed and waiting for her. But she could hear the guards calling to each other in the courtyard below. They probably hadn’t seen where she’d gone (although surely they’d heard the window bashing, so they might have a general idea), but they knew someone had infiltrated the tower. At some point they’d get organized and search it structure by structure. If she stayed here much longer, she’d be caught.

But Edward wasn’t here yet.

What would she do if he didn’t come?

Jane tried to ignore the wild thudding of her heart and moved on to search the cabinets, looking for weapons, but they were all filled with stockings, boots, and hats. Further inspection only turned up a few vaguely weapon-like items. A frying pan. A rolling pin. Oh, and the fire poker.

Jane snatched it up from where she’d dropped it on the floor and smiled at the pointed tip. That could work.

But where was Edward?

As if on cue (or maybe a bit late on his cue), a kestrel flew through the window.

“Edward!” At least, she hoped the bird was Edward. It’d be embarrassing to just start talking with a strange bird.

At the flash of light, Jane turned away and covered her eyes.

“Jane!” the king greeted her happily. “Sorry, but it was harder to tell which window I should come to. I know you said the south-facing window, but I don’t have the best sense of direction as a bird.”

“No time for conversation, cousin,” Jane said. “Gifford’s waiting.”

“Right.” He sounded uncharacteristically nervous. “Let’s go.”

“But I did set out some clothes for you.”

“Oh, right. How thoughtful.” He shuffled around and hurried into his clothes. From the courtyard below Jane suddenly heard a shout: a soldier had come upon the broken glass from the window. They only had a few moments before they’d be discovered.

Edward looked at her grimly. “So what do we have in the way of weapons?”

Jane tossed him the fire poker.

He held it like a sword, so maybe it would be useful after all. “Good enough. And for you?”

Jane picked up the frying pan.

Gifford

Where was she? G paced back and forth on the other side of the Iron Gate, squinting into the darkness past the portcullis, hoping for a sign of his Jane. The minutes felt like hours, and the seconds felt like days. Every violent sound that pierced the night air (and there’d been a few violent sounds since he’d hoisted ferret-Jane over the abbey wall earlier) could be the harbinger of her death. The death of his wife. His beloved.

G loved her. But he hadn’t told her he loved her.

She had begged him to stay, and he’d wanted to, especially given the way she had kissed him. How had a girl like Jane kissed him like that? With her whole heart and her whole body? She’d probably read a dozen books with titles like The Kiss: It’s Not Just About the Lips.

The way Jane kissed, it was an art. She kissed by the book.

And yet, he’d still changed into a horse. And he hadn’t told her he loved her. Now she might die without knowing that she’d become his day and his night, and his sun and his moon. He adored Jane—

he loved her! he loved her!—and he should have worn that for all to see. He shouldn’t have hidden his heart.

He closed his eyes and sent a quick prayer to the heavens that he would see her again.

He prayed Edward would keep her from harm.

He prayed if Edward failed, she would turn into a ferret and hide.

He prayed if she was discovered, she would slip from the soldier ’s clumsy fingers.

And that if she couldn’t escape, they would kill her quickly.

G squeezed his eyes shut and tried to forget that last plea to heaven. Instead he composed a line of prose in his head.

If I may but see you again, my dearest, I will wear my heart upon my sleeve. . . .

He remembered Jane’s face right before she’d kissed him. He glanced at the flicker of the torches that framed the heavy gate, their flames weak and faint against the wind. Jane’s face could have taught those torches to burn bright. Last night, she was the sun, and all of the flowers in all of the counties turned toward her for warmth.

G pulled his quill, ink, and notebook from his pocket and fumbled as he tried to uncork the jar without spilling its contents.

(Unfortunately, reader, the much more portable pencil would not be invented until the late sixteenth century, and the closest thing to the pen we are all familiar with now was not invented until the nineteenth century, so G was left to fumble with ink and quill. The first people to read of our tale wondered why he bothered to bring a quill, ink jar, and notebook into battle at all, considering he was already carrying three swords—one for himself, Edward, and Jane, when they needed them—but G

would argue that he was more familiar and comfortable with a quill in his hand rather than a sword,

and if he had to choose one or the other to bring into battle, he’d bring the quill. Because when it came right down to it, he would probably have a better chance of defending himself with a quill.) When G let his swords drop to the ground, he was finally able to put quill to paper.

Oh how she could teach the torches to burn bright. She was the sun—

Before he could finish his thought, he heard footfalls on the cobblestones inside the Tower, and then a hushed voice.

“Gifford?”

It was Edward. G pressed closer to the gate and could barely make out the silhouettes of two figures rushing toward him, but they didn’t come within a stone’s throw of G’s position before two other figures, with the distinct silhouettes of the Tower guards, intercepted them.

“Jane!” G called out in a loud whisper.

As G’s eyes adjusted to the scene before him, he saw Edward raise a . . . fire poker? . . . and Jane pull out . . . a frying pan?

Whose cockamamie idea were these weapons? Probably Jane’s. They seemed like Jane’s idea of

weapons.

No one paid attention to her frying pan, though. Jane, by virtue of being a lady, was allowed to slide into the background. No one else so much as glanced in her direction as she retreated against the wall. She didn’t pose a threat.

Good, G thought. But part of him was grieved that she’d barely seemed to notice him at all.

The guards drew their swords and faced the king.

“Gentlemen,” Edward said. “Sheathe your weapons. I am King Edward the Sixth, by the grace of

God, ruler of England, France, and Ireland. In earth, the supreme head. I am your rightful sovereign.”

“King Edward is dead,” one of the men responded. “And besides, doesn’t France have its own, separate king?”

“I am not dead,” argued Edward. “There are nefarious villains who would have you believe I died.

But any accounts of my demise have been grossly exaggerated, I assure you, for here I am, very much alive.”

The guards exchanged looks.

“He speaks the truth,” G called from his position beyond the gate. “He is our true king. I have traveled with him to France to gather troops. I have fought alongside him as he killed the Great White Bear of Rhyl. Long live King Edward!”

The guard on the right began to lower his sword, until the guard on the left said, “Hold on.

There’s no such thing as the GWBR. He obviously lies.”

The first guard scratched his head. “But what if he speaks the truth?”

“If he’s not speaking the truth, and we let him go, we’ll be hanged for treason. But if he is speaking the truth, we could kill him here, and no one would ever be the wiser.”

“No!” G said. “Bad decision!”

The guard on the right re-raised his sword and took a deep breath as if to speak, but he didn’t get a sound out before a loud bong rang out and he dropped like a stone. Jane stood behind the guard, her frying pan raised to where the man’s head had been.

“Wonderful, Jane!” G grinned. Frying pans. Who knew?

Edward, with his excellent mastery of fencing and his years of training and his newfound strength, swiftly dispatched the other guard with two flicks of his fire poker.

“Well done, Sire,” G said. For a moment, he wondered if it was indeed the best choice to skip those fencing lessons in favor of writing poetry. But that worry would have to wait until later. After

the sword fight.

Edward sprinted to the gate, and soon Jane was there, too, and they used their combined weight to activate the pulley-and-counterweight system that raised the portcullis.

It didn’t lift fast enough for G. His gaze held Jane’s through the bars. The sound of paws against gravel announced Pet’s sudden arrival, and the dog scrambled under the portcullis and ran to Edward.

As soon as G could, he crawled underneath and took his wife in his arms. “Jane.”

“Gifford.”

“I . . . we . . . There are so many things I should’ve told you—”

“We should get going,” Edward said.

(Now, we, as narrators, feel the need to inform you, dear reader, that we do not know how Edward always managed to thwart kisses. All we do know is that it was a gift he demonstrated throughout his life, most notably when his third cousin the Lady Dalrymple of Cheshire was about to kiss her new husband over their wedding altar, just after the priest pronounced them man and wife, and Edward stepped forward from his place of honor by the priest and said, “I hate to interrupt, but I thought now would be an excellent time to remind the wedding party not to throw rice, on account of the fact that birds, even kestrels, can choke on it.”)

Back to the scene at hand. Edward said to G and Jane, “Now we must get to the White Tower. And

Mary.”

They all turned toward the huge stone structure that stood in the exact center of the Tower of London. The White Tower—the most ancient and well fortified of the castle buildings. Where Mary would be sitting on Edward’s throne.

“Did you bring the swords?” Edward asked G.

G ran back to the other side of the gate and tried to act like he hadn’t just left the swords sitting there. Jane kept her frying pan, but G and Edward each took a sword.

They were coming into the Tower of London as thieves in the night, and G was struck by the difference from the last time, when Jane was to be crowned queen, with royal guards escorting them in ceremony and deference. But before they could even start toward the White Tower, three more figures blocked the way. The first was a man G didn’t know. The second was G’s brother, Stan. The third was the owner of one giant eagle nose.

Edward raised his sword immediately. “Bash,” he said.

“I’m sorry, what?” G was confused.

Edward tilted his head to indicate the first man with the sword. “That’s Bash, the weapons master.

He taught me everything I know about swordplay.”

“Oh, excellent,” G said faintly. “Bash. Is that short for something?”

The man called Bash just glowered at them and dropped into a fighting stance. G moved in front

of Jane and held his arm across her, feeling the urge to protect her, although he knew when it came down to it, there’d be no stopping her.

Dudley sneered at them. “How quaint. A sickly boy, a useless man-horse, and a girl. This should be easy.”

G had to admit his father had a point. Perhaps Edward could compete with Bash, but there was no way G could take on both Stan and his father.

“John Dudley,” spat out Edward. “You treacherous snake. You are a traitor to your country and your king. I will see your head on a pike.”

Bash made an offensive move—“Watch out!” Jane cried—and Edward reacted quickly. He lunged

toward Bash as if he’d been waiting his whole life to duel the fencing master. The two of them almost

danced to and fro, their swords flashing in the moonlight. Edward looked brilliant in G’s opinion—

strong and quick on his feet. He fought like the king he was.

G turned to his brother, who lifted his own impressive blade.

“Stan,” G entreated. “Come to your senses. The king is alive. This will all come down to two sides: the righteous and the imposters. Right now, you stand with the latter.”

Stan’s sword wobbled, and he glanced sideways at his father.

“You’re wrong,” Lord Dudley said. “You’ve always been a fool.”

“The fool thinks he is wise,” G retorted. “But the wise man knows himself to be a fool.”

That was a great line, he thought. He tried to remember where he’d stashed the quill and paper.

His father looked annoyed. He cleared his throat. “Whatever. Bash will dispatch the boy, and we all know that you’re no skilled swordsman.”

Everyone glanced at Edward and Bash. The weapons master was, at the moment, on the offensive.

Edward retreated gracefully behind a tree to buy himself some time and rest before he began his own offense. But for the moment, it appeared that Bash had the upper hand.

“You see, Gifford?” his father crowed. “You see how your king cowers?”

“Edward does not cower!” Jane banged her frying pan against her hand. Stan and Dudley didn’t

seem impressed by her threatening display, but G knew she’d fight them, too, if it came to that.

Though his wife was little, she was fierce.

Bash advanced, and Edward continued to retreat. Advance. Retreat. Advance. But just as Bash looked ready to deliver a stunning blow, Edward’s feet flicked and he was out from behind the tree and driving his opponent backward.

“Unexpected, yes?” Edward said, breathing hard. “Just like you taught me.”

Jane whooped in a way that would have seemed unladylike if anyone had been paying proper attention.

Both men went back to the dance of two expert swordsmen, and G turned to his father, the clang of blades in the background.

“Perhaps, Father,” he said, “you will change your mind about who win will this scuffle in light of some recent news. The first is this: King Edward is fully recovered from your poison. I watched him kill the Great White Bear of Rhyl without even breaking a sweat. He’s no sickly boy. The second, which might be even more disconcerting to you: your beloved firstborn has fled.”

G jerked his head toward the spot where Stan had stood only moments before. Indeed, between the far buildings, Stan’s retreating form could be seen careening around a corner. He always did have the courage of a flea.

“I could go after him,” Jane suggested. “With my frying pan.”

“He’s not worth it, my dear. Save your frying pan for someone who matters.”

Jane hmph ed but stayed where she was.

“And the final piece of news . . .” G suddenly swung the tip of his sword closer to that eagle nose.

“Since you last saw me, I have spent every waking hour sharpening my fencing skills. I have sliced candlesticks and skewered straw dummies and sparred with some of the finest blades of France. I might not be able to beat a weapons master, but I can easily best an old, top-heavy, pusillanimous, two-faced, paltry, odious excuse for a man.” He pushed his sword forward until it was against his father ’s coat. “Drop your sword.”

Lord Dudley, lacking in grace and honor—and at this point in time, any sort of backup—dropped

his sword and fell to his knees, just as Edward disarmed Bash of his blade.

Bash put his hands together. “I will give you anything you ask of me, Sire,” he panted, and bowed

his head.

“Fealty. Swear your fealty,” Edward demanded.

“My king, my sovereign, your smallest wish is my soul’s desire. Kill me if you need, but if you deign to let me live, I will be your humble servant, in whatever capacity you deem fit.”

Edward wiped sweat off his brow and looked to G. “Do what you will,” he said, nodding at Lord

Dudley.

Now this was a matter between father and son.

G turned and placed the tip of his sword on his father ’s chest. He pressed it with enough force to break through the topmost layer of fabric.

“Now, Gifford, think about what you’re doing.” Dudley’s voice was unnaturally high.

“Shut it, Father.” G spat the word in disgust.

“My son, please. I only did what I did for the good of the kingdom.”

“A kingdom you destroyed? Even now, at this very moment, men are fighting out there behind the

walls, fighting and dying because of what you did. You’re a most notable coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise breaker, the owner of not one good quality.”

Lord Dudley held out his hand. “You just don’t understand politics. Have you learned nothing?

Everyone involved in the running of a kingdom deserves to die at some point. It’s how the game is played. You win or you die.”

“You deserve to die.” G looked at his father ’s outstretched hand and it made him sick that he shared the same blood as this man. (Or maybe not, because he didn’t have the nose.) With a flick of his sword, he cut a gash in Lord Dudley’s palm.

Behind him, Jane gasped.

Dudley fell to his knees. “My son. My boy. I understand you are angry. What can I do to make you spare my life? I’ll do anything. Anything!”

“Anything?” G said. “Will you give me your estate?”

“Yes! I will give you all that I have and more!”

“Will you stop telling people that I’m a half-wit and admit publicly that I’m an E∂ian?”

“Yes!”

“Will you tell me that I’m just as good as Stan?”

Dudley hesitated. “Well, Stan’s exceptional.” He looked again at G’s sword. “But . . . yes. You are quite . . . good. Please don’t kill me.”

Jane’s small hand crept to his shoulder. G reached up to place his hand over hers. He let out a breath and looked up at the night sky. He already knew what he was going to do with his father. Yes, some would say that Lord Dudley deserved to die, but G was not the king, nor was he a judge, nor was he an executioner.

“I will leave you, Father, to the will of the people, who by this time tomorrow will all know of your treachery.”

Jane used rope to tie Bash and Dudley to the iron lattice of the portcullis (she had, after all, once read a book on the proper securing of captives), and once the prisoners were bound, the three of them made their way into the White Tower. To the throne room.

(You’re probably thinking the same thing we were: where did Jane get the rope to tie the prisoners? We researched this very conundrum thoroughly, and after two weeks we can say, without a doubt: nobody knows. It’s a question that has baffled historians and archaeologists alike. Professor Herbert Halprin explains: “Ropes have been a mystery to scholars throughout the ages. The first ropes were thought to appear as far back as 17,000 BC and made of vines. Unfortunately, being made

of vines, none of those early examples survived. Later, da Vinci drew sketches for a rope-making machine, but it was never built. In medieval times, there were secret societies, called Rope Guilds, whose rope-twisting practices were protected via a complicated series of handshakes and passwords

—” Okay. Your narrators are interrupting the dear professor, for reasons of boredom. Plus, his English accent sounded sketchy and forced. We asked him where Jane could’ve gotten the rope, but maybe he thought we asked him where anyone could’ve gotten any rope at any given point in history.

Trust us, we are as frustrated as you must be about the lack of a definitive answer.)

Anyway. It was time for our heroes to do what they’d come to do. It was time to face Mary. Finally.

“We should make this quick, like in and out,” said G as they approached the throne room. He nodded his head toward the windows, where the shades of approaching dawn filtered through. A few more minutes and he’d be a horse again, stuck in the White Tower. And he’d been there and done that already.

But as they reached the door to the throne room, Edward paused.

“You really think this will work?” he asked suddenly. “Because there are probably loads of people on the other side of this door.” He glanced down at his ill-fitting uniform. “Maybe they won’t recognize me.”

“They’ll recognize you,” assured Jane. “This will work.”

“Either that or we’re all about to die,” G added. “But it’s for a good cause.”

Edward nodded and put his hand on the door.

“Wait!” G stopped him. He turned to Jane. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

“Now?”

“I don’t know if I’ll get another chance.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve been weak. I’ve been a horse, when I should have stayed a man. But I can’t go in there and face whatever we’re about to face without you knowing that I am yours. Flesh, man, fur, horse . . . I am yours, Jane.”

He glanced again at the window. The sun was almost up. “At least for a few more seconds.”

Jane stood on tiptoe so she could look into his eyes. “Stay with me, G.”

He sighed. “I have never wanted so much in my life to stay human.”

“But you didn’t even try before. Why wouldn’t you try?”

G shook his head, ashamed. “For most of my life, it’s been easier to run. What if my heart’s true desire is to keep running? What if I can’t get my house in order, and be the man you want? But Jane.”

He took her hand and kissed it. “Dear Jane. You are my house. My home. I may have only half a life, but what I have, I pledge to you. I . . . I love you.”

“You love me?” she whispered.

“The very instant I saw you, my heart flew to your service,” he said.

“Really?”

“No,” he admitted. “Not exactly. But it’s a good line, am I right?”

“G.” She sighed. “Talk sense, please.”

“When I first saw you, I thought you were so beautiful that you couldn’t possibly love me. I never saw true beauty until that night.” He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “But I didn’t know you then. I didn’t know how clever you were, how courageous, how kindhearted, how true to yourself you always are. My lady. Jane. I would not wish any companion in the world but you.”

Her eyes were shining. “I love you, too.”

“You do?”

She smiled. “I do. But I have one question.”

“What is it, my lady?”

“Do you see the light through yonder window?”

G blinked, confused. “What?”

Jane took his face in her hands. “The sun is up,” she whispered. “See?”

“It can’t be the sun. I am still a man,” G said.

“The sun is up, and you are still a man,” Jane confirmed.

G closed his eyes, and for the first time in six years, eight months, and twenty-two days, he felt the sunlight on his skin. He breathed in its rays and absorbed its glow, and there rose a peace in his heart, the kind of calm that comes from the feeling of arriving home after a long journey. His curse was broken.

The two lovers embraced, while Edward and your narrators turned their heads to give the lovebirds their moment of blessed union.

“Ahem. Are you quite done?” Edward asked, when lips finally parted long enough for them to take a breath.

“Not quite.” G pressed one last soft kiss to Jane’s poetry-inspiring mouth. “Now we’re ready.”

“Good,” said Edward. “Because there’s still something I have to do.”

Edward

Edward threw open the door and strode into the throne room.

He’d done it. He’d gotten into the Tower, a nigh-impossible feat. He’d fought bravely and well.

He’d dispatched the guards, confronted Dudley, even beaten Bash at swords. And now he was about to reclaim his crown. Everything had gone according to Jane’s plan. He was nearly there—he could practically taste his victory.

His first surprise was that the throne room was almost empty. He’d supposed it would be bustling with courtiers and members of the Privy Council there to advise Mary and show the queen their support during the attack on the city wall. But at best there were a dozen people present. Not exactly the boisterous crowd he’d been hoping to witness his glorious return.

Still, the room fell silent when he entered, all eyes turning to him, mouths opening in shock.

Because even though he was streaked with sweat and stained with blood and not wearing any shoes, he was undoubtedly King Edward, back from the grave.

This was going to be good.

He turned to the steward stationed next to the door, whom he’d known since he was a young boy.

“Announce me, Robert,” Edward commanded.

The man looked like he was seeing a ghost (which he kind of was) but he obeyed without question.

“His Majesty Edward Tudor.”

Edward padded toward the throne to stand before Mary.

“You’re sitting in his chair,” piped up Jane from behind him.

Mary fidgeted with her handkerchief. “Oh, Eddie. I’m so glad to see you’re alive. My heart was

simply broken when they told me you were dead.”

“How dare you,” Edward said to her, his voice so dark with fury that he didn’t sound like himself.

“How dare you steal what is mine. You poisonous bunch-back’d toad!”

“Ooh, that’s a good one.” There was a rustle of paper behind him as Gifford wrote the line down.

His sister ’s face paled. “Now, brother—”

“You have the audacity to call me brother after what you’ve done? I should have you drawn and quartered. Or would you prefer to be burned at the stake? Purified—isn’t that what you called it? Isn’t that what you had planned—a great burning of traitors?”

“It was Dudley’s doing,” Mary said softly. “He took your throne because he wanted it for his son. I simply took it back.”

Edward laughed, but it was not a merry sound. “Oh, am I supposed to thank you for keeping my

chair warm?”

She stared at him mutely.

“No more lies, sister,” Edward said. “Let us speak plainly now, about what’s to be done.”

This would be the part where she’d beg for her life, he thought, where she’d cry and plead and grovel before him. He wondered if he could ever find it in his heart to forgive her.

Probably not.

But in this he was surprised again, because Mary did not beg. She stood up slowly, her back straight and unyielding before him. Still wearing his crown. “You’re only a foolish boy,” she said at last. “How could you possibly know what to do with this great kingdom?”

“I’ve been ruling this great kingdom for years,” he pointed out.

She scoffed. “You call that ruling? You were a puppet of the council, nothing more. And look what we’ve come to. E∂ians running about freely, causing havoc at every turn, savaging the land, defiling our very way of life. You have let this country slide to the edge of ruin. The E∂ians are determined to bring us into an age of darkness and perversity, and you are helping them.”

“I am an E∂ian,” he said. “Like my father before me. I am my father ’s son.”

“And I am my father ’s daughter,” Mary replied hotly. “I am his firstborn child, his only true heir.

He may have played at marriage with a bunch of E∂ian harlots, but my mother was his only legitimate wife. Which makes me, and not you, who are basically a bastard, the rightful ruler of England.”

Huh, thought Edward. He hadn’t been expecting her to argue. His mouth opened, then closed again. He wanted to say, Wait, no, that’s not right at all. I’m the rightful ruler. Mary can’t be. Because she’s a woman.

But that logic didn’t make sense to him anymore. He didn’t believe it.

He couldn’t think of what to say. He was, quite literally, speechless.

At his silence, a triumphant gleam appeared in Mary’s eyes.

“I am the queen,” she said, drawing herself up still further. “All my life I’ve watched you wrest that title from me, you a flagrant heretic, a pathetic, trifling boy. You talk of stealing, but it’s you who are the thief here. You are the usurper.”

“No,” a voice called out from the back of the room. An authoritative voice.

Bess.

Edward spun around to watch his other sister come up the aisle.

Bess’s gray eyes narrowed as she looked at Mary. “Edward is the rightful heir to the throne of England, because our father named him as his heir. The king can name whoever he wishes to succeed him.”

“But Father only named him because he was deceived by the foul E∂ians into casting aside his good and virtuous wife.” Mary pressed. “And only because Edward was a boy.”

Bess smiled knowingly. “Wrong, sister. Father left his throne to Edward because he knew, even then, that Edward had the heart of a king. Father knew that Edward would be generous and thoughtful when it came to the welfare of his people, and wise in his decisions. Father knew that Edward would be the best choice for this country.”

Huh, Edward thought again, frowning. He might have been flattered at these words, but deep down he knew that they weren’t true. When he’d “ruled” before, he hadn’t given much thought at all to the well-being of his people. In truth, he’d known nothing about his people. And he certainly hadn’t been wise. He’d done what he was told, signed what they’d put before him, agreed to the course of action the men around him informed him was the correct one. He had been a puppet, a king in name only.

And his father had chosen Edward solely because he’d been born a son and not a daughter.

Bess came to stand beside him. “Edward is the true king,” she said. “It’s Edward who will lead England to peace and prosperity. He will make England great.”

She turned to address Mary. “You would have led us all to ruin. You who conspired to kill your

own brother and pilfer his crown. You who threaten to tear the very fabric of our nation in two.

You’re a disgrace to the royal blood that runs through your veins.”

“Arrest her!” Mary shouted at the guards. “Off with her head!”

The guards didn’t move. They looked to Edward. He said nothing.

“The game is up, Mary,” Bess continued smoothly. “You’ve lost.”

“No!” The word echoed in the room. Then Mary let out a bellow of rage and barreled toward Bess with outstretched hands, as if she would choke the life from her sister.

But before she could reach Bess, a light flashed.

The onlookers gave a collective gasp.

Where Mary had been standing, there was now a chubby gray mule.

The first person to laugh was an elderly woman near the front of the room—a stranger to court,

people would later remark, but a distinctive figure who gave everyone who played at card games a peculiar sense of déjà vu.

“Oh dear. What an ass!” the old lady cackled, and then everybody began to giggle while the old

mule brayed and stood there looking generally miserable at the turn of events that had befallen her.

(As narrators, we’d like to inform you now that Mary was never seen as a human again. She remained an ass, all the rest of her days. As asses typically do.)

Edward didn’t laugh at her with the others. He turned to the guards. “Take her away.”

A man—it was Peter Bannister, actually—slung a rope around the former queen’s neck and led her from the room.

Edward approached the throne. It was just a glorified chair, he thought. It wasn’t even that comfortable. Nevertheless, he sat down on it carefully and surveyed the room. Because that was what was expected of him.

The people quieted once more. Then slowly, in a rustle of fabric and a shuffle of shoes, they kneeled before Edward. “Long live King Edward,” they said in one voice. “Long live the king.”

A lump rose in his throat. He didn’t feel the way he’d expected to feel in this moment. He didn’t feel triumphant, or victorious, or righteously entitled to the throne. He felt much the way he did the first time he’d been told that he was king. A sinking in his stomach. A dread.

Bess bent to pick up the crown from where it had clattered to the floor when Mary had showed the world her true self. She walked slowly and purposefully to stand beside Edward. She smiled. Then she raised the crown above his head and . . .

Edward caught her wrist. “Wait.”

She froze. “Edward, what are you doing?”

“What Mary said is true,” he whispered. “I’m not the rightful ruler.”

“Of course you are,” she said.

“Why, because I’m a boy?”

“Did you not hear what I said before? About why Father chose you?”

He looked down at his feet and smiled wistfully. “You’re the generous one, sister. I never really considered the welfare of my people. I’m not wise. I’m just a boy.”

“You’ve never been just a boy,” she said.

“I don’t have the heart of a king, but you do,” he said earnestly.

She stared at him. “Me?”

“You’re the one who’s going to make England great.” He took the crown gently from her hands

and stood. Jane and Gifford and Gran were all standing near the front, mouths open in shock—even Gran, who he’d always thought unshockable. He wished that Gracie were here. He’d been trying not

to dwell too much on Gracie, as she was probably still fighting alongside his soldiers at the city wall, and he couldn’t afford to be distracted by the thought of what was happening with her. But he would have liked to have seen her face when he did what he was about to do.

“Listen well,” he announced to the people assembled. “I, King Edward the Sixth, do hereby abdicate my crown to my sister Elizabeth Tudor, who I find, by both her birthright and her immeasurable good qualities, to be the rightful heir to the throne of England. Any rights and privileges I have heretofore enjoyed as monarch of this fine land, I bestow upon her.”

Silence.

He met Jane’s eyes. She closed her mouth and tried to smile. Then she nodded slightly.

“Long live Queen Elizabeth!” she called out, her voice small but strong. She turned to Gifford, who had been clasping her hand all the while, and nudged him.

“Oh. Long live Queen Elizabeth!” he added, and then the other voices began to join in, louder and louder.

“Come, sister,” he said to Bess. He took her hand and led her to the throne.

“Are you sure?” she whispered as she sat carefully in his chair. (King or not, it was going to be a while before he stopped thinking of it as his chair.) “Consider what you’re giving up.”

He knew what he was giving up. Power. Prestige. Wealth beyond measure. A life of leisure and luxury. A person always standing by to make sure he didn’t choke. And, most of all, his future.

Edward couldn’t honestly imagine who he would turn out to be if he wasn’t king. By stepping down he was relinquishing his very identity.

But his country needed a ruler who was worthy and capable. England needed Bess.

“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life,” he said. “You’re going to be a fine queen, Bess. The best. Even better than Father. Trust me.”

She gave him that subtle, thoughtful smile at his familiar words before she bowed her head for a moment, her eyes closed, her face as pale as chalk. He could see all twenty-two of her freckles. Then she looked up to address the people. “Very well. If that’s my fate, I will be as good to you as ever a queen was to her people.”

“Long live Queen Elizabeth!” they answered unanimously. “Long live the queen!”

Edward placed the crown upon her head.

Let’s pause for a moment. We know, we know, we’re so close to the end now that you can practically taste the happily ever after. And who would have seen that coming, right? I mean, who could have predicted that Edward would stand up then, and right there in front of the Privy Council and all of his adoring fans, he’d say that she—Elizabeth I—should be the Queen of England?

Because obviously she was the most qualified for the position. At long last Edward had arrived at the enlightened state of knowing that a woman could do a job just as well as a man.

Yep. That’s how it happened. Edward abdicated his throne. Elizabeth would be crowned queen at

Westminster Abbey that same week, and we all know she’d be the best ruler of England ever. And now history can more or less pick up along the same path where we left it.

But what happened to Edward, you ask? Well. We still have a little bit of the story left to tell.

Edward spent the better part of the next few days thinking about (what else?) Gracie McTavish.

Because he still wanted to tell her that he’d stepped down from the throne and see that surprised look on her face. And because (let’s be honest) he still very much wanted to kiss her. He thought about it embarrassingly often.

But the charming Scot was nowhere to be found.

“She’ll turn up eventually,” Bess said as he anxiously paced the throne room. She picked at a stray thread on the red velvet cushion of the throne. “You needn’t worry, Edward.”

Bess was right. Bess was always right, even more so now that she was queen; it was getting annoying. Gracie was alive. There’d been exaggerated tales of a valiant black-haired woman leading the Pack during the false attack on the city walls—but then where had Archer been? And where was Archer now?

The entire Pack had not yet made an appearance in London. They’d retreated back to the Shaggy

Dog the moment the fighting was done. Gracie, he figured, must be among them.

With Archer, probably, Edward thought miserably. Burned bright in his memory was the way Archer had told Gracie that she was looking very fine. And the way that flea-bitten man had ogled her like she was a piece of meat.

He couldn’t stand the idea of Gracie with Archer. And why wouldn’t she have come to see him?

Their last moment together in France had ended badly, but so badly that she wouldn’t want to see him again?

“Edward, sit down,” Bess said. “You’re making me queasy.”

He sank into a chair. Pet lumbered up to him, tail wagging. He scratched behind her ear, and she gave a happy dog sigh and collapsed at his feet. Pet had asked to remain a guardian to the queen, and after all she’d done for their cause, Bess had agreed (even though she wasn’t too fond of dogs—

remember, cat person). It was a little awkward at times, but the least they could do—well, that and give her a scratch and the scraps from the table every now and then.

“Um, Your Majesty,” came a voice from the doorway. A frightened voice. “About your crown.”

“What about my crown?” Bess asked the trembling servant who came to cower before her—

Hobbs, Edward remembered the man’s name was.

“Have you . . . moved it?” asked Hobbs.

“Moved my crown?” Bess frowned. “Where would I move it?”

“Normally it’s kept on a velvet cushion in the king’s—I mean the queen’s—chamber.”

“Right.” Edward and Bess exchanged worried glances. The citizens of England seemed to unilaterally accept Bess as the official ruler of the country now, but if someone had literally stolen her crown, it could mean trouble. Not to mention that the crown was virtually priceless.

“Speak, Hobbs,” Bess commanded. “Tell us what’s happened.”

Hobbs shifted from one foot to the other nervously. “It’s gone, Your Majesty.”

“Gone.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Gone where?” Bess’s voice rose, and the servant flinched.

“Gone missing!” Hobbs cried. “My job is to polish it. That’s what I do, every Thursday—I polish the crown, only today when I went to retrieve it, I found . . .” He started to cry. “I found . . .” He hiccupped. “I found . . .”

Hobbs held out his fist, which was clasped around something very small—much too small to be a

crown. Maybe a crown jewel. But it meant bad news all the same.

“What is it?” Edward and Bess both leaned forward to look. “Show us,” Bess said.

Hobbs opened his hand. He was sure he was going to lose his head for this. So he was shocked

when both the former king and the current queen broke into broad smiles.

“Your Majesty?”

“It’s all right, Hobbs,” Bess said.

Edward started taking off his clothes.

“Um, Your Majesty . . .” Hobbs was very confused now.

“You don’t still need me here, do you?” Edward asked Bess as he pulled his shirt over his head.

“I can manage,” Bess said. “Go.”

“Thanks.” He gave her a grateful smile and turned toward the window, shuffling off his pants.

Then there was a flash of blinding light, and when Hobbs could see again, the boy who had been king had simply vanished.

Hobbs stared down his hand, at the item he’d found resting in place of Bess’s crown.

A tiny wooden fox.

When Edward came down to rest on the roof of the Shaggy Dog, he saw, with his magnificent kestrel eyes, that one of the back doors had been left open a crack. This door turned out to be the entrance to a small storeroom, which was currently crammed to the gills with all manner of freshly delivered food and supplies.

A gift, compliments of Queen Elizabeth, as a promise that she would honor Edward’s agreement

with the Pack.

In the center of the floor was something Bess hadn’t sent: a stack of clean, neatly folded clothes.

Nothing fancy, of course. A simple linen shirt, black pants, and a pair of boots in exactly his size.

Edward put this on so fast that he got the shirt backward at first.

When he came out of the storeroom there was a man waiting for him. The man grunted something

like, “She’s up thar,” and pointed to the hill behind the inn.

Edward ran.

He came upon Gracie standing at the top of the hill under a large, spreading oak. She didn’t see him at first. She was staring out at the setting sun.

Edward stopped and drank in the sight of her. She was wearing a long gray skirt and a white blouse, her hair loose and spilling all over her shoulders. She had a small satchel slung across her back, and the pearl-handled knife strapped to her belt.

He cleared his throat, heart hammering.

She turned. “Sire.”

“I’m not the king anymore,” he blurted out stupidly.

“I’m the leader of the Pack,” she said at the same time.

He wasn’t sure he heard her correctly. “Wait, what?”

“Archer ’s dead,” she informed him. “He took an arrow to the chest in the first ten minutes of the siege.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” A minute ago, Edward could have wished a pox on Archer. But now he felt rather bad for him. “Did you . . . hear the part where I said I’m not the king?”

“It’s all anyone can talk about around here. You didn’t do that . . . for me, did you?” Her green eyes were genuinely worried.

“No, I didn’t do it for you,” he answered quickly. (Although if we’re being totally honest here, there was a teeny tiny bit of Edward that really had wanted to give up the throne of England so he’d be free to kiss a Scottish pickpocket as often as he liked.) “I wasn’t thinking of you at all!”

She looked down. “Oh. I see.”

“What I mean to say is, I don’t want to be king,” Edward continued in a rush. “All my life the crown’s been forced upon my head. But when I had a choice in the matter, I found I didn’t want it.”

She bit her lip to keep from smiling. Dimples. And that was all it took.

Edward closed the space between them in two strides. He didn’t really know what he was doing, only that he had to do something right now or he’d explode. Her warm heart-shaped face was in his hands, his fingers caught in her curls. She opened her mouth to say something, and he kissed her.

He kissed her!

He knew he must be doing it right because after a few stampeding heartbeats her eyes closed and her hands reached up to grasp at his shoulders and she kissed him back.

Edward felt like he was flying, only his feet were firmly on the ground.

He kissed her and kissed her.

With tongue, it must be noted.

She pulled away, green eyes wide. “Good Lord,” she breathed.

He considered that a compliment.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.” He tucked a glossy black curl behind her ear, then dragged his thumb gently over her chin.

She leaned in until her lips were nearly touching his. “I have some idea.”

He kissed her again.

Of course this whole kissing Gracie thing didn’t mean that Edward was going to marry her, and

that they were going to live happily ever after. (But if he played his cards right, who knows?) The happily ever after of this book belongs to Gifford and Jane. Naturally. But for now, Edward just kissed Gracie. More slowly this time. An explorer of new worlds.

Some time later he said, “Now give me Bess’s crown back, imp.”

She laughed and pulled the crown out of the satchel. “Fine. Have it. But I thought you said you didn’t want it.”

“I don’t want it. I’m not a gyrfalcon, am I? I’m a kestrel,” he said against her ear. “Not a king.”

She turned her head and kissed him, a teasing brush of her lips on his. “All right, then,” she said in her charming brogue. “But just so you know, Edward . . .”

He kissed her again. “You called me Edward!”

“Yes. Edward.” She grinned up at him. “You’ll always be a king to me.”

Jane

Okay, we’re almost to the happily ever after. But before that, we have to talk about the wedding. Oh, we know there was already a wedding. We mean a second wedding.

Jane and Gifford’s second wedding was very much like their first wedding.

Except this wedding took place outside.

During the day.

And the bride and groom actually liked each other.

And they were both human at the time of the nuptials, which was indeed the case at their first blessed union, but given the daytime nature of this one, we thought we should make that clear.

Jane and Gifford stood below an arch laced with flowers, a field spreading all around them. There were only a handful of chairs for guests, but every one of them was full. Lady Dudley and G’s younger sister, Temperance, were seated in the front row. Edward and Gracie (holding hands, of course), Bess, and Gran sat on the opposite row. Peter Bannister and Pet had also come, both in their human states (and this was the first time anybody ever saw Pet wearing actual clothes). Notably absent were those who’d conspired to set up the first wedding: Lady Frances had gone into exile when it became clear she wouldn’t be able to manipulate (or pinch or poke) Jane any longer (she ran off with the Grey Estates’ master of horse, which was quite the scandal); the Privy Council was certainly not invited; and Lord Dudley—well.

Lord Dudley was never heard from again. As far as we know, he lived, sentenced to finish out his days near a sulfur mine. It was that or death, and he chose sulfur. Whether or not he was happy with that decision, we may never know.

Anyway, back to the wedding.

On everyone’s lap rested a book. Any book. In case the wedding got boring. As the priest droned on in the same manner as last time, Jane was both pleased and annoyed that no one was taking advantage of her thoughtfulness.

“And now,” said the priest, “let us declare the miracles of holy matrimony.”

First, true love.

With her free hand, Jane squeezed Gifford’s, smiling up at him. Love, they definitely had. It felt true. Her heart pounded as the priest extolled the wonders of love and finding one’s perfect match.

“I love you,” Gifford whispered, and Jane warmed all over.

“We’re not to the vows yet,” the priest muttered out of the side of his mouth.

“Sorry.”

Second, virtue.

Gifford’s gaze dropped to peer down her bodice.

Jane snorted and laughed, drawing Looks from everyone. But she didn’t care. Not this time.

Third, progeny.

Well, that was under discussion. Maybe one day.

“Now you may give your vows,” said the priest.

“I’m going first,” Jane said. Gifford had gone first at their previous wedding, and it was only fair that Jane got to lead this time. “I, Jane Grey-Dudley, hereby declare my devotion to you. I swear to love you faithfully and forever, rescue you when you’re in mortal peril, and keep a pantry stocked with apples so that you never go hungry. To illustrate the depth of my emotions, I’ve written a list of things you outrank.”

Jane took a moment to unfold the paper flowers she’d been carrying. Gifford shifted nervously,

trying to get a look at the writing. She flicked the papers toward her so he couldn’t see.

“Gifford, I love you more than knitting, though to be honest, I love a lot of things more than I love knitting.

“I also love you more than being queen, which admittedly, I didn’t love a lot.

“I know I’m not inspiring much confidence at this point, but there’s something else I thought I’d bring up.” She lifted her eyes to him. “I love you more than I love books.”

Gifford laughed and leaned down to kiss her, but the priest cleared his throat. “Ring. Then more vows. Kissing comes last.”

Gifford heaved a melodramatic sigh and offered his hand. “Very well.”

Jane pulled a ring from the pocket sewn into her gown—the same ring she’d put on his finger during their first wedding, stashed in a drawer since that night. Now, she slipped it onto his finger and held her hand over his. “I give myself to you.”

“I receive you,” he whispered. And then, louder: “I know I said this last time, but this time, I mean it with my whole heart. I, Gifford Dudley, hereby declare my devotion to you. I swear to love you, protect you, be faithful to you, and make you the happiest woman in the world. My love for you is as deep as the ocean and as bright as the sun. I will protect you from every danger. I am blind to every woman but you. Your happiness is paramount in my heart.” He retrieved the matching ring and pushed it onto her finger. “I give myself to you, my Lady Jane.”

“I receive you.” Jane didn’t wait for instructions to kiss. She stood on her toes and wrapped her arms around her husband’s shoulders and kissed him as the guests clapped and clapped.

Gifford

What’s a wedding without the wedding night? Considering that their first wedding night ended with a heap of horse dung in the corner of their room, it wasn’t difficult to hope for something better this time.

And better it was, for G loved his lady, and his lady loved him.

And there were no secrets between them anymore, save one. G wanted to confess it to his lady before they commenced with the very special hug.

He asked Jane to sit next to him on the bed. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“Go on,” Jane said.

G took her hand in his and traced his finger over the delicate skin of her arm. What she didn’t realize was that he was scrawling the words of a poem he had recently written. It was inspired by his lady and he had spent many long hours trying to find the words that adequately conveyed the feelings of his heart.

There were many false starts, because at first he tried to capture the moment a horse fell in love with a ferret.

Shall I compare thee to a barrel of apples?

Thou art more hairy, but sweeter inside.

Rough winds couldn’t keep me from taking you to chapel,

Where finally a horse would take a bride. . . .

And then he tried to wax poetic about the ferret alone. . . .

Shall I compare thee to a really large rat?

Thou art more longer, with less disease.

One would never mistake you for a listless cat . . .

Nor a filthy dog, because my dog has fleas.

He could never confess his passion for poetry with those paltry examples.

And then, at the second wedding, as G basked in the glow of Jane’s radiant smile, inspiration finally hit him, and after the feast he put quill to paper and wrote and wrote until he had it right.

“Tell me, my love.”

“You remember how I had a reputation? With . . . ladies?”

“Yes,” she said, eyeing him warily.

“The truth is, there were never any ladies, nor late night romps at houses of ill repute.”

His Jane looked confused. “Then where did all the stories come from?”

“There were late nights, but those nights consisted of . . .” His voice trailed off as his heart raced.

“Of what?” Jane said, her mind racing to all sorts of unsavory conclusions.

“P—” He started to say the word, but paused.

“Perversion?” Jane said.

“No.”

“Peculiar habits?”

“No. Well, one.”

“If you don’t tell me right away what it is, I will knit all of your clothes from now on,” she said, and she fully intended to follow through on her threat.

“Poetry,” G blurted out.

“Pardon me?” Jane said.

G climbed out of bed and stood at the foot. He pulled out the paper and began his recitation.

“My Lady Jane . . .

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;

Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”

With a deep breath, G tore his eyes away from the paper to assess his lady’s reaction.

“That was . . . lovely,” Jane said.

“You really think so?”

“Yes. I mean, I’m glad we will not be forced to live by your quill, because I am rather used to having food on the table. But, I appreciate the effort behind those words.”

(Now, some of you might recognize these words as belonging to a certain Mr. Shakespeare, the

likes of whom hadn’t actually been born yet in the year 1553. But you should also know that there are all kinds of conspiracy theories about who actually wrote Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets, and we contend that the real writer was a very old and very happy Gifford Dudley—assisted by Jane and the immeasurable knowledge she drew from books—who went on writing not to make himself famous

or rich, but to make a certain lady happy.)

G smiled and fell back onto the bed. “You have no idea what a relief it is to hear you say that.”

Jane lay down next to him, on her side, her head propped up by her hand. “Do you have any other confessions, my lord?”

“Hmmm,” G said. “You heard the one about how much I love you?”

Jane put her hand on his chest, and slowly pulled on the tie that held his undershirt closed. G’s breath caught.

“Yes, I remember that one.”

The knot fell open.

“And, you know the one where I don’t know much about swordsmanship?” Gifford’s voice was

low and soft.

“Yes, I remember that one as well.”

Jane tugged at the top button of his vest. G clasped her hand in his. “Kiss me, Jane.”

Lips met lips, soft and questioning at first, and then, quite suddenly, desperate and wanting. And where at their first wedding, their wedding-night chamber seemed full of the echoes of strangers eager to have their say, tonight, they were very much alone. G lost himself in Jane’s kiss. He pulled back for a moment. “I have to tell you, Jane, the way you kiss is a work of art—”

“Shut up and kiss me,” Jane said.

They kissed again, lips exploring and asking and answering, and then eager fingers fumbled at buttons and untied ribbons and never did their lips part except for a moment here and there to say it again.

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

They collapsed into each other, and although it would be indelicate to detail what happened next, these narrators will tell you that a “very special hug” does not begin to describe it.

P.S. They totally consummated.

And now, dear reader, there isn’t much more to say on the matter except this: Gifford and Jane lived happily ever after, their destinies colliding quite often. Which pleaseth them both.

Hi! Lady Janies here. This is the part where we’re supposed to tip our hats to all the wonderful people who helped make this book into what it is, but there are three of us and we each have an extensive support team, so we’ll try to be brief (ha-ha). After all, you just read a five-hundred-page book.

You’re tired. So are we.

Here’s a (totally incomplete) list of people we think are pretty awesome:

First off, our readers, both old and new. Every time we mentioned writing a book about Lady Jane Grey (a comedy?!), you always responded with such enthusiasm. It made the idea seem a little less crazy and a little more doable. Thanks for that. You rock.

Our agents, of course: Katherine Fausset, Lauren MacLeod, and Michael Bourret. “The three of us want to write a book together” was probably the most logistically nightmarish thing you’ve ever heard us say, but you ran with it. Thank you for your unwavering belief in us and our funny little story.

Our fantastic editors, Erica Sussman and Stephanie Stein, who just got this book from the very beginning—the humor, the characters, the playfulness in the telling. One of the best parts of writing MLJ was getting to make you laugh. Also, thanks to Kristin Rens and Laurel Symonds for not minding when Brodi and Jodi ran off to play with a different book for a little while.

Our publicist, Rosanne Romanello, who read this book so quickly we got whiplash. Pterodactyl E∂ians are totally a thing.

Our jacket designer, Jenna Stempel, for not killing us for how picky we were this time around, and for giving us a jacket with pearls and lace and Jane looking mischievous.

Our families, for their patience and support while we ran off for weeks at a time to write and play in England. (That’s Jeff for Jodi; John, Will, and Maddie for Cynthia; and Carter and Beckham for Brodi.)

Our pets: Todd and Katniss and Kippy and Walter Fishop III and Stella and Frank and Pidge and

Jewels and Fred the Pigeon we found on our balcony in London, who may or may not be a girl.

You’re our E∂ian inspiration.

And the yeoman at the Tower of London who talked to us about Jane and ran up Beauchamp Tower to make sure we saw both places where Guildford had carved Jane’s name.

And that’s it. We’ll stop now. Bye.

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Courtesy of the authors

THE LADY JANIES are made up of BRODI ASHTON, author of the Everneath series and Diplomatic Immunity; CYNTHIA HAND, New York Times bestselling author of the Unearthly series and The Last Time We Say Goodbye; and JODI MEADOWS, author of the Incarnate and Orphan Queen series. They first met in 2012, when their publishers sent them on a book tour together.

Between the three of them they’ve written thirteen published novels, a bunch of novellas, a handful of short stories, and a couple of really bad poems, but this is the first time they’ve taken a stab at writing a book together. They’re friends. They’re writers. They’re fixing history by rewriting one sad story at a time. Learn more at

Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at

Also by Cynthia Hand

An Unearthly Novella (available as an ebook only) Also by Brodi Ashton

An Everneath Novella (available as an ebook only) Also by Jodi Meadows

The Orphan Queen Novellas

(available as ebooks only)

: An Incarnate Novella (available as an ebook only)

Cover photograph © 2016 by Yuri Arcurs Productions

Cover design by Jenna Stempel

HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

MY LADY JANE. Copyright © 2016 by Cynthia Hand, Brodi Ashton, and Jodi Meadows. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015948301

ISBN 978-0-06-239174-2 (trade bdg.)

EPub Edition © May 2016 ISBN 9780062391797

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