They approached the desk. The queen’s face turned terribly stern, though there was a sadness around her eyes as they flicked again toward the closed door.
The queen swallowed hard, and the girl thought maybe Her Majesty hated wearing the high, frilly collar as much as she herself did. When the girl’s fingers rose to tug at the thing—starched into submission by her mother that very morning—her grandfather whispered for her to stop fidgeting.
As I lay curled beneath the quilts in a half doze, I knew the scene filling my mind was no dream. It happened like that now. The once-cloaked memories of my strange early childhood bubbled up from the shadowy part of my brain, returning at odd times. When I was distracted, or my brain logy with sleep.
Unlike the memories of so-called normal people, mine emerged crystal clear. Every detail as sharp and crisp as if it had happened only days earlier. Before I’d come to Scotland, my photographic memory had been yet another thing that singled me out. Made me different. Made me a joke with my father’s family. Add to this that I was the only home-schooled kid in our entire infinitesimal town and it’s not hard to deduce that my social calendar was rarely full.
And yet, as the memories emerged full-bodied and complete, I felt removed from them. As if I were watching a beloved character from one of my favorite books come to life.
A few feet from the desk, the girl’s grandfather bent low in a respectful bow. She followed with her best curtsy, proud that she held it without tipping over. Back at home, before her grandfather had hoisted her onto his huge horse, her sister had leaned down to hiss into her ear, “Do be careful, sister. You know how clumsy you are. I’d hate for you to fall flat on your face when you meet Her Majesty.”
One winter day, as the girl wept in her mother’s arms, her mother had explained that it was envy that caused her sister’s occasional cruelty. She resented their grandfather’s special affection for the girl, her mother had said. Though he visited their house often, eating at their table and spending long hours teaching all three of them—her brother, sister, and herself—to read and write, he took only the younger girl with him when he went to visit his mother’s home at Mortlake.
After he informed the girl’s mother he was taking her to meet his great friend, the queen, the girl’s sister had yanked on her braid and would have pinched her had their older brother, Willie, not warned her away.
Her small legs trembled as she held the curtsy. When, finally, the queen’s rich, husky voice ordered her grandfather and her to rise, the girl dared a look. The queen’s lips, painted in a red cupid’s bow, stretched as she smiled fondly at the girl’s grandfather. When he returned a slow grin, the girl knew something special existed between them, this magnificent queen and her own ratty old Poppy with his ink-stained fingers and scruffy gray beard. Her chest and cheeks glowed with pride. She wondered, though, why the queen’s own mother hadn’t taught her to use a willow twig to clean her teeth, as they looked very dark against her white face.
After a moment, her grandfather made the introductions. “Your Majesty,” he said. “This is the child I’ve mentioned to you.”
Queen Elizabeth Tudor’s painted eyebrows arched into a high, plucked forehead. “Ah,” she said, smile dimming. “Yes. I seem to recall. You did help support a poor orphaned child once long ago, did you not? A girl, I believe? Grown now, with children of her own. How very . . . philanthropic you are, John.”
The girl’s grandfather went very, very still as the queen picked up a tiny golden spoon and began to tap the end of a boiled egg. It cracked, and she peeled the shell off in one long coil.
“But.” She reached out to pinch some salt from the silver salt cellar, sprinkling the egg before stabbing the spoon into the tender white flesh.
A dripping bit of yolk made its way to the queen’s painted lips. And when she looked back at the girl’s grandfather, her black eyes had gone cold.
“In truth,” Queen Elizabeth said. “This child is your granddaughter. Her mother a bastard, a by-blow from your younger days. A fact which you did not deign to share with me.”
The girl’s back stiffened at that, though her grandfather’s hand squeezed hers in warning.
How dare you, thought the little girl, her small body almost vibrating as she seethed with outrage. How dare you call my mother a bastard!
Even at four and one-half years, the girl knew what that meant. A scurrilous lie, she thought, crossing her arms over her thin chest as she waited for her grandfather’s no doubt furious rebuttal.
She waited and waited. And when her grandfather only stared down at his feet, the girl’s heart sank. She determined then to demand the truth from her grandfather the moment they set out from Windsor Castle.
“Did you think I would not hear, John?” The queen stood, anger cracking the smooth white paint. “Nothing happens in my kingdom that I do not learn of it!”
Queen Elizabeth threw the spoon hard against the nearby window. It clattered to the ground. A trail of yellow slime dripped down the glass. Silence reined for a long moment. The girl watched sunlight glint off diamonds and emeralds as the queen paced back and forth, a hand pressed to her flat abdomen. The girl may’ve been young but everyone in the kingdom whispered of it. How the great Virgin Queen would not choose a husband. How she had no child, no heir, to call her own. How she was beginning to age.
Her grandfather spoke softly. “Your Gracious Majesty,” he began. “In my youth, I made many mistakes.” His grip on the girl’s hand loosened, though he did not let go as he looked the queen in the eye. “My only regret in this matter is that I did not share it with you. But the deed itself I cannot lament. Not for one moment. Not when this child is the outcome. She is like me. She holds my gift of memory. And I believe with the right training, she could one day be very useful to you and to England.”
Finally, seeming to come to some decision, Queen Elizabeth gave a short, sharp nod. Her grandfather’s shoulders relaxed as he let go of the young girl’s hand. The girl held tight to the poppet he’d bought for her in the market only that morning, squeezing her as the queen’s sharp black eyes roved over her face.
Opening pursed lips, Elizabeth the Virgin Queen, Gloriana, Queen of all England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales, began to scream.
Wait, that’s not right, I thought. What happened next was that the queen had taken her grandfather aside to speak privately while the girl . . . while I . . . looked out the window at the garden. Then—
My eyes popped open as the scream came again, faint and lingering, followed by a high-pitched wail. A glance at the digital clock on my bedside table told me it was 11:43 p.m., meaning I’d been in bed a total of twenty-seven minutes.
I threw off the covers and stumbled down the wooden steps. I dashed across the room and threw open the door.
Illuminated only by antique wall sconces, converted in the last century from their original gas, the darkly paneled hallway seemed to stretch out to nightmarish lengths. My bare feet slid on the faded carpet runner as I skidded to a halt before the last door on the left.
From inside came two distinct cries.