June 25, 1505 London, England
Night has fallen again by the time Beatrix stumbles onto the largest, longest bridge she has ever seen.
Her feet ache. Her filthy clothes and the deceitful ring weighing on her hand are the only possessions to her name.
She hasn’t slept more than an hour at a time since she left Lancaut: catnaps snatched on the back of bumping carts or hidden among the trees along the road.
Hunger gnaws at her insides. Could she starve to death? Maybe she will find out.
She passes through the wide stone gate, beneath a dozen spiked and tarred human heads.
They gaze down at her with glassy eyes, shining in the moonlight.
The ones who still have eyes, anyway. She swallows the bile rising in her throat and hurries across the bridge.
Buildings loom over her, closing her in.
The night is warm, but she shivers as she steps into the city.
And then she stops, unsure of where to go, of what to do now. Lost, in every sense.
She will learn the streets of London until she knows them like the back of her hand.
She will learn to swallow her pride, to bite her tongue.
To beg. To steal. She will learn what she is capable of doing to survive and how much she can endure before she breaks.
But not tonight. Tonight, she is only Beatrix from little Lancaut, scared and hungry and alone in this strange new place.
A spire rises like a dark shadow against the skyline to the west, blacker than the inky night. Beatrix hurries through the narrow city streets, pulled toward it as if it were a guiding star in the heavens. She reaches an open churchyard and freezes.
St. Paul’s Cathedral is the grandest church she has ever seen, even larger than the abbey in Gloucester she visited with William, with great pointed arches built out of warm stone and a spire that disappears into the night. St. James’s was nothing in comparison.
She slowly walks up the shallow steps and reaches for the carved double doors. She pulls her trembling hand away before she can lay a finger on the sacred place.
Could she open it? Or would some invisible force stop her?
Not allowed.
Not welcome.
Not real.
Not anymore.
Beatrix holds her breath. She lays a tentative palm against the wood, half expecting her flesh to burst into flame. But she feels nothing. She exhales slowly, heaves the door open, and steps through.
It’s deathly quiet inside the cathedral.
Her footfall echoes from the stone floor to the intricate vaulted ceiling.
She walks down the long aisle, lined on either side by stone arches filled with shadows, drawn to the circular window at the end.
It shimmers in the cool, silvery light of the moon, vibrant and delicate and alive, a blooming summer flower made from tiny pieces of brightly colored glass.
She can’t fathom how something so beautiful can exist in such an ugly world.
Beatrix lies down on a bench tucked into an alcove and stares up at the window, too tired to sleep.
Her thoughts were easier to ignore when she was moving, concentrating only on getting to the next village, focused on making it to London, where no one would know her or care about her or even notice her.
She put one foot in front of the other until she was crossing the Thames, but now she has lost her momentum, her will to keep moving forward gone.
She’s here. She has made it to London, all on her own. Now what is she supposed to do?
Her heart sinks into her hollow stomach. There is only one thing she can do.
Live.