Chapter Two
I hear singing again. Or chanting. It could be chanting.
Whatever the musical mode, I let my muscles relax as I snuggle deeper into my blanket, basking in the sleepy realization that I’m home in bed.
I keep my eyes closed and pull the blankets up higher, running my hands over the surface and feeling the rich velvet beneath my fingers.
I freeze mid-stroke when I remember that my blanket at home is a down comforter and is definitely not made of velvet.
Just then, the bed slumps, and I slant toward the weight that’s now resting on the mattress beside me.
“Catherine? Can you hear me? The whole court is talking about your accident. The king has ordered every mass at Hampton Court to be said for your recovery. You’re missing out on all the fun.”
God damn it.
I creak my eyes open, and a freckled young woman is smiling down at me. She eagerly grabs my wrist and lays her fingers flat against my pulse as her eyes sharpen in concentration. A few seconds later, she drops my hand back to the mattress.
“I knew you were awake,” she says with friendly impatience. “Your heart has been steady for hours, and your eyes twitch when I let the light in. Observe.”
She hops up from the bed, moving to the windows and whipping the curtains open. I shield myself from the sun like a freshly turned vampire, which makes her chuckle.
“Are you a doctor?” I ask as she moves back to my side.
The girl plops back onto the bed. “Your wit is still intact. That’s a good sign.” She turns to a man in a page boy outfit whom I didn’t notice by the door. “Tell the king that Lady Catherine is awake. Tell Mistress Marshall as well.”
He opens the door and scurries from the room, and the girl shifts forward to slide a hand under the small of my back. “Sit up slowly now. No brash movements.”
I do as instructed, and as I become vertical, I see a small platoon of nuns standing in the corner.
The chanting culprits have been unmasked.
The main one in front is slinging incense from a metal ball and chain as the rest remain focused on the prayer they’re reciting—or the spell they’re casting. One of the two.
“Do they have to stay?” I ask the girl.
She quirks her lips as she turns away from me to face them. “Sisters! Sisters!” The group pauses their religious rigors as my not-doctor gets up to speak to them. “Thank you for all you have done today. As you can see, our prayers were answered. The king will know of your pious victory.”
They look between themselves as the girl gingerly ushers them from the room. She closes the door and leans back against the sturdy wood.
“I’m surprised you had me send them off,” she says. “You usually revel in being the center of attention.”
There’s no bitterness in her voice, only warm amusement, and I get the sense that I can trust her.
I sit up against the pillows behind me, fully observing her.
Judging from her face, I’d guess she’s a few years younger than me.
Maybe the same age as I apparently am now.
Auburn hair peeks out from under the front of her veiled headpiece, and her long rust-colored dress makes her look like a mix between Maid Marian and the young nun from Sister Act.
“You must know me pretty well,” I tell her.
She shrugs. “I know you well enough. I’m very observant, and you’re quite forthcoming with your thoughts.
” She moves toward me again, this time opting to sit in the wooden chair beside the bed.
“Now tell me, what on earth possessed you to ride out alone? When that man carried you back, Mistress Marshall nearly fell into fits. You know that old crone hates us.”
“Who’s Mistress Marshall?” I ask. Then, for good measure, “And just to clarify, what’s your name?”
The girl leans forward with a discerning gaze, moving her finger in front of my face and tracking my eye movements.
“Perhaps your fall did more damage than I thought. My name is Bessie Stanley, and I’ve been your friend since we arrived at the palace six months ago.
” Surprise alights her face a second later.
“Wait, are you with child, Catherine? Get your legs up and we’ll have a look.
” She eagerly stands, and I pin the blankets to my waist like a roller-coaster lap bar.
“I’m not pregnant,” I assure her.
“How can you be sure? I have no doubt that the king would be pleased if you were.”
I reactively grimace. The king seems nice enough at the moment, but the thought of him being my baby daddy is pretty fucking sinister.
“I’m sure because I haven’t done that in over a year.”
Bessie rolls her eyes, giving me a “sure, Jan,” kind of look. “Of course you haven’t,” she says. “Is your memory really altered, Catherine, or are you playacting?”
I slide my hips back as I sit up taller on the mattress, trying to gauge how I should approach this. I need to be smart. I need to use everything I can to my advantage.
“Things just feel fuzzy,” I decide to say. “It must be from the accident. Maybe that’s why I don’t seem like myself.”
Before Bessie can respond, my bedroom door swings open, revealing the entrance of a severe woman in a gray dress with a mean downturn to her mouth. Her headpiece isn’t rounded like ours. It’s pointy like a roof, and she says nothing as she stops to stand in the center of the room.
Bessie’s gaze lowers. “Good afternoon, Mistress Marshall.”
The woman scowls at her in return before focusing on me. “You’re awake.”
I carefully nod, and Bessie steps closer to my side. “She is, thankfully. I’m sure you’re relieved, as are we all.”
If “relieved” means unleashing violent hellfire from her eyes, then yes, this lady is very relieved.
“And tell me, Catherine Howard, just what were you doing outside the palace walls?”
I turn to Bessie, and she nudges her chin for me to answer. “I don’t remember exactly,” I hear myself reply.
Before I can say more, Bessie shoves my head back into the pillow. “Her fall seems to have addled her mind, Mistress Marshall. These things sometimes happen after such an injury.”
The woman takes a step closer. “In that case, let me remind you that I am the mistress of the maids and any dishonor you bring to yourself, you also bring unto me.”
“I’m sure the malady is only temporary,” Bessie says. “No doubt Catherine will be back to her captivating self in an hour, and she is so very grateful for your concern.”
“So grateful,” I echo. “Very grateful.”
The woman pauses before turning to Bessie. “If she is recovered, the king will want an audience with her. See to it that she reaches him without incident.”
“Yes, Mistress Marshall,” Bessie replies.
With a final stare and a slow exit, Mistress Murder leaves the room, closing the door behind her with a thud.
Bessie and I let out a collective breath. I’m not someone who’s easily intimidated, but I might have just peed a little.
“Well, that was fun,” Bessie muses. “Worry not, Catherine. Once we are married, she won’t be able to lord over us anymore. We’ll be ladies of the court, and she will remain just as she is. Then I’ll tell her what I think of her.”
“Will you really?” I ask skeptically.
Bessie takes a beat. “No. I would cut off a toe rather than look her in the eyes.” A second later she claps her hands together and flings back my blanket. “All right. You heard the woman. The king doesn’t like to be kept waiting. I’ll fetch a maid to assist you.”
My mouth is open to respond, but the door has already shut behind her.
Alone with my thoughts and the after-smell of scary lady and incense, I twist to lower my feet to the floor.
I get up slowly, thankful that I don’t feel dizzy as I begin to walk the length of the room.
I think best when I’m moving, and right now, I need a game plan.
I need to get home. That’s my number one priority.
My only priority. No—I also need to fit in, avoid suspicion, and not get my head cut off from my body.
I need to accomplish all these things, but if I’m going to accomplish any of them, then I need to understand the rules. Knowledge is power, always.
I pause by the window, watching as the sun begins to set.
My hand twitches. I want to check my phone to see the time.
I want to look up everything I can about Catherine Howard so I can figure out what to do.
What not to do. If I learn from her mistakes, then I can do better, and I can get out of here with my head intact.
I need to be calm. I need to be strategic.
And I need to get back to the Haunted Gallery.
My white nightgown brushes the bed as I continue to pace, and a soft knock sounds at my door. A no-nonsense-looking woman in a simple dress enters, telling she’s here to dress me. I don’t know which of us is less excited.
Thirty minutes later, I’m sewn into what feels like an inflexible scuba suit on top and multiple parkas on the bottom.
The dress itself is beautiful, emerald green with touches of gold.
I try to carry it gracefully, but I’m pretty sure I look like Bigfoot who just got spotted in the wild.
I stay at Bessie’s side as we make our way to the king’s rooms, and I feel jumpier with every matching step we take.
“What do you think about my relationship with the king?” I prompt her. I want to ask for specific details. How did it begin? How far has it gone? But open-ended questions and active listening will enable me to learn the most.
Bessie looks at me with an inquisitive upturn to her eyebrow before glancing forward. “It’s an honor, of course. The king adores you, and you have certainly benefited from his attention.”
I stay quiet, hoping she’ll want to fill the silence. A second later, she does.
“I know you said that you know what you’re doing, but do you truly, Catherine? Being the king’s favorite is thrilling, to be sure, but four queens have already sat on the throne, only to be plucked back off again in some way or another.”