Chapter Three
“Remind me again why we are doing this?”
Bessie groans as I pull her along through the dark corridor. The candle she’s holding is half melted away and does little to help me as I look for any sign of the Haunted Gallery.
“Because there are holes in my memory,” I remind her. “You promised to reteach me the layout of the palace.”
She plants her feet, dragging me to a stop for the millionth time. “We have already walked for over an hour. And why are we doing this in the dead of night?”
I may have omitted the fact I’m trying to pinpoint the exact location of where I magically time traveled almost five hundred years into the past. Something tells me she wouldn’t receive it well.
“I’m embarrassed,” I say instead. “I don’t want people to know that I’ve forgotten things after my accident. It’ll make me look weak.”
Bessie bumps my shoulder as she leans into my side. “Of course, one can’t appear weak when they’re about to be Her Royal Highness, the Queen of England.”
She bats her eyelashes at me, and I resume walking. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”
“I would have found out in two days whether you told me or not,” she points out. “The whole world is going to know of the king’s new bride. We just won’t tell anyone that your mind is on the lighter side of the scales these days.”
My gaze lingers on a baroque tapestry as we round a corner, leading into a hall that is full of windows. Familiar windows. I gasp and grab Bessie’s arm, yanking her back to my side.
“Wait,” I whisper. “I know this hallway!” Moonlight filters into the silent space, and I quickly look across from the windows to see the doors.
Those godforsaken chapel doors that I touched right before I got sent back here.
This is where I was in the future! “That’s the chapel, isn’t it?
” My voice is vibrating with nerves and hope as Bessie holds the candle up higher.
“Yes, it’s the king’s chapel.”
I’m here! I’m in the Haunted Gallery! Elation fills my rib cage and bubbles outward. I bounce on my toes as Bessie lethargically begins walking toward the doors.
“We aren’t going to pray, are we?” she asks. “I will if you want to, but you should know that I have already prayed on seven separate occasions today.”
The only thing I’m praying for is that I can get the fuck out of here!
“No,” I tell her, gripping her arm to slow her advance. “Just wait here for a second.”
She does as I ask, and I take a tentative step forward into the hall on my own.
I close my eyes, hoping to feel something—a tingle, a visceral rumbling, anything that could pull me home.
But all I sense is my own frenzied desperation to teleport.
Opening my eyes back up, I commit to the plan of action I decided on before we got here.
Sprinting.
I take off in a mad dash down the hall with Bessie’s astonished voice trailing behind me. I run with frantic purpose and determination, storming the gallery like a too-excited extra in a Braveheart battle sequence. This has to work! It has to!
But it doesn’t.
I come to a skidding stop in front of the closed chapel doors, my skirts whooshing all around me. And I’m still here.
I’m panting and disappointed, but I’m not giving up. I hike my dress up and walk back to Bessie, whose horrified expression somewhat softens the blow of my initial defeat.
“What madness is this, Catherine?” she asks. “What if someone sees you?”
I move to her side and face down the hall again. “It’s hard to explain. I’m going to do it a few more times.”
“A few more times?” she chokes. “Catherine, why . . .”
I’m running at full speed again before her words reach me. This hallway is the key to my getting home. It has to be.
A half hour later, I’m bent over at the waist, bracing my hands just above my wobbling knees. “What number is that?” I wheeze out.
Bessie is sitting on the floor with her back leaning against the paneled wall. She doesn’t bother to open her overtired eyes before answering me. “Twenty-two.”
I’m sweating profusely when I straighten back up.
Determined to solider on, I trudge forward to stand directly in front of the chapel doors.
I place my hands on the varnished wood, then rest my forehead against it.
I close my eyes and imagine myself in the right time.
Back with Zoe. Back to that cloudy, rainy day.
Back to when things made sense. I want to be there so badly I can almost taste it.
Please. Please. Please.
I open my eyes painstakingly slow. I look at the door.
I look down at the floor-length dress I’m still wearing, watching as the moon’s rays paint striations of light along the creases.
Maybe if I slam my head into the door, it’ll work.
If a blood sacrifice is necessary to open the time portal, I’ll do it in a hot second.
Bessie stretches her arms up from her spot on the floor, letting out a bellowing yawn. “You know, I’ve read that an injurious fall can cause more dire effects than memory deterioration, but bearing witness to someone descending into insanity is quite another thing entirely.”
I push off from the unhelpful doors and walk over in her direction, fanning myself with my hand as I go. After the hallway half-marathon I just ran, it feels like I’m burning from the inside out. “Can you hum some music for me?” I ask when I’m standing just before her feet.
Bessie doesn’t even look surprised as she glances up at me. “And what would you have me hum?”
I try to remember the song the girl was singing in the Haunted Gallery.
Or maybe it was in my head. I try to remember, but the tune is just out of reach.
My memory is good, but it’s not that good.
I’m seriously considering calling it a night when I think I start to hear something—it’s faint and muffled, but it’s there. Music.
I whip around in the direction of the sound before turning back Bessie. “Do you hear that?”
She leans to the side to glance around me. “Who would be playing music at this hour?”
She hears it, too! I’m not imagining it! Whirling around, I follow the eerily familiar melody and am once again in front of the chapel. The music is coming from beyond the doors.
I square my shoulders. Maybe this is it. I’m going to open the doors and be sent home. Please, baby Jesus, let this be it! The doors creak as I push them forward. I freeze and hope, then hope some more.
Bessie arrives at my side, speaking in a hushed tone. “Are we going in?”
I suck in a breath at her question. I’ve just been the victim of a musical bait and switch, and I’m still fucking here!
I want to scream and cry and rip out my no longer red hair, but I opt to walk into the chapel instead.
I never made it inside in the future. Looking at it now, it’s a decadent mix of wood and stone.
It’s narrow but substantial. Turning my gaze up to the ceiling, wooden inlays of dark blue are speckled with hand-painted golden stars.
It’s a splash of color in a world I’ve found so muted up until now, and the air catches a bit in my throat.
The still-playing music draws me back, and Bessie and I keep walking on the black-and-white marble floor until we find the source.
Tucked into the far corner of the room is a group of five musicians.
They mostly seem to be in their twenties, and no one has noticed us yet thanks to the blond player in front who’s facing them and holding their attention.
He’s on the shorter side, and judging from his posture, he might be playing a ukulele.
The notes of the song start to fade, ending in a soft finale. I’m about to clap, but the player in front quickly addresses the group.
“Right,” he says. “I don’t want to single anyone out, but, William, if you ever play like that again, I will plant a spell book in your sleeping nook and accuse you of witchcraft.”
Oh damn.
William, a lanky redhead with a shy but handsome face, takes an indifferent step forward. “Just so we’re clear, Bartholomew, you do realize that it was you who was incredibly flat on that G and not me, don’t you?”
The cutthroat bandleader sighs. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m blaming you to mask my shame. Let’s play it again, shall we?”
It’s the redhead, William, who notices us first. His eyes go a little wide in surprise as he points in our direction. The leader turns, and the rest of the group looks at us in varying levels of shock.
“Hello,” I say with an awkward wave.
No one responds until Bartholomew elbows the musician next to him. “Bow, you sods. It’s the future queen.” Their surprise gives way to nerves as they all bow in quick procession.
I wave my hands in front of me—a knee-jerk reaction to the royal protocol. “Bows really aren’t necessary. I’m very informal. My friend Bessie and I were just going for a late-night walk, and we heard you playing.”
Bartholomew goes pale. “I am so sorry, my lady. Please don’t kill us.”
I voraciously shake my head. “No, no. We’re definitely not here to kill you. I’m just wondering . . . that song you were playing—what was it?”
William steps forward, nervously clearing his throat. “You mean ‘Pastime with Good Company’?”
“Yes, that one!” Then toning it down, “I forgot the name somehow.”
“The king composed that song,” Bartholomew says. “He’s a very accomplished musician.”
I smile politely. “I know. He’s a marvel, isn’t he? Anyhoo, I was wondering if you all would be able to help me with a project I have going on in the hallway?”
The musicians look among themselves. Bessie goes to leave, but I catch her hand before she can escape.
Ten minutes later, I’m running back and forth through the hallway with the accompaniment of a full band.
“How much longer do you plan to keep at this?” Bessie asks. She’s standing beside William as the group continues to play, her arms crossed over her chest.
I slow jog over, pausing a short distance away from them. “How many have I done so far?”