Chapter Twenty-Six
“I know this is a stupid question, but you have our passports, right?”
“Huh?” I look at Zoe, still feeling completely out of it, even now that I’m inside my own body.
I barely slept more than a few minutes last night.
When I was back in time, I always thought that I would have the sleep of my life if I was able to sleep on a real mattress again.
But every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was them.
My former friends. My former life. All my mistakes. All my triumphs. The girl I saved. The man I lost.
I can’t stop thinking of them now.
“Lily? The passports?”
I look over at Zoe and try to manage a smile for her. I’m able to do it, but it’s half-hearted.
“Yeah, I have them.” I pat at the hidden passport carrier I’m back to wearing again, and it feels like nothing now that I’m accustomed to layers upon layers of garments and pins covering every inch of my body.
I catch myself reaching up to adjust the French hood that I’m definitely not sporting anymore and opt to tuck my hair behind my ears instead.
Even after half a day, I still feel out of joint in my own skin. I can’t stop fidgeting as Zoe and I stand at the tube station, still deciding where to go.
“I heard Winston Churchill’s war rooms are interesting. Or we could go see Big Ben one last time. Which are you in the mood for?”
I know she’s talking to me, but it’s so hard to hear her when my mind is filled with Simon. Simon smiling. Simon playing with Theo. Simon holding me when the whole world was going to hell around us.
I rub at my eyes, still feeling half asleep as Zoe waits for my answer. “Yeah. Whichever one you pick will be great.”
The train rumbles into the station, sending a breeze whirling past us as it comes to a gradual stop.
Zoe is still looking in one of her guidebooks as the doors open and we step aboard.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in one of the long windows, and before I can stop myself, I imagine Simon’s reflection beside me.
I picture his small smile. I picture his hand resting over mine on the pole I’m holding onto.
I force a blink, fighting the sting in my eyes, and when I look at the window again, it’s just my reflection alone.
But I start to feel an undeniable pulling inside me.
I need to get off this train.
I look at Zoe and she’s still reading. She might kill me, but I know that this is right. I know I have to do this.
“I’ll meet you back at the hotel tonight,” I tell her.
Her eyes dart up from the book. “What?”
I jump off the train just before the doors close, and Zoe moves to the glass as I stand breathing hard on the platform. “I love you!” I call to her. “I’ll see you tonight!”
I dart off as the train pulls away with Zoe still at the window. I run the stairs two at a time until I’m aboveground again. It takes me less than a minute to hail a cab, and when I get inside, I tell the driver to take me to Hampton Court Palace.
Eighty pounds later, I’m back at the palace, power walking through the main entrance. It’s hard to see it now, after having seen it as I did before. But I’m a woman on a mission, even though I don’t know what my mission is.
When I pay my fee and get inside, I begin to do a fast-paced version of the tour from yesterday (or was it weeks ago?).
I stride through the great hall, the watching chamber, the guard chamber, and the kitchens.
Then I go to the bane of my existence, the chapel.
I end up back in the no-longer-haunted gallery, and it’s empty except for a few meandering tourists.
What am I doing here? What am I even looking for? I feel more lost and confused than ever, and I know that I can’t spend my life squatting in this palace.
Rushing back here like I did is beyond mentally unhealthy. I’m never going to get the closure that I’m yearning for, and maybe I need to accept that. No matter how much it hurts. No matter how wrong it feels. Simon isn’t here. Catherine isn’t here. And I shouldn’t be here either.
I begin to make my way out of the gallery and head toward the nearest set of steps. I’m reaching into my bag to find my phone, planning to text Zoe with some excuse for running off, when I suddenly hear loud voice on the floor below me. I stop walking as I listen.
“How many times must I tell you? I don’t know what an admission ticket is, nor do I need one since I live here at the palace.” The echoing words reach me from my place at the landing and I think I’m hallucinating again.
I slowly start to descend the stairs as a much calmer voice speaks.
“Sir, you need an admission ticket if you are visiting the palace, and you are certainly not permitted to enter the premises in costume. I don’t know how you were allowed inside in the first place.”
“As I told you, I wasn’t allowed in. I live here.”
I keep descending the steps, and I have to be dreaming. That’s why I’m hearing the voice that I am. It’s my own grief speaking—not Simon.
But as I carefully make my way down, the man whose back is facing me is certainly similar to Simon’s.
Then there’s his broad shoulders. And his chestnut hair.
Even his shirt is the same—billowing white and stained with blood.
Maybe I’m having a flashback. This person is obviously jittery, beginning to walk away and then returning as he stays in conversation with the employee.
The middle-aged male rubs his eyes, appearing drained and nearing his wit’s end. “As I explained to you, sir, as all of us explained, there are no horses for us to give you nor is there a messenger for you to send.”
“And as I explained, I am a gentleman of the king’s privy council, and if you would unlock that door there and give me access, I could prove it to you. I need to see the queen.”
I look at the door that my hallucination is trying to get to, and I immediately recognize it as being an alternate entrance that eventually leads to the queen’s audience chamber.
I keep descending the stairs, now nearing the bottom.
“If you don’t leave now, I’m going to call the authorities.” The employee notices me approaching and holds his hand up to stop me. “Miss, for your own safety, I’m going to ask that you please return upstairs and use an alternate exit.”
The man he’s talking to turns to look at me, and I fall down the last step.
Holy fucking shit!
“Simon?” I semi-shout. This isn’t happening. I know that it’s not, but . . .“Simon,” I say again. He turns around fully, and his startled green eyes land on mine. Searching them. He takes in the rest of my appearance, especially my red hair.
“Lily?”
I barely hear it, but I hear it.
“Are you Lily?” he asks, moving toward me.
I have a clear view of him now, and I see every familiar feature. But I still need to make sure. “What did you take me to see on our walk that you swore you never took anyone to see before?”
A hopeful smile forms on his face. “I took you to see my tree.” He hesitates as his expression then turns momentarily guarded. “What were we doing that night when we sat with Theo in the garden?”
Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.
“You were teaching me how to calm him.” I think I might be having a heart attack. “Where were we when I recommended bird watching as a hobby instead of jousting?”
“In the servants’ hall. I was there because Charlie loves a kitchen maid and he helped me with training.”
This is real.
This is real. This is real. This is real.
He walks toward me again, and he doesn’t stop until he’s standing directly in front of me. “What did you promise to teach me in California?” he asks. He smells the same. He’s breathing the same. Everything about him is the same because this is really him.
“I said that I’d teach you how to surf. Then we’d eat tacos, and then we’d go home.” I reach out to place my hand on his chest, and he feels the same, too.
“How did you get here?” I ask quietly.
Simon shakes his head. “The last thing I remember is I was being pulled away from you, down the gallery. I thought a guard must have struck me from behind because it felt like I was falling to the floor, but when I opened my eyes, I was here. Everyone was staring at me and asking what part I was meant to be playing.”
He lifts a hand, stroking my cheek like he used to, and I close my eyes against the sensation.
When I open them, I try to look for signs that I’m making this up.
But he’s so remarkably real. He dips his thumb to rub under my chin, and he smiles at the feel of it.
“The scar is smaller than you made it seem.”
This is wild. This is impossible. And I don’t care.
“I can’t believe it’s really you,” I say, leaning into his palm. “It said online that you were killed, but the king must have lied about it.”
Jealous. Delusional. Petty. All very on brand for Henry.
Simon’s eyes never leave mine as he continues to touch my face. “You can keep asking me questions if it makes you feel better. It seems we have plenty of time to spare.”
God, I hope that’s true. I take a breath and really try to think of something only he would have the answer to. A second later, I know exactly what to ask. “When did you first tell me that you loved me?” It’s a trick question, but his small smile makes it clear that he’s aware of that fact.
“I haven’t told you yet,” he answers. “But you know that I do.”
My heart might actually implode inside my chest.
When Simon leans down to kiss me, I don’t mean to close my eyes, but they drop of their own accord. I want to keep looking at him. Reassuring myself over and over that he’s here. His mouth moves against mine, and I pull him so close with no intention of ever letting go.
But when the employee clears his throat beside us a few seconds later, I do loosen my hold a little. Simon and I look at him, still in a daze.
“I’m sorry,” the older man says firmly, “but I’m going to have to ask you both to leave.”
I blink as I gaze over at him, letting my arms fall from around Simon’s shoulders. I go to bring them to my side, but Simon catches one of my hands, weaving his fingers through mine.
My stomach flips. How can this be real life?
“Sorry. Yes, we’ll leave now,” I tell him. I start to move, but then decide against it. I turn back to the man one more time. “Before we go, I just want to double-check, you do see this person with me, don’t you?”
The employee looks Simon up and down. “You mean the young man wearing a bloody shirt and tights? Yes, I see him. Quite tall, isn’t he?”
My heart soars, and I squeeze Simon’s hand tighter. “He really is,” I agree. “Thank you so much.”
I’m on a cloud as we make our way to the palace exit.
Catherine did it. She saved him. Everyone always underestimates her, but Catherine Howard was killed, refused to go to the afterlife, manifested me back in time, and then lived out her life in simple splendor as a secret author, single and free from her toxic royal ex.
If that’s not boss energy, I don’t know what is.
I think of her as Simon and I walk out of Hampton Court Palace hand in hand. There’s an undeniable giddiness in my step. We’re together. We’re breathing. There are so many things I want to show him, and I immediately start drafting a mental list.
But as our feet touch the cobblestones of the now tourist-inhabited courtyard, I glance over at Simon and realize that I am going to somewhat miss seeing him dressed his loose white shirt and britches.
Maybe we’ll keep the outfit—for birthdays and anniversaries.
Because while maybe not all the time, sometimes, it can be fun to embrace your Tudor era.