by Cynthia Hand
Ari suddenly felt quite consequential, being needed by Mary like this. Before now, Ari had always been in her father’s shadow—a second choice when the first choice wasn’t available. An adequate alternative.
But Queen Catherine’s requests for potions, watching over Mary to ensure she remained safe from traps or betrayal (or, sigh, biscuits), and taking part in the upcoming wedding—it all made Ari feel different. She was first fiddle. She could contribute. She would make herself indispensable through her potions.
She could see her future as a trusted adviser to Queen Mary and King Francis. A critical appointment. A secure place to stay. (Of course, she couldn’t actually see that future since, as we’ve discussed, her visions have been largely irrelevant up to this point. But still.)
When she rounded the corner into the palace’s secret lab beneath the public lab, her heart sank. There, standing over a boiling pot, was Greer. She was green in the face. Literally, her face was a shade of green that Ari had never seen anywhere in nature before, let alone on skin.
“Greer!” Ari exclaimed. “What’s happened here?”
Greer’s bottom lip trembled as she stirred the pot. “Your father asked me to make a potion that would induce envy,” she said. “This is my third attempt.” Her eyes were drooping, and she was stirring as if the movement was purely mechanical. “I have not slept in two days.”
“Greer, stop stirring the pot.”
Reader, this was before “stirring the pot” was a cliché, so Ari meant it very literally.
Good grief. Ari had been gone for only forty-eight hours, and already the lab was falling apart.
Greer sniffed and obeyed. Ari grabbed two thick cloths and used them to remove the pot from the fire, careful not to inhale the steam.
“An envy potion is way too advanced for you,” Ari said.
Tears welled up in Greer’s eyes.
“I don’t mean that in a bad way,” Ari said quickly. “It’s just that an elixir like that requires a host of ingredients and precise measurements.” And at least some spiritual gifts, Ari thought. “It’s no wonder you wouldn’t know how yet.”
Greer let out a sigh of relief. “I envy your abilities.”
Ari frowned. “Let me see your face.” She put her fingers on Greer’s chin and turned her head one way and then the other. “I can fix this. It will just have to wait a little bit. Why don’t you rest while I take care of a few things?”
Greer nodded and sank onto a pile of burlap sacks full of oats. Ari was pretty sure the apprentice would be asleep in moments. Which she was.
Ari turned to her father, who was sitting obliviously at his desk, his feather quill quivering as he scribbled over a page. Next to him was a stack of more parchments, each one filled with nearly illegible writing. Only her father and Ari would be able to decipher it.
“Papa,” Ari said.
He didn’t seem to hear her.
Ari placed her hand over his, and slowly he stopped writing. He looked up at her.
“Galileo?”
Ari closed her eyes for a moment. “It’s still me, Papa. Ari.”
“Oh, right. Ari,” said her father warmly. “Where have you been?”
“You remember, Papa. Queen Catherine asked me to watch over Queen Mary.”
“Oh, yes. Well, Greer and I have been getting along fine without you.”
Greer softly snored in the corner, the candlelight illuminating her green face.
“Papa, you must remember that Greer still has much to learn. And she hasn’t shown any signs that she’s gifted in the way we are. She’s only meant to be an assistant.”
“Oh, she’s fine.”
“She’s green,” Ari said.
“You’re right. She’s very new, but she is learning.”
“No, I mean the envy potion literally turned her green.”
Nostradamus glanced over at the poor girl. “Are you sure she didn’t always look like that?”
“Yes, Papa. I’m sure. You must promise me to give her some respite.”
Nostradamus sighed. “Very well.” He smiled up at her. “You’re a good girl.”
Something in her throat squeezed. “Thank you, Papa.”
“I am so proud of you,” he said.
Her throat squeezed even more. “I—”
“It’s very impressive, you discovering those moons.” He patted her hand. “And your idea that it is the sun and not the earth that is the center of the universe is quite brilliant. But a bit blasphemous. Be careful with that.”
“I will, Papa,” Ari said wearily. “Now don’t you need to work on your quatrains?”
Her father loved to write all his predictions in rhyming verse. He had become well-known for his quatrains. Also, it was the best way to distract him.
“You’re right.” Nostradamus returned to his parchment and began scribbling again.
Ari went to the shelves and started gathering the ingredients for her Worries Be Gone remedy for Queen Mary. She wanted it to be perfect. It had to be calming, yet not calming enough that Queen Mary would become blasé about important political decisions. It had to be soothing, yet not so soothing that she would go right to sleep.
When the potion was mixed and simmering in her cauldron, Ari turned her attention to the second part of Queen Catherine’s request.
How to make King Henry not there on Francis and Mary’s wedding night.
Not there. Not there.
Ari had been pondering this ambiguous request for about an hour.
Her first instinct was to take “not there” literally. She consulted the index of her “History of Beets” book for incantations related to not being there, being gone, and unable to attend consummation. (Even your narrators will concede that last one was a bit of a stretch.)
The book didn’t offer anything obvious, so Ari looked through the samples she’d kept of some of the potions she’d made before. There was one called the Solution to Silence, to quiet overbearing personalities. She combined it with one called Toddler Tincture, which had been developed for the younger princes when foreign dignitaries visited.
“Greer, wake up.” Ari shook her apprentice gently. “I need you to test something for me.”
The poor girl was still groggy, but even an hour of sleep had done her much good. The dark green shadows under her eyes were less noticeable.
“Drink this.” Ari handed her a small vial of the first iteration of the Not There potion.
Greer, still not quite awake, took the vial and sipped—and immediately disappeared.
Ari yelped. Greer yelped. Nostradamus didn’t look up from his quatrains.
“Greer?” Ari asked hesitantly.
“What happened?” Greer’s voice was high, panicked. “What’s going on?”
Ari reached into the space Greer had just occupied, and she felt the girl’s stomach. “You’re invisible.”
“You can’t see me? I’m invisible?”
Suddenly, there was a loud thump, and Greer wasn’t speaking anymore.
Darn. She must have fainted. Ari bent down and felt around for Greer’s shoulders, then dragged the girl back to the oat sacks so she could get some rest and—more important—Ari wouldn’t trip over her while she set about making the next iteration of the Not There potion.
She went back to the drawing board (which, at the time, was a literal graphite board for drawing) and made a list of different ideas that would cause the king to be “not there.”
1. Invisibility. Too supernatural. Also, it would be creepy and he would still witness the consummation. She crossed it out.
2. A simple laxative. But then Henry would surely suspect Queen Catherine. The problem wasn’t in the king’s being there, necessarily, but the king seeing the consummation. So what if he couldn’t see?
3. Something involving the king’s eyes.
“That could work,” Ari murmured to herself. “I’ll go for the eyes.”
After several trials and errors, Ari was ready to test
out her latest iteration.
That is, she was ready for Greer to test it out.
Conveniently, Greer was now visible again. Ari gave her a sip from the vial, then watched as Greer’s green face grew even greener—with nausea. Ari felt especially bad when Greer clapped a hand over her mouth and ran from the room. By the time she got back, Ari already had a new potion.
“One more, Greer,” Ari said.
Greer shook her head and softly belched.
“I have a bowl for you right here, in case you need to, um, relieve your insides.” Ari handed her a wooden bowl.
“All right,” Greer said weakly. She sat. “But please, just a drop.”
Ari took a glass dropper and squeezed a drop onto Greer’s tongue.
Then she stood back and watched. “What do you feel?”
Greer wearily looked up at Ari, and then past Ari toward the wall. “Lady Livingston,” she said.
Ari turned toward the wall. There was nothing.
Oh dear. Greer was hallucinating, either from too much testing or from the latest potion itself. Either way it was a failure. Or, as Ari liked to refer to failures: one step closer to success.
“Good day, Lady Livingston,” Greer said, her words slurring.
Ari patted Greer’s head. “Greer, Lady Livingston isn’t here.”
“Except I am.” Liv’s voice came from the doorway.
Ari whipped around.
“How long have you been standing there?” she asked, her voice more accusatory than she intended.
“About a second,” Liv said.
“Oh.” Ari smoothed her frizzy hair and rumpled dress.
“Maybe you could use some of that fabric wrinkle potion,” Liv said, a twinkle in her eye.
“It’s very humid down here,” Ari explained, as if Liv couldn’t tell. “Anyway, what can I do for you?”
“I thought you might like a dance lesson. Seeing as how the wedding is coming up, and you will be expected to dance with the rest of us at the celebration. . . .”
That sounded ominous. “I already know how to dance,” Ari said. “Don’t you remember?”
“Oh, I remember,” said Liv.
“I can see through walls,” announced Greer. She wandered around the room, open mouthed, staring at nothing. Then she wandered out of the laboratory.
Nostradamus looked up from his scribbling. “Did the green-faced girl just say she could see through walls? How interesting.” He grabbed his cane and hobbled after Greer.
Which left Ari and Liv suddenly alone.
Ari found herself tongue-tied.
“Is it always like this down here?” Liv asked.
Ari shook her head. “It’s just that I haven’t been here to oversee things.”
“Should I come back another time?”
“No, I have time,” Ari said swiftly. She glanced at the Worries Be Gone potion still simmering over the fire. Potions became more potent with the application of heat. She had to make sure it never got to a full boil, and she should probably take it off soon.
But she had a few minutes.
She gave Liv her best curtsy. “Shall we dance?”
This is when she learned that the more formal dancing that would occur at the wedding celebration was very different from the hand-clapping, jumping, and circling she’d done with Liv at the tavern. Formal dancing involved a complicated series of steps and wasn’t nearly as fun.
“I think I have two left feet,” Ari said when she turned the wrong way yet again. (This was the first time, dear reader, that anyone had ever made that claim, and for a moment, Liv was alarmed, until she realized that Ari was speaking figuratively.)
“It takes practice,” said Liv. She gazed around the laboratory, lingering on the sacks of oats where there was a Greer-shaped hollow. “So is this where you lived before coming to be with us?”
“No, we have quarters,” Ari said, flushing hotly. “With beds.”
“Everyone says that your father is a great man,” Liv remarked as the two of them took a seat on the oats—the only place that two people could comfortably sit in the laboratory.
“He was,” said Ari, then quickly corrected herself. “I mean, he is. He’s a good father, although lately his health is not what it was. He suffers from gout, and arthritis, and . . .”
Something that was affecting his mind, but Ari didn’t voice that concern.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Liv murmured. “My own father died a few years ago, and my mother has not been well, of late. It’s difficult not being there for her.”
“Where is she?” Ari asked.
“Back in Scotland,” Liv answered.
“Do you have a large family?” It occurred to Ari that she knew almost nothing about Mary Livingston. She’d been gazing at her for a year, but they’d only had a handful of conversations.
“I have two brothers and five sisters,” Liv said, the light dimming somewhat in her hazel eyes.
“You must miss them.” Ari herself had five brothers and sisters, living with their mother in a house in Paris, but she could see them whenever she wished.
“I do miss them.” Liv lowered her head, her golden hair tumbling into her face. “Especially my sisters. The situation in Scotland is worrisome, and it has been hard on them.”
“How so?” Ari asked.
Liv tucked her hair behind her ear, glancing away. “My sister Janet has . . .” She fell silent.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Ari said. “It’s not my business.”
“But I’d like it to be your business.” Liv smiled sadly. “She’s fallen in love with the wrong person.”
Ari’s breath caught. The wrong person. Like Ari was assuredly the wrong person for Liv. “Society can be unforgiving,” she said slowly.
“Yes,” agreed Liv. “It can.”
Ari wanted to take Liv’s hand, or put an arm around her, to offer some form of comfort, and she was just working up the nerve to make her move when liquid hissed on the fire and she realized that the Worries Be Gone potion was boiling over. She jumped to her feet and quickly removed the cauldron from the flames.
The liquid inside was a dark pink color. Darker than it should be. “Oh no!”
Liv came to stand beside her. “What is it?”
“It’s a potion for Queen Mary, to ease any wedding jitters.”
“Oh, that’s thoughtful of you,” Liv said.
Ari didn’t mention that it had been Queen Catherine’s idea.
“Is it ruined?” asked Liv.
“No, it’s fine,” Ari decided. “It will just be stronger than I usually make it. Will you do me a favor and take it to Queen Mary?”
“You don’t want to give it to her yourself?”
“I still have some work to do here,” Ari said. “I have to . . . fix my assistant.”
“All right,” said Liv, her sunny disposition returning as quickly as it’d gone. “I’ll take it to her.”
Ari filled a vial with the pink liquid, sealed it, labeled it, and handed it to Liv. “Tell Queen Mary to take it twice a day, morning and night, although she may start this afternoon and then this evening. And with a potion this strong, she only needs a drop. Two at most.”
Their hands brushed as she gave the bottle to Liv.
Liv studied it. “Worries Be Gone.”
“I like to call them names that make it easy to remember their purpose.”
Liv arched an eyebrow at her. “If this works, Aristotle de Nostradame, you just might become Mary’s favorite.”
Ari blushed. “I’m not sure it’s Mary’s favorite I want to be.”
Wow. She’d actually possessed the courage to say that out loud. And even more miraculously, Liv laughed.
“You’re already my favorite,” she said, and then she leaned in to kiss Ari on the mouth.
Ari had never been kissed before, but now she was kissing a girl, and she liked it. Her heart was pounding. Her stomach was full of butterflies. She didn’t know where to put her
hands, so she put them on Liv’s shoulders. And then her cheeks. And then her shoulders. Is holding a chin a thing? But it didn’t seem to matter. The kiss was like a question, soft and fleeting, and just as Ari was about to give her answer (also in the form of a kiss, possibly with more awkward hand placement) the door burst open and Greer and Nostradamus entered.
Greer’s face was red and green. Ari wondered if she could still see through walls. “Your father has had another vision!” Greer said.
Ari’s father hurried to his desk to write it down. “The young lion will overcome the older one on the field of combat in single battle. He will pierce his eyes through a golden cage, two wounds made one. Then he dies a cruel death,” he said out loud as he scribbled down the words.
This one sounded serious. Thank goodness they didn’t know any lions. Perhaps it was an E∂ian thing.
“I should go,” said Liv.
“But . . .” Ari couldn’t think of an excuse to keep her in the laboratory.
Liv tucked the vial of Worries Be Gone into the folds of her dress.
“Just a drop,” Ari said again.
“Just a drop,” Liv repeated. “I’ll see you soon.”
Ari wanted to touch her, but she held back. “Save your next dance for me.”
TWELVE
Francis
“Lady Beaufort!” Francis smiled his hardest. “It’s so good to see you. Thank you for coming.”
The pale, grandly dressed lady he was addressing abruptly stopped and looked at Francis. “Dauphin?”
“Yes, my lady.” Inwardly, Francis sighed. Wedding guests had been arriving at the palace all afternoon. Mary was nowhere to be seen, while Queen Catherine and King Henry were likely on opposite ends of the palace, scheming up ways to destroy each other, so it had fallen to Francis to welcome everyone. By himself.
And no one seemed to know who he was. He supposed people expected him to look more like his father. Taller. Broader of shoulder. Rakishly handsome. Francis wished even more desperately for a growth spurt.
“I thought you’d be taller by now,” said Lady Beaufort, and then she covered her mouth in a way that was supposed to make it seem like that comment had been a mere slip of the tongue, not a direct insult.
The next nobles to arrive were Lord and Lady Livarot, who were both somewhat round with tough exteriors, but Francis had found that inside, they were really softies. He greeted them warmly.
