by Cynthia Hand
She wanted to rage. To scream. To throw things, break them. But she was a mouse, so she had to hold it in until she could become human. She resolved never to take that blasted potion again and never to trust anyone, not even her best friends, apparently, not even her own family—except for her mother, of course.
And Francis.
Francis had been right all along.
FOURTEEN
Ari
Ari could see through walls! She’d tweaked the See Through Walls potion a bit (because you never knew when an accidental potion could come in handy), and when she’d thought she had just the right proportions, she’d tested it out herself.
Now she was wandering around the palace. She’d watched the cook sneeze into the chicken dish that would be served for dinner. (Ew! Wash your hands and stop touching your face!) She’d seen Mary’s uncles in their chambers toasting each other over something. She’d seen King Henry doing . . . well, she’d seen him. In chambers that were not his own. She couldn’t unsee it.
She was starting to understand why walls existed.
But she could still see through them, so she might as well do the job that Queen Catherine had sent her to do, which was to spy on Queen Mary.
At first, Mary’s chambers appeared empty. Then Ari looked lower—much, much lower—and spotted a flurry of movement near the back wall.
It was a mouse.
The palace was apparently being overrun by rodents. This was the second time this week Ari had seen a mouse in a queen’s bedroom. She’d have to speak to housekeeping.
Then there was a flash of light and suddenly the mouse was gone and in its place stood Mary. In the flesh. Quite literally.
Queen Mary.
A mouse.
Was Mary.
Mary was a mouse.
Ari couldn’t move, except to avert her eyes momentarily while Queen Mary pulled on a dressing gown. Then the queen let out what could only be described as a roar of rage that Ari could hear even through the thick stone between them. She picked up a pillow from her bed and hurled it toward the wall.
Ari ducked. Then she remembered she didn’t have to, because there was a wall in the way. But the queen was glaring in her direction. Maybe, thought Ari, the queen could see her, too!
But no. Queen Mary had turned to glare in the other direction now. She stamped her foot. (It was most unqueenly.) Then she stamped her other foot. Then she stamped both feet. Then she screamed again and threw more pillows and raked all the papers off her desk onto the floor.
She was having a bit of a temper tantrum, Ari observed, which was strange, but it wasn’t the strangest thing that was happening.
The strangest thing was obviously that Queen Mary was a mouse.
And a human.
And a mouse.
Which meant she was an E∂ian.
A mouse E∂ian.
Tall, queenly Mary was a mouse E∂ian.
Ari put her hand against the stone wall and tried to catch her breath. What to do. What to do? She’d never even known an E∂ian, let alone seen one transform right in front of her. Well, behind an invisible wall. It didn’t make any sense. Mary was supposed to be a Verity queen. A protector of the true human form.
But she was a mouse. This was brand-new information.
Information that Queen Catherine would be most interested in knowing.
Ari should run right away to tell the French queen. But she wasn’t sure she should run while under the influence of the See Through Walls potion, so she sat down on the floor in the hall instead, her mind still blown. Mary was about to marry Prince Francis, which meant someday (far in the future, but still) Mary would be the queen of France. An E∂ian queen, ruling a Verity kingdom.
Didn’t Ari owe it to her queen, her country, and her father to report what she had seen?
Ari rubbed at her eyes. She, along with the rest of France, had been raised to believe E∂ians were abominations. But she was so far removed from any E∂ians, she’d never really had to think about them.
Until now.
Revealing this news could reward Ari with everything she’d ever wanted. It could secure her future.
But revealing it would also destroy Queen Mary. Her station wouldn’t matter. At the very least, she’d be imprisoned. Probably tortured. But more likely, she’d be burned at the stake. Or (gulp) beheaded.
Could Ari sentence her to that fate?
“Ari?” a familiar voice said.
Ari looked up to see Liv standing in front of her. For a moment Ari forgot her problems, because Liv looked so unhappy. Her hazel eyes were rimmed with red, as though she’d been crying. Her face was pale. Ari scrambled to her feet.
“Are you all right?” Ari asked.
Liv nodded quickly. “I’m fine,” she said hoarsely.
But Liv was clearly not fine.
“Is it me?” Ari’s heart jumped into her throat. “Is it what happened earlier? I’m sorry if—”
“It’s not you,” Liv interrupted. “What happened earlier was wonderful. I shall never forget it.”
Ari felt a stab of worry so sharp she wished she’d brought some of the leftover extra-strength Worries Be Gone potion. Of course it was wonderful that Liv thought what had happened earlier was wonderful. But “I shall never forget it” is the kind of thing one says when something is never going to happen again.
And Ari really, really wanted to kiss Liv again.
Liv touched her arm. “What happened to you? Why were you sitting out here on the floor?”
Oh. Ari turned back to the wall in time to see Queen Mary try to rip the curtains from around her bed but get caught in them instead. It seemed like she could use some help. And the Worries Be Gone potion, obviously. Ari wondered briefly if she’d taken it yet.
And then Ari went right back to freaking out, because that’s what you do when you find out that your fake boss is actually a traitorous mouse.
“What are you looking at?” Liv followed Ari’s gaze to the wall and then back to her face. “What about that painting bothers you so?”
Ari squinted until she could see the painting hanging on the wall. It was of a woman, sitting in front of a pastoral scene, a mysterious smile on her lips. All the courtiers were so enthusiastic about it, which was why it was hanging outside Queen Mary’s chambers, but Ari could never understand what the fuss was about.
It was also very small.
“I’m not sure, exactly. I’m not an art critic,” Ari said. “But you’d think such a masterpiece would be bigger.” She grabbed Liv’s wrist and pulled her over to an alcove where there was a little more privacy. They sat on a bench.
“What is it?” Liv asked. “Tell me.”
Where to begin? The queen is a mouse. The queen is a mouse. The queen is A MOUSE! This was obviously the place to begin.
But she couldn’t.
“Things,” Ari said. “So many things. I—” Ari stopped mid-sentence.
Liv tilted her head. “Use your words, Aristotle.”
Ari tugged at the collar of her dress. “I just . . . I only . . . Liv, did you know that there are animals?” Ari whispered the last word.
“Where?” Liv whispered back.
“I mean . . .” Ari gestured wildly. “Everywhere! Here. There.” She pointed in all sorts of directions, except toward Queen Mary’s chambers.
“Of course,” Liv said slowly. “But mostly, they’re outside.”
Ari blew out a breath. What to do? What to do.
“Please use words,” Liv said. “Any words.”
Ari glanced in the direction of Mary’s chambers. She slapped a hand over her eyes.
Liv pried Ari’s hand away from her face. “You’re frightening me. Has one of your potions gone wrong?”
“My potions never go wrong,” Ari snapped.
Liv took her hand back, and Ari blew out some more breaths.
“I’m sorry. I do make mistakes. But I usually learn something from them.” Like today’s potion, which led he
r to learn Queen Mary was a mouse. Which felt like a whole new mistake. Ari folded her hands in her lap.
“The point is, there are E∂ians.” She whispered that last word again.
Liv stared at her blankly.
“You know,” Ari continued, still whispering. “People who can turn into animals.”
“I know what E∂ians are.”
“I mean, there are so many questions in this ever-changing world in which we live in,” Ari said, sounding strangely preachy. “So many uncertainties.” This was not going well. “But one truth we should all know is that humans are not supposed to turn into animals, right?”
Liv’s brows furrowed, and she frowned. “I guess,” she said tentatively.
“I mean, weren’t you raised that way?” Ari’s voice was high and squeaky. Like a mouse. “I didn’t worry about it when I was younger”—meaning, dear reader, up until ten minutes ago—“but it just occurred to me, they are out there. The truth is out there.”
Liv patted Ari’s knee. “I understand, it’s a scary world. But we’re in here.”
“But what if the truth is in here, too?” Ari exclaimed.
“Listen, Aristotle, I’m not exactly sure what you’re getting at, because there is probably . . . truth . . . everywhere. But the clash between E∂ians and Verities is not the only truth I know.”
“What other truth do you know?” Ari asked in a small voice.
“I know there are good people everywhere. I know that we are here, in this place, for a reason. I know that here, with the six of us, we have a family. We take care of each other. Haven’t we taken care of you?” Liv smoothed her hand over Ari’s hair. “Haven’t you taken care of us?”
Ari nodded, her heartbeat slowing. It was nice to have someone else making sense of the world for her.
“Queen Mary is the heart,” continued Liv. “She will watch over us, as we watch over her. There is nothing to be afraid of. We are home. The truth may be out there, or in here, or all around, and it may be scary. But the only truth we need is each other. No matter how we came together, never forget, we are the lucky ones.”
That sounded good. But a lady like Liv had a secure future. Ari was going to have to fight for hers. She had to pick a side. Mary’s. Or Catherine’s.
What to do? she thought. What to do.
FIFTEEN
Francis
Thwack. An arrow hit the target dummy.
“Are you nervous about tomorrow?” Henry III asked. (This Henry was Francis’s nine-year-old brother, not the king or any of the five thousand other people named Henry. We know. It’s a lot.)
“No,” Francis lied, and then he felt bad for lying. “A little. Have you seen all the preparations?”
“I did!” Charles IX (Francis’s ten-year-old brother, not the cardinal) loosed another arrow, which hit the dummy in the throat. “I’ve been helping Father with the ships.”
The ships. Francis shuddered. Why did there have to be so many boats involved with his wedding? That was weird.
“Father said you’re going to be making babies all the time now,” Charles IX said. “He said you’re going to have fifteen babies by the end of the year.”
“First of all,” Francis said as he nocked an arrow and aimed for the dummy’s heart, “babies take a bit longer than that.” It was April, after all, so even if they started tomorrow—which was expected, of course, but unlikely—a baby wouldn’t appear until after the new year.
Francis loosed the arrow. It sailed past the dummy and into the grass.
“It’s a good thing we’re not at war,” Henry III observed. “You can’t even hit Bash.”
“Bash?” Francis lowered his bow. “Do you mean the dummy?” He looked across the yard where the dummy stood, just a stuffed burlap sack the boys had constructed with sticks for arms and legs, and a slim wooden board holding up the target that served as a head. Someone had painted a smile on its face and given it piercing blue eyes.
“Don’t call Bash a dummy!” Charles IX said. “You take that back.”
Francis looked between his younger brothers and the dummy. “Why did you name it Bash?”
“Because we bash him with our arrows. Sometimes our swords.” Henry III rolled his eyes. “But don’t talk bad about him. Bash is our friend.”
“Yeah,” Charles IX said. “He’s like the older brother we never had.”
Francis scowled. “I’m your older brother.”
“Exactly,” Henry III said.
Francis started to protest, but just then Mary stepped outside, her auburn hair blazing red in the sunlight, a sky-blue gown swirling around her ankles. Francis’s heart skipped a beat at the mere sight of her. Even though he saw her every day. It was impossible to forget how she’d looked at him the other day, all heat and fondness. She’d never looked at him like that before, not once, and Francis found he’d been thinking about it a lot.
Like, every hour.
Both Henry III and Charles IX sighed in admiration.
“She’s so pretty,” Henry III said.
“Way too pretty for you,” Charles IX said.
“And nice,” Henry III said.
“Way too nice for you,” Charles IX said.
“What do you know about anything?” Francis’s throat was tight. “You’re only children.”
“I know if you don’t want to marry her,” Charles IX said, “then I will. I’ll be king, once you die.”
Mary’s gaze swung toward them, and she and Francis locked eyes. A smile turned up the corners of her mouth, making him smile in return as she strolled across the yard.
Francis started thinking about how close her face had been the other day, right after she’d taken a swig from that vial and signed the paper.
“Good morning,” Mary said.
“Good morning,” all three boys said in unison.
Francis blushed. “We’re just having a little practice before breakfast. While it’s still cool out.”
“May I?” Mary nodded at Francis’s bow, which he gave to her without hesitation. She lifted the bow and nocked an arrow. (All the movies and shows where the boy stands behind the girl and shows her how to shoot an arrow—or swing a golf club, or any number of things boys think girls need help with—hadn’t been invented yet, but even so, Francis had the urge to adjust her stance and shift her shoulders and maybe get a whiff of the rose-petal soap she used.
Mary released the arrow and it struck Bash in the nose.
Both younger boys clapped. “Francis couldn’t hit the target,” Charles IX said.
Mary looked at him. “Is that true?”
“I couldn’t bear to harm dear Bash.”
“Who’s Bash?”
“They named the target dummy Bash.”
“He’s cute.” Mary looked at the boys. “Why did you name the target dummy Bash?”
“Mama said we weren’t allowed to name him Francis,” Charles IX said.
Francis’s mouth twisted. “I’m not sure how I should feel about that.”
Mary stepped close to Francis and touched his hand. “Might I speak with you privately?”
“Of course.” Francis took the bow and left it on a bench. “I’ll return in a moment,” he told his brothers, but they didn’t seem to notice that he was leaving.
“Let’s pretend we’re fighting E∂ians,” Charles IX said. “We’ll both be knights, and the E∂ians are coming at us from the other side of the battlefield.”
“Ahh!” Henry III raised his bow and shot poor Bash in the chest. “Take that, evil E∂ian!”
Francis cringed and walked with Mary away from the epic battle taking place behind them. “I’m sorry about that,” Francis said. He wished there were a way to talk to the boys about E∂ians that wouldn’t get all of them in trouble, some way to make them understand that E∂ians weren’t bad. But the one time he had brought it up, both of them had gone straight to Henry (the king), and Francis had been forced to sit through hours of lectures about how there was no p
lace for an E∂ian sympathizer in French court.
He wouldn’t make that mistake again. It could put Mary in danger. Her ladies, too.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Mary said softly. “I know you walk a very fine line with them.”
He forced a smile. “You shouldn’t have to hear it, though. We are royalty. We must not spew hate so freely.”
“I agree, but we are in precarious positions in a dangerous world. We have to be careful about when and how we speak to others regarding such things. France is a Verity kingdom, but that may not always be true. One day, common E∂ians may rise up and overthrow the Verities.”
“Speaking up shouldn’t fall to the common E∂ian. If royalty cannot express their opinions without fear of consequences, what must others risk?” Death, he knew. They risked death.
Mary sighed and gazed northwest, toward Scotland. “I don’t have a solution,” she said, “but I do know that in other parts of the world, E∂ians have risen up and declared themselves just as deserving as anyone else. The same may happen in France, and when you are king of France, and I am queen consort of France, we will do what we can to make lives better for E∂ians here.”
“That may be some time off,” he said. “My father will live a long time yet.”
“Then we’ll have plenty of time to prepare.”
Francis just walked along with her, trying to ignore the sounds of his brothers bashing on Bash the E∂ian dummy / the brother they never had. “Is there something you wanted to talk about?”
“Yes.” Mary halted and looked at him, her gaze steady. “About the other day, when we were talking in the hall.”
Francis waited for her to finish that sentence.
“I’m afraid I might have been a bit”—she pressed her eyebrows together—“dismissive. But I want you to know that I value your insight and I take your concerns seriously. I shouldn’t have behaved in such an unbecoming manner.”
Francis smiled. “I’m glad you said that.”
“Were you very angry with me?”
“No, of course not.” He touched her hand. “I could never be angry with you. It did hurt a little, but I also know that you think the world of your uncles and that my suggesting they may not have your best interest at heart would be difficult to hear.”
