“No, he refused. But I knew where he kept the GCA and the serum, so one day I borrowed a syringe of each and injected myself with the GCA. I strapped the syringe with the serum to my calf so I can take it immediately when I return to the future.”
“But what if Harriet doesn’t understand and takes it off?”
Meg’s eyes sparkled. “I wrapped a note around it: If you take this off, you will die.”
My eyes teared up. “I can’t believe you came back for me.”
The carriage rumbled over another rough patch. “I’m counting on a long and wonderful life with you,” she whispered against my neck.
I kissed her wrist. “I think I want kids.”
“Done.”
The child inside me began banging so insistently on the door to be let out that I moaned with pain. Sweat stung my eyes. “Good, but you can carry them now that I know what this feels like.”
“St. Paul’s,” the driver called.
Meg helped me up, and we managed to exit the carriage without tripping on our sodden dresses. Gray clouds swirled like angry gods, and a flash of cloud-to-cloud lightning blinded me for a second. Then an intense cramp hit me and I collapsed on the wet churchyard green.
I could hear Meg talking, but at this point it wasn’t sinking in. My body demanded all my attention. I felt an opening, sort of like the opening I’d felt in my mind when Dr. Raj had first administered the GCA. Only this door wasn’t closing until a baby kicked its way out. I struggled back into the moment. Concentrate!
Meg was instructing a young boy to find the nearest midwife and bring her here as fast as he could. She gave him a coin and promised more.
My heart pounded with excitement.
This was it.
I was about to give birth.
Or I was about to be swept back into my own body.
Or I was about to be killed by lightning.
One of these three things was going to happen. Maybe all three.
Meg helped me back to my feet. I lifted my face to the rain. If I really did have multiple personalities, for some reason, lightning was my trigger to regain control. If I truly was in 1561, lightning was my only ride home.
The rain now felt warm against my skin. Thunder banged through the clouds and lightning flashed off in the distance. A crowd of men had formed at the cathedral entrance to stare at us. Poor Blanche was going to have an audience when she delivered this baby.
I suddenly felt that hope was a tangible thing, something I could grasp in my fist and never again let go. I licked my lips, tasting the delicious rain, water untainted by city life. The air became charged as more lightning flashed. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, even though I was wet as an otter. I reached up, stretching like a cat, as if I could climb into the sky on my own.
I no longer cared if I was living a fantasy or in 1561. I’d managed to find my hope again and I’d never let someone like Chris take it away from me.
I raised my arms, rejoicing in the rain running down into my sleeves, and grinned at Meg. “We’re back in the saddle again!”
“Ride ’em, cowboys!” Meg shouted.
I sent a silent good-bye to my little Vincent, to my ancestor Jacob Maddox, and to my Queen. Then Meg and I exchanged confident smiles as a seam of lightning ripped open the sky.
Chapter Thirty-eight
I gripped the lectern as I struggled to settle back into my body.
I glanced down quickly to make sure—yes, it was my body, but Blanche had dressed it in pink leggings with white polka dots, and some sort of filmy, voluminous purple thing with two camisoles underneath. The outfit was topped with a white cashmere cardigan. God’s teeth.
I lifted my gaze to meet about one hundred expectant pairs of eyes. Bookshelves clued me in that I stood in a bookstore. On the lectern was a fringed purse, ugly as sin. Next to it was my cell phone and a book, Sleeping with the Queen, by Blanche Nottingham. Stuck to the book were two Post-its: Sleeping with the Queen in tenth week on New York Times Bestseller E-book List, and Two More Books in progress: Anne Boleyn’s Girl and The Horse Master’s Murder. Blanche had been busy.
I touched my flat stomach and missed the baby with an ache so deep I wondered if I would ever recover. Then I grabbed everything off the lectern, jammed it into the fringed disaster, and leaned into the microphone. “Thank you very much for coming.”
As I fled, the murmurs followed me. “But she didn’t say anything. How could she be done?”
A lightning-fast taxi ride under the thin April sun brought me to Dr. Rajamani’s office. “Serum!” I shouted as I blasted through the open door. Where was Meg?
He leapt to his feet. “Only if you pass the test.”
“What test?”
“Wait while I prepare the injection.”
I tapped the floor with anxiety. “C’mon, Doc, hurry it up.” Until London, I’d never given much thought to my own sanity. But now, sitting in the doctor’s office waiting to get my shot, I finally got it. Sanity was a fragile mix of hope for the future and an unwavering belief in yourself. I’d lost them both, but never again.
Also, occupying two bodies—or thinking that I did—had scoured me so raw I no longer knew who I was. I wasn’t Blanche Nottingham, but I also wasn’t the same Jamie Maddox. As I waited for the doctor, I chewed on the puzzle that was me. From now on, with every thought I had, every word I spoke, I would probe myself like you’d probe a broken tooth. Did that phrase or thought come from me, or from Blanche? Was I some weird blended personality?
I frowned impatiently at the doctor. “Could we get this over with?” I wished Meg had met me here at the office, but with the serum strapped to her leg she wouldn’t need the doctor. But she had to know I’d be here and wondering. Of course, there was still the possibility that I’d made her up.
Dr. Rajamani finally turned toward me, syringe at the ready. “Blanche came here a number of times trying to get this shot, but she didn’t answer my questions. She returned with answers from Chris, but they were not the correct answers. So now I ask you: Why were you reluctant to participate in my experiment?”
“I hate needles.”
“Because needles are your….” He waited.
“My kryptonite.”
Humming happily, Dr. Rajamani injected me with the serum. Chris had been standing right next to me during the kryptonite conversation, but she hadn’t listened. I wonder if she ever had.
“Are you missing any GCA or serum?” I asked. Meg could still be the product of a split-personality-induced fantasy.
He shrugged. “I do not keep exact records of the quantity I make.”
As the serum flowed through my veins, I relaxed. The nightmare was over. But to determine whether my battle with Blanche Nottingham had all been in my head or not, I needed Meg. If she didn’t know me or what had happened these last months, then everything had taken place in my head and Dr. Kroll had been right. If Meg did know me, then I had truly been the confidant and “Spark” of Queen Elizabeth I of England.
When I thanked Dr. Rajamani for developing the serum, his whole body lit up like a scoreboard. “No, thank you, Jamie Maddox, for pushing me to develop it. I will soon be as famous as you!”
“Me?”
He typed something into his phone and showed me the results: Blanche Nottingham is the pen name of the literally overnight sensation Jamie Maddox, author of one of the best-selling e-books in the twenty-first century.
“Fire truck,” I said. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry since it had been Blanche’s success, not mine. But I let it go in exchange for thinking about what to do next if there really was money in my bank account. Instantly, I knew I’d find a new flat, one without Chris in it. Then I would set up Bradley and Annie in their own flat. Then I’d fly my entire family, and Ashley and Mary, to London to help me get to know the new Jamie.
“We will both be famous!” It was impossible for me to remain angry with the goofy doc in the face of such enthusiasm.
We
shook hands, then I covered both of his with my own. “No more experimenting during stormy weather. Agreed?”
His shake was vigorous, his voice sincere. “Agreed.”
Feeling lighter than I had in months, I left his office, and stood outside, my face raised to the heavens. Now it wouldn’t matter if the sky were blue or gray or black. I was staying here. I was done being Time’s plaything.
And there was no Meg. Clearly, I’d made her up. I inhaled deeply, disappointed that she wasn’t real, but I knew I would be okay. My spunk was back where it belonged, holding my vertebrae together. I would find a way to stay in London. I would rent a new flat, visit an animal shelter, and adopt a dog with silky ears and serious eyes. And of course I already knew the name I would give him.
Half a block away, a taxi screeched to a halt and Bradley popped out with Annie cradled in one arm. “Jamie!”
I ran for the taxi, reaching it just as a woman exited from the other side and paid the driver.
It was Bradley’s friend Mouse. Her long hair shone, and she looked adorable in a pair of baggy gray sweats and a form-fitting black T-shirt. We were about the same height, but she had more curves than I did.
“Meg Warren?” I asked, my voice trembling just a little.
Her gaze flicked down my body then back up. Her voice was cold. “Blanche Nottingham. What the fire truck are you doing here?”
Bradley clutched Annie so tightly she squeaked, and his voice was just as high when he said, “This is Blanche?”
I looked down at my body and laughed. “No, I’m not Blanche. I have much better taste than this.”
Bradley wasn’t sure what was going on, so he introduced us. Meg and I shook hands, then stood there.
Hope flashed across Meg’s face as I considered what to say next.
“Meg…” I looked into her moss green eyes and recognized the impish spark I’d seen in Harriet’s eyes in 1560.
Then I knew exactly what to say. “God, I love you… What was your name again?”
“Jamie,” she whispered. “Thank God.”
She pulled me into her arms and we kissed for the very first time.
—End—
Author’s Note
Years ago I read Jane Resh Thomas’s book, Behind the Mask: The Life of Queen Elizabeth I, and have been fascinated with the Tudors ever since. In Spark I’ve tried to stay as true to the known details of Queen Elizabeth’s life as possible, so I’ve surrounded her with mostly real people, like Kat Ashley, Lady Mary, and William Cecil. Robert Dudley and his wife Amy also came straight out of the history books. (There were several attempts on Robert Dudley’s life, but none succeeded. And to this day, no one really knows what happened that September day in 1560 when Amy Dudley was found dead at the bottom of a shallow flight of stairs.)
The mysterious Hew Draper actually was imprisoned in the Tower of London for upsetting Bess of Hardwick. In fact, if you visit the Tower of London you can see the astrological chart that Draper carved into the wall of the Salt Tower cell. Once he was released from prison, however, he disappeared from history.
Lightning did strike the steeple at St Paul’s in 1561, but it was June 3 instead of April 3. I hope readers will forgive me—I needed to move things up or Jamie would end up suffering an eleven-month pregnancy.
I’ve posted some images and photos of the people and places in Spark on my website, catherinefriend.com.
About the Author
Catherine Friend is the author of romantic adventures: The Spanish Pearl, The Crown of Valencia, A Pirate’s Heart, The Copper Egg, and Spark. She’s also written memoirs, nonfiction, and several children’s books. She’s won a Minnesota Book Award, the Alice B. Readers Appreciation Award, an Independent Book Publishers Association award, four Golden Crown Literary Society Awards, and has been a Lambda Literary Award finalist. She’s narrated two of her books for Dog Ear Audio: Hit by a Farm and A Pirate’s Heart.
She lives in Minnesota with her wife of many years, and is delighted that after all this time they still really, really like each other. They have dogs, barn cats, and lots of bees. Her past lives include economist, technical writer, bookstore employee, packer of cheese gift boxes, and sheep farmer. Her current day job is writing nonfiction for an educational publisher, which is more fun than it sounds.
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