Chapter 26

  The Sound was slate-colored under a winter sky, whitecaps flicking like torn parchment. From Martha’s porch you could hear it all: the wheeze of the tide through the rocks, a gull scolding the empty air, the bell buoy tolling faintly offshore. The railings were salted from spray, crusted with a lace of frost.

  I stood wrapped in my scarf, Richard close beside me. His steady breath kept mine from breaking apart. The memory of Corwin’s death still stabbed in flashes, jagged and wrong.

  Elizabeth leaned against the porch post, red hair burning even in the thin light, her cloak powdered with snow. The Vatican guards waited at the end of the drive beside a sleek black SUV, coats buttoned, eyes alert.

  Her gaze found me. “The first one is always the hardest. Mine was Amy Dudley. She was preparing to tell the Catholic Church what I was—what I had become. A fall down the stairs silenced her. History calls it an accident. I know better.”

  My throat tightened.

  Elizabeth’s chin lifted. “And no, I never loved Robert Dudley. He was nothing more than a distant relation. Later he married my niece. I made him pay dearly for it.”

  The Sound seemed to hush. Richard shifted, then finally spoke, voice steady but edged with command.

  “You’re free to go, Elizabeth. I’ll advise the Vatican myself: that the vows meant to hold you have been killing, using blood to bind you. And that Corwin was the hand behind the myths of the Ash Woman — spreading fear to mask his rituals.”

  For the first time, Elizabeth’s eyes flickered, sharp but unreadable. She gave a slight nod, as if she appreciated the candor.

  Then, with sudden brightness, she said, “As for my future—I shall head west. Montana. They say this Yellowstone program is an accurate depiction of ranch life. I believe I’ll acquire a ranch.”

  She turned, eyes gleaming as though the centuries had melted away, and clapped her hands once. “Boys—drive me. I’ve no taste for this sulking in shadows. There’s the cutest little art shop in Deep River, and I wish to see it.”

  The car shifted into motion on her command, and Elizabeth’s voice softened with something almost girlish. “There hangs a painting there—oil on canvas, small, delicate. Two little girls in a sunlit garden, decorating a cradle with garlands of flowers. But look closely, and the brushstrokes shimmer. The cradle is not merely wood, but a door. A portal hidden in plain sight, waiting for hands small enough—or hearts bold enough—to open it.”

  Richard leaned toward me, just loud enough. “She’ll last a week.”

  Despite myself, I nearly smiled. The heaviness on my chest loosened just a little.

  The guards moved, crisp and wordless, opening the SUV’s door. Elizabeth descended the

  walk like she was entering Whitehall Palace. Halfway to the car, she stopped and turned back.

  “Do not let the dead keep you, girl. They will call forever. You must learn which calls to ignore.”

  Then she entered the SUV. The door shut with an expensive thump, and the car pulled away, tires hissing on salted pavement.

  Silence reclaimed the shore. The bell buoy tolled, and the tide curled against the rocks. Richard exhaled slowly. “Well. That’s that.”

  Maybe. Maybe not. But I breathed deep, the brine-laced air burning my lungs. Alive, the water whispered. Alive. And for now, that was enough.

  By the next morning, the sea had swallowed yesterday’s tire tracks. The drive looked as if no one had come or gone at all. A full day had passed since Elizabeth swept into the black SUV, and though the Vatican men had filed their reports and driven north, the air around Martha’s house still felt unsettled.

  Inside, the kitchen was warm with the smell of yeast and honey. Candy and I stood side by side at the counter, sleeves rolled, pressing our palms into pliant dough. It stuck stubbornly at first, then gave way, smooth and elastic. Each fold and push kept my hands busy, but my mind wasn’t fooled. Corwin’s blood still clung to me like a stain I couldn’t scrub out.

  Richard sat at the table, pretending to read but not turning a page. His tea had gone cold beside him. I knew he was watching me more than the book.

  “Bread always helps,” Candy said softly, not looking up from her dough. “Keeps the hands moving while the heart sorts itself.”

  I almost laughed. “Feels like I need to bake for a century.”

  Before Candy could answer, the kitchen door banged open, letting in a rush of cold air and a scatter of snowflakes.

  Elizabeth swept in, cloak trailing, her hair catching the light like fire under frost. She shook snow from her shoulders with an imperious flick. “Montana was dreadful. Dust, cows, hats everywhere. The people called it ranching. I call it barbarism.”

  Richard didn’t even blink. He shut his book and set it aside. “Back so soon.”

  Elizabeth dropped her gloves on the counter beside the dough, ignoring Candy’s faint look of protest. “I have better things to do than pretend to herd cattle. There are still matters unsettled.”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Her eyes flicked to me. I couldn’t help it—I smirked. For all her grandeur, she hadn’t lasted even one full day. Richard’s prediction had been generous.

  Elizabeth smiled faintly, as if she’d heard the thought. “The good news is, the lovely little portal is still there. . It opens neatly to the Bozeman state house. Some very old Presbyterian Scotsmen still owe me favors—Mary Stuart’s partisans, as it happens. Removing that pest of a queen won me their eternal gratitude.”

  She said it as if she were remarking on the weather. I felt my stomach turn. A day ago she had admitted to pushing Amy Dudley to her death; now she spoke of Mary Queen of Scots as if disposing of her had been an afternoon’s inconvenience.

  Richard leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable. “Of course it did.”

  Candy, unfazed, dusted her hands on her apron. “If you’re back, you can be useful. Here— help me with the scones.”

  Elizabeth arched a brow but stepped forward. Candy showed her how to cut butter into flour, how to knead gently instead of commanding the dough like a subject. Elizabeth followed the instructions with unnerving precision, then—unable to resist—added a swirl of candied ginger and something I couldn’t quite see.

  When the tray came out of the oven, the pastries gave off a faint glow, as if they’d caught a sunrise inside. The smell was intoxicating, bright and spiced.

  Elizabeth regarded her handiwork with regal satisfaction. “Better than cattle,” she declared. I didn’t know whether to laugh or be afraid.

  That’s when Tudor, who had been curled on a chair back, snapped his head toward the frosted window. His tail bushed, ears sharp. I followed his gaze.

  Outside, a single black crow clung to the bare branch of the elm. Its feathers ruffled against the sea wind. It didn’t caw. It just stared.

  And the longer it stared, the more I felt it wasn’t a bird at all—but a message.

  The third evening came with a storm. The ocean slapped harder against the breakwater, spraying salt high enough to streak the windows. The old house groaned with every gust, but the fire in Martha’s study kept the chill at bay.

  We gathered there—me, Richard, Candy, Nina, and Elizabeth—sprawled in a loose circle around the hearth. The room smelled of driftwood and sage, the kind of fire that made you want to stay put and confess things you’d sworn to keep buried.

  Nina had been with us since Boston, but at the edges, her voice quieter, her eyes avoiding Elizabeth’s. Now, in the flicker of firelight, she finally squared her shoulders and turned to the Queen herself.

  “I should have said it sooner.” Her Boston cadence was soft, stripped of its usual armor. “I believed the Vatican’s propaganda about you. I thought you were nothing but a monster— that you’d burn everything you touched. I thought their way was the only way to stop you.” She paused, voice catching. “But I was wrong. I saw how far they’d go. How far I went. And I hate myself for it.”

  The fire cracked.

  Elizabeth’s gaze stayed steady, unreadable, the flames reflected in her eyes. She did not smile, nor soften, nor scorn. She simply watched.

  I let the silence stretch. My chest was tight, but I forced myself to speak. “Then we start again. But no more secrets. Not between us.”

  Nina nodded, her throat working as if the words scraped on the way out. “No more secrets.”

  Richard leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the firelight cutting his face into planes of shadow and gold. “Corwin is gone. But he wasn’t acting alone. Someone was guiding him. That’s who we’re facing now.”

  My stomach turned. The crow from yesterday flickered across my mind’s eye, black feathers against white frost.

  Candy reached across the rug and took both Nina’s hand and mine, pulling them together like threads knotted at the center. Her grip was warm, steady. “Then we stay together. We stop chasing each other’s shadows. Whatever’s next—we meet it as one.”

  Richard looked at each of us in turn, and for the first time, I thought I saw the soldier in him soften. He set his hand over ours.

  Elizabeth moved last. Without comment, she extended her hand and laid it on top of the knot. Regal, deliberate, unreadable.

  The five of us sat there, fire snapping, storm rattling the panes, our hands clasped in a fragile knot. Uneasy. Imperfect. But real.

  For the first time since Corwin’s death, I believed we might survive what came next.

  By the fourth day, the storm had blown itself out, leaving the air sharp and clear. The Sound glittered like beaten steel under the winter sun. Inside, the house smelled of woodsmoke and lemon polish, but by midmorning the kitchen was overtaken by something older, richer.

  Elizabeth stood at the center counter with Candy at her side, sleeves rolled. A pewter bowl sat between them, flour already dusting the polished surface like frost.

  “This,” Elizabeth said, her voice low but carrying the weight of centuries, “is how we did it at court. Butter softened near the hearth. Flour sifted three times, not once. Nutmeg and mace ground together, then stirred with honey until the paste shines.” She dipped her fingers into the mixture, unbothered by the mess. “Your people call them scones. We called them marchpanes.”

  Candy, eyebrows raised, mirrored the steps carefully. “Nutmeg and mace,” she repeated. “I don’t even keep mace in the bakery. I’ll have to change that.”

  Elizabeth’s smile was small, dangerous, but almost warm. “The flavor stays on the tongue. A proper queen never wasted her spices.”

  I leaned in the doorway with Richard, watching. It was almost absurd—this immortal phoenix teaching a baker in a Connecticut kitchen—but the smell was intoxicating. Almond, honey, butter, and spice mingled with the salt of the sea air drifting through the cracked window.

  Martha sat at the table, hands folded over her lap, eyes sparkling like she’d been let in on a grand secret. “It smells divine,” she said softly, like she was afraid to break the spell. Steve hovered near the window, peering out at the waves, but I caught the way his shoulders loosened, the rare quiet settling into him.

  I thought of all the talks I’d had with them—Martha’s gentle insistence that family is what you choose, Steve’s patient wisdom that sometimes the strangest paths turn out to be the ones worth walking. They were here now, in the same house, and somehow it still felt like two halves of my world were colliding.

  Me, the orphan who once ran barefoot behind a playground fence, standing in a kitchen where Queen Elizabeth I of England kneaded dough beside my adoptive parents and my maybe-something-more Vatican handler. If I told my younger self, she would’ve laughed herself sick.

  And yet, seeing Martha’s smile, Steve’s quiet peace, I couldn’t help thinking: maybe the world really had bent itself to bring me here. To this absurd, impossible, intoxicating moment.

  When the tray came out of the oven, the pastries glowed faintly. Candy broke one open, steam rising, and handed it to me.

  I hesitated. Took a bite. The taste hit bright and layered—sweetness, warmth, a kick of something that made my chest expand. My pulse steadied.

  Elizabeth licked a trace of honey from her finger, satisfied. “These will make anyone braver.” Richard shot her a look, unreadable, but said nothing.

  The moment felt almost human, laughter spilling as Candy tried to brush flour from Elizabeth’s cheek and earned a glare that melted into the ghost of a grin. For a breath of time, it felt like a family.

  Then Tudor padded in, silent, tail twitching. He planted himself by the window, ears pricked, and growled low in his throat.

  The laughter died.

  Richard straightened, his eyes narrowing. “You know, that cat’s pretty smart,” he said, voice firm. “We need to make a plan. It’s probably time to move.”

  I swallowed the last bite, the taste of honey and spice still on my tongue. Brave or not, the warmth in my chest chilled at his words.