Falling For Henry (6 page)

She recalled what that physics book said about order:
Organizing things uses energy, which is released into the environment, causing disorder.
She thought she understood. The more she tried to figure things out, the more confused and upset she would be. The theory made sense. But how could you stop putting order to things? She would have liked to look back in the physics book for answers but it wasn't on the shelf. She must have returned it to the library. She threw down the plastic spoon and chucked the empty yogurt cup into the kitchen garbage. Then she reached for the box of sweets, eating first the green ones, then the red.

Finally, disgusted with herself, she put the box away and decided to phone Gran. She needed to make an excuse for not going up to Brighton this weekend. It wasn't that she didn't like her grandmother. It was more about getting close to someone who might let her down that was the real problem. Best not to rely on anyone, so if they … disappeared, it wouldn't really matter. Gran answered on the first ring, sounding a bit startled, as if Kate had caught her by surprise. When Kate asked if everything was all right, Gran's voice had a hollow sound, although her words were reassuring.

“How's Patch?” Kate asked. Patch was her grandmother's golden spaniel, and since Grandfather had died a few years ago, the dog was her dearest companion—“next to my girls.” Often Gran would hold the phone down to dog level, something Kate thought bizarre and a bit childish. Patch, however, could usually be counted on to whimper a response.

“Sorry, luv, he's out for an evening stroll around the garden. Ta for asking. I'd best not talk long, for I've got to keep an eye.”

“I'm sure he's fine just walking in the garden, isn't he?” Kate asked, replacing the immediate image of an American vegetable garden with the grass and shrubbery that defined gardens here in England. “I mean, you've got that stone wall …”

“Oh yes, the wall's sound, my dear. No worries about that. We've just had some doings here that make it important to take care. Glad you're in London, now, where things are safe.”

Safe? Kate almost dropped the phone. She couldn't believe Gran had just said that. Safe, when all Gran had ever said about London was that it was a dangerous city, especially after dark. She and Willow were always telling her to be careful, to be cautious, to be sure and lock the door at all times!

“What's the matter?” Kate blurted.

“Oh, not anything, really,” Gran said, her voice a bit uncertain. After a pause, she went on: “I've just been busy, luv. Selling a bit of old furniture and other trappings I don't really need. Wore myself out just a bit, I think …” Her voice trailed off and then she added, “And there … well, there's been some funny goings on here at night, you know. Wild dogs, or something, running in a pack, taking people by surprise and such.”

“Taking people by surprise? You mean attacking people?”

“Well, not exactly. There haven't been injuries, but we're all being a little extra wary. Not to worry, though. It'll all work out. You just have to believe and it'll all work out. But I'd best go now, dearie, so if there isn't anything else … I'll go and put the kettle on. I'll tell Patch you said hello. Ta for calling.”

“Wait,” started Kate. “What year was—” but she heard the line go dead. Gran had hung up before she could ask the question about her father's birth date. It didn't matter, anyway. What use was history? It couldn't bring him back. Nothing could bring him back.

As she hung up the phone, an odd feeling of dread filled Kate's stomach. She'd never heard Gran sound so distant. It was like she wasn't really thinking about their conversation at all. And it wasn't like Gran not to try and cajole Kate and Willow into a visit. She'd been after Kate to learn bridge so they could play as partners with a couple of neighbors. Kate looked out the window into darkness and a shiver ran down her spine. Wild dogs … or wolves? Had they been seeing wolves in Brighton? Martin Brown's words came back: “You can't be a hundred percent certain about anything.”

Wolves.
Wolves.
Kate scanned her memory for what she knew about them, hoping to piece things together in a plausible way. Maybe she had stumbled into an excavation site that wolves had extended by digging. She remembered that wolves lived in dens, and possibly what she'd found was a wolf den. As soon as this idea occurred to her, she discarded it. What she'd been in was certainly not a den—it was much too large.

Wolves live and hunt in packs, led by the dominant alpha male, she recalled. Wolves are fierce and bloodthirsty. In some countries, Norway for example, people think they're a harbinger of death. Kate thought of her dad, but
harbinger
meant
predictor
, and Dad was already gone. And he wasn't, she added silently to herself, ever coming back. She thought of her mother and felt again as if a stone were lodged in her throat. Caught in a swirl of gray thoughts, Kate suddenly remembered her tracks earlier that day across the soft damp grass of Greenwich Park. They had lasted just long enough to give her a sense of direction back to the Naval College. But by now, the tracks would have vanished.

She took a deep breath and wandered in and out of her bedroom, and then into Willow's room. Willow had some freaky masks hanging on the walls and lots of bright, gaudy jewelry strewn on the bureau. Her closet was stuffed with clothes. Tall leopard skin boots poked out, along with a short purple miniskirt, a filmy white blouse, a Hawaiian shirt, a black leather jacket, and two mismatched tennis shoes.

Kate felt the blueness of another memory when she saw those shoes. She and Willow used to play lots of tennis together when they were younger. Willow had won a scholarship to a dance academy when she was thirteen, but she'd been home on weekends and for longer holidays, too, when they'd often had time for a match. Their dad had taught them the rules and it had been fun to play singles, with Dad sometimes joining in as a competitor. Tall and athletic, he had always clearly dominated, until two summers ago when Kate had finally beaten Willow, their eight year age difference suddenly irrelevant. Then it was between Kate and her dad, and she knew that if she practiced hard enough, she could beat him, too.

Kate sighed. Willow didn't have any time for tennis, now. And even if she had, her bossy attitude would wreck everything. Kate felt a little pang of guilt, remembering the recent battles she'd had with her sister, but quickly shrugged it off. The fighting was Willow's fault. Nagging and cross, her sister was such a pain. Twenty-three going on eighty-five.

A few posters were up on Willow's bedroom walls. Actors, mostly, but only a few Kate recognized. And one actress—Willow's role model—Audrey Hepburn. Kate had seen Hepburn only once, on TV in a special movie presentation of
Breakfast at Tiffany's
.

Willow looks nothing like Audrey Hepburn, Kate thought, scrutinizing the picture. Willow did have a big voice, even when she wasn't on stage. Just not big hair. She wore a wig in the production they were doing now, when she played Anne somebody-or-other to another actor's Henry VIII. Kate had listened distractedly as Willow had told her the Shakespearian version of the history lesson, but most of what Willow had said went in one ear and out the other. Kate supposed she'd have to see the play on Preview Night next week. It was going to be boring.

Lying over a chair in the closet was a long, blue gown that Kate thought looked rather familiar. When she lifted it up, the fabric clung to her, soft and inviting. It wasn't yet hemmed, but pinned at the cuffs and skirt as well as down one side. Even without it being finished, Kate could tell it wasn't meant for her tall, slim sister. This dress was of a Tudor design, similar to the dress Willow was to wear in her show, but definitely created for someone of Kate's stature.

Kate started pulling the dress over her head, just to see how it looked. If she'd been wearing this in that place at the end of the tunnel, she'd have totally blended in. As the fabric pressed tightly around her shoulders, she felt her breath catch in her throat. Quickly she squirmed out of the dress, the old feeling of claustrophobia catching her by surprise. Carefully replacing the outfit inside the closet, she wondered briefly if it might be meant for her, and then shook her head. Why would her sister give her a Tudor dress? Anyway, it was too tight.

Kate slipped out of Willow's room and closed the door. Better mind my own business, she thought, her face burning. She looked at the clock. It was almost seven! Hal would be out there waiting! She ran to the bathroom, splashed water on her face, although that just made her hot cheeks redder, and shoved the elastic from her pony tail into her jeans' pocket, letting the soft, auburn hair swirl free against her neck.

As Kate picked up the key from the table in the hall, she deliberated. Then, stuffing her underground pass and a few bills into her pocket, she decided not to take a purse. Might get stolen. Her navy jacket was still wet and, without a second thought, Kate ran into Willow's room and pulled the black leather coat from the closet. What Willow didn't know wouldn't hurt her.

Then Kate left the flat, carefully locking the door behind her, and charged down the staircase and through the lobby, wondering where she and Hal were going. She hoped it didn't require taking the subway. The King's Cross underground was busy at night and often filled with disagreeable types. Drunks. Homeless people asking for spare change. People talking nonsense, out of their heads with mental illness or drugs. Or both. Kate took a deep breath and pulled open the door to the street. She could certainly do without King's Cross tonight.

6
William

IN THE SOFT light of evening, William again strode toward the garden shed. Above him, the clouds hung soft as wool, a shade darker than the rest of the sky. Black sheep, he thought, and smiled. Some people thought that black sheep were a mark of the devil, which was nonsense. Under all that wool, they were just the same jaunty creatures as the rest of the herd. As William reached the gate, he heard footsteps and stopped short. Who would be following him here? He turned quickly so as not to give away the cub's hiding place. Then he manufactured a smile.

“Good evening, Princess Mary,” he said, nodding to Mary's nurse, a woman of questionable authority who stood rubbing her hands. “Are you having an enjoyable stroll?”

“I want to find him!” Mary cried. “I want to find him right now!”

For a moment, William thought she was talking about the wolf cub, and his heart thudded wildly in his chest. Discovery by Mary and her nurse would surely mean death to the creature.

“But Princess Mary, it's past your bedtime,” chided the nurse. “Save playing for the morrow.”

“I don't want to wait until the morning. I want to play, now! My brother promised to play mumchance with me today and he should keep his word! I wish that cunning woman would give me a ring and I'd make him come to me.”

“We should be starting back …” faltered the nurse as relief swept over William. They had no idea of the hidden animal close at hand.

“Doesn't anyone know where that bad boy is?” Mary asked. William's mouth twitched to hear her refer to her older brother in these terms. To Mary, the Duke of York was merely an irritating sibling, not the royal prince next in line as king. When William did not answer, Mary asked, “Cat got your tongue?” and looked at him slyly.

“Hush,” said the nurse. “No need to talk of sorcery, Mary.”

“I'm sure Prince Henry didn't mean to break his promise, wherever he is,” said William.

“Everyone talks about sorcery!” said Mary. “That cunning woman they caught in the village is going to say who stole the communion cloth. And then they might catch the thief. Or they might hang him. Do you suppose I'll be allowed to see, if they hang that thief until he is dead as a doornail?

William smiled at this phrase and then felt his stomach lurch. How cruel it was to watch people die. He had become so used to the traditions of nobility in these few short months that for a moment he had forgotten his true feelings.

“And I wonder if the communion cloth will ever be found,” Mary prattled on. “It was a pretty one, with lots of 'broidery on it.”

“Embroidery,” corrected the nurse.

“Look,” said William, trying make his voice sound inviting, “I'll walk you back to the hall. Maybe there'll be some sugared almonds left from dinner.”

“Well … do you think so?” responded Mary, reluctant but hopeful. “Do you really think there'll be some?”

“I don't know, but we can go and see. I'll race you!” William called, catching the grateful eye of the nurse and then running ahead, but slowly, to give the child a chance to catch up.

“And the prize will be a story!” she cried, passing him. “Last one has to—” here she stopped to breathe heavily “—to tell me a story!”

There were sugared almonds, and Mary took quite a large handful, thought William, looking at the nurse whose attention was taken by one of the menservants asking about her day off. Everyone's affairs were so public here in court, and William blushed to hear the flirtation of a woman old enough to be his mother. Not that she didn't have a right to tend to her relationships. It was just that he preferred not to hear about them.

“And now the story!” said Mary, curling her legs up under herself on the hard bench.

I'd rather fall in a ditch and be bowled with cabbages
, thought William. This could take all night, as Mary always had questions that elongated every tale most painfully.

“Very well,” he said, in the most cheerful manner he could muster. “What would you like the story to be about?”

“One of your brothers or sisters. Tell a funny story about something bad that happened to them!”

William nodded. Mary always wanted stories about his family. It seemed as if the little girl was trying to make up for her own lack of siblings, with Margaret away in Scotland and Henry busy in his position as Prince Regent.