The Other Side of Anne (6 page)

“Fine,”
Avery snapped. “Let’s go. Do you need to pack anything?”

**

“Have you been to the movies?” Avery asked as he and Anne settled into their seats. The theater was dark and empty, save for the two of them. They each had Cokes and small boxes of popcorn.

“No,” Anne said. She placed her Coke into its holder and glanced up at the screen. A preview for a shoot-em-up flick
played. Boom, dodge and roll, boom, boom.

“
Where have you been other than Starbucks?”

“Your father
eased me into outings. We started little by little. By the time I realized I had the power to return to 1536, I had gone to the White House. I was your father’s good little tourist. We and Benjamin went to art museums. Bookstores. The National Arboretum. I kayaked on the Potomac River with Nate. That kind of thing. Later, your father wanted us to fly to England and show me where I was buried. Benjamin had gone to Philadelphia a few times and visited his own grave. Then Starbucks happened.”

“How did y
ou—I mean—was it an accident or…”

Anne scooped a
handful of popcorn. The morsels, soft and buttery, melted in her mouth. “This is good.”

“Movie popcorn is the best.”

“I am sorry about your father. His death.”

“Are you really?”
Avery asked.

“Perhaps.”

“He was not my father. And my mother was a woman who died in 1901.”

“I suppose.”

Avery sighed and shifted position in his seat. “Nate is outside,” he said.

Anne grinned. “I know.” The guard had
been anything but discreet about following them in a Pegasus security car. “Why did you release me, Sir Franklin? It is not because I am Anne Boleyn. If anything, you do this in spite of the fact I am Anne Boleyn. You derive much more comfort from studying me when I am dead, do you not? You dislike me alive.”

Avery
gave a choked, desperate laugh. “Watch the movie, all right?”

**

Avery spent the next hour persuading himself he could not be Time Traveler Zero and that the woman beside him could not be Anne Boleyn in any way, shape or form.

“Actress, what is your real name?”
Avery asked. He felt utterly foolish. Benjamin Franklin? Anne Boleyn?
Way to be snookered, Avery. You gullible grape.
He imagined Charles cackling in his grave. Cackling at his simple-minded silly son with the Ph.D. Charles had done an excellent job casting Anne. He’d found the woman with the darkest eyes in the world.

Anne turned a narrowed gaze onto
Avery. “What?”

Avery
rolled his eyes. “Physics rules. Science rules. Time travel cannot be done. My father was an odd man who needed his kicks. He would play this sort of prank and lead me to believe I was born in 1901.”

Anne frowned.
“May I touch you, Sir Franklin?”

“Touch me?”

“Yes, Sir Franklin. May I touch you? For instance, hold your hand?”

“Why?”

“You do not enjoy the film. You find it dull.”

“T
ouching me will make the movie better? How?”

“Would you like to go back with me,
Sir Franklin? To observe a real movie? You might find something useful for a third book.”

“Do you mean—is that possible?”

“Let us observe if it is. I believe it
is
possible because sometimes I held a bug when I faded. I could feel the bug travel with me.”

Without warning,
Anne grabbed Avery’s hand, her fingers digging for purchase. He fought to get free, but then he was standing. Walking. The stink of unwashed masses swept over him, and he battled an upswing of nausea. He almost tripped over his feet, no, not his feet, Anne’s feet, but Sir Kingston steadied Anne. Avery knew the man was Sir Kingston because—because—he just did. Avery wanted to scream, but he was in Anne’s mind.

T
hey crashed onto the theater floor, crashed past theater seats that had bounced back up because no one was sitting on them. “You came with me,” Anne said half in admiration, half in horror.

Avery’s
heart was a quivering lump, his brain a whirlpool, his breaths gasps and heaves.
I was in 1536. Dear God, I was in 1536. I was Anne Boleyn. I smelled Tudor stink. The constable of the Tower of London touched me.

Avery
was furious. No, not furious. Furious did not come halfway close to describing his rage. Yet exhilaration filled another part of him. The experience had been intense. So damn intense. Like an orgasm, and at the same time, not. He had been in Anne’s body, he had felt Anne, he had been inside Anne. Avery’s cock pressed with desire against his black funeral pants, and he glued his legs together.

“Did
you see the men?” Anne asked.

Avery had, for the
flash of a second. Men on the scaffold. The scaffold was wooden and covered with black cloth and straw. Anne certainly was nearing the end of her Tudor days. She had perhaps ten minutes’ worth of life left in 1536.

“One of these men is the executioner,” Anne said,
impaling Avery with her gaze. “Your book said Henry performed a last-minute act of kindness and asked them to dress similarly so I would not see my death coming as vividly. The next time I return, I shall search each man’s eyes and try to ascertain which one has the sword.”

“
Why do you go back?” Avery wondered.

Anne hauled herself up and sat. She stared straight ahead, and the movie projected shadows on her face. “I know
not. Perhaps because it is the only thing I can control. There, the king controls me. Here, Charles—” Anne stopped. Remembrance played across her features. “Here, you control me, Sir Franklin.”

“I don’t. I have no wish to.”

“I know what you want,” Anne said.

“You don’t know what I want. I’m not my father. Your life here is yours to live.”

Anne thought a moment. “Let us return,” she decided.

“
What? To 1536? Now?”

“Now. For a moment. I am suddenly impatient to know
which man ends my life.”

“No way,”
Avery hissed. “I’m not going back.”

“Yes
you are.”

Avery
hesitated and thought. Anne did not want to face her death alone. That was understandable. Quite. But… “We’re coming back, right?” Avery asked. “Coming back alive?”

“Of course.”

Avery had to admit that he desired to feel
it
again. The intensity of himself inside Anne’s body. The two of them together. And he bet Anne saw it in his eyes. “Fine. For a few seconds,” he whispered.

**

Anne closed her eyes, concentrated and willed herself and Avery to 1536. Simple as that. Her first year in the future, how many times had she tried and failed to will herself back? Too many to count. She must somehow have had to build the power up.

Sir Kingston helped Anne up the steps, and panic licked at her throat. She fought to maintain her composure. She was at a height for the first time, and she looked around her, before her. The sheer number of people who turned out astonished her. So this was what a crowd of two thousand looked like. Books had recorded what she would say next. Should she follow the books or try again to…

Anne sensed Avery inside her, Avery’s terror, Avery’s panic. He was trying his best to be studious and scholarly and to remember the scenes for later books. He was failing miserably.

If Anne Boleyn lost control of her bladder and bowels, it would be
Avery Franklin’s fault. Nevertheless, Anne liked having Avery with her. Death seemed less daunting.

Anne—and
Avery—tried to run, but their shared feet refused to move. What happened, happened. Nothing would change it.

Shh,
Avery. A few more seconds, and we shall return.
Anne searched each man’s eyes but found no telltale signals as to which one would end her life. She turned to Kingston. “I beg leave to speak to the people. I shall not speak a word that is not good.”

Kingston squinted.

She pleaded again: “I beg leave of you, sir, please do not hasten the signal for my death until I have spoken that which I have a mind to say.”

She concentrated to will herself and
Avery to the future.

**

No Anne. Oh shit.

“Anne! Your Majesty!”
Avery ran his hands over the empty space where Anne had sat. Just as quickly, he jerked his hands back lest Anne reappear and leave him without arms.

Shit. Shit. What do I do? What if she’s dead and not coming back?

Anne reappeared a few seconds later, slumped on the floor next to Avery.

“Anne!
You okay?”

Anne pressed her hand over her face. “That
has never happened. The delay.”

Ice spread in
Avery’s stomach, and he felt an acute sense of loss. “Anne. Anne.”

Anne’s breaths came in great heaves, deep, dry sobs racking her insides. Lights flickered on in the auditorium. THE END flashed across the screen.
Avery stayed on the floor but made no move to touch Anne, hoping that his presence would prove comfort enough. He did not notice the attendant until the young man stood right behind Anne.

“Everything all right?” the attendant asked.

Anne dropped her hand from her face, and her gaze met Avery’s for an agonizing eternity. Tears trembled in her eyes. “Do you promise?” she whispered. “You promise my life is my life?”

Slowly and gingerly, as if she was made of sand, Avery took Anne in his arms.
He didn’t want to, but Anne needed touching right now, however uncomfortable it was for him.

“Yes.
Your life is your life.”

“Thank you,
Sir Franklin.”

Avery smiled up at the attendant. “We’
re fine.”

Avery paid for two rooms at a Days Inn near the movie theater. Once they were in Anne’s room, Avery drew a phone out of his backpack. “I got you a phone. Prepaid.”

“Ah.”

“I’ve put my number in there. Do you know how to text?”

“No,” Anne said, so Avery spent a few moments instructing her. She sent Avery a practice text. Anne laughed. More tha
n once. She was like a different person when she laughed. Her stiffness and caution vanished, and Avery could pick up on the girl Anne must have been. He replayed the sensation of himself inside Anne’s body. He felt like part of Anne had come back with him, inside him, after the fades. Bizarre.

At one point,
while Anne thumbed awkwardly on the phone’s keyboard, Avery let his gaze fall to the expanse of her neck. A neck severed hundreds of years ago.
Anne Boleyn is dead.
But I would enjoy kissing her neck.

Avery shook off his improper thoughts.
“I gotta hit the john. Too much Coke.”

**

Anne turned over in bed and watched the Days Inn clock. The green-blue numbers slid from 1:22 to 1:23. Loneliness engulfed Anne, although technically, she was not alone. Avery was staying in the room that connected to hers—not like a connecting room would stop Nate or Benjamin from sneaking in and seizing Anne.

The fade delay bothered her
more than she had let on. Having Avery with her twice must have caused a lag in her return to modern times. The lag lasted only a few seconds, but it was a lag. It had brought her perilously closer to her execution. In a few minutes, her ladies would be summoned to blindfold her. Anne imagined the smooth, warm cloth of the blindfold. She did not want her eyes covered. What if she had doomed herself with her rash decision to bring Avery? What if his presence in her time stream meant she would lose control of her fades?
What if I become like Benjamin? Then I will die for sure.
Tears welled up, and Anne wiped them away.
Every person dies.

Anne reallocated her thoughts to more pleasant matters: namely, Avery Franklin
’s looks. By the time he had left her room, the beginnings of stubble rumbled on his cheeks. He would be an interesting man to kiss. A man of contrasts. His mouth appeared soft and welcoming, yet the stubble would be rough and harsh.

Anne had not enjoyed kissin
g Henry for several reasons, three being his lack of skill, his greediness and the coarse hairs—much more than stubble—on his face. But kiss Henry she must, as part of her father’s scheme to make her queen. Historians would be shocked to realize that Anne Boleyn was no seductress. Sometimes she could not remember how she managed to flirt with Henry and string him along for seven years. Being in this time had changed Anne, had reached into the core of her and made her more herself. If that made sense. It had caused the closed-off part of her to spread, to infiltrate all of her. Anne had no desire to toy with anyone again. Period. But she would not mind kissing Avery Franklin. Perhaps sooner rather than later if the fade delay signaled anything significant. Anne’s heart could not bear the thought of her death without one last kiss. Death without again experiencing a man’s lips on hers. Avery’s arms around her at the movie theater had been reluctant but strong. Understanding. Safe. Yes, Avery was different. He was unlike Charles, Benjamin, Bella and the other Pegasus people.

Anne slipped her hand between
her legs. Abundant wetness. She had escaped Pegasus, but she still felt the eyes, the watchful, hungry, ravenous, technological camera devil eyes on her. No bother. They had not stopped her at Pegasus, and they would not here. She imagined Avery kissing her, not only on the lips, but on her breasts and between her legs. Anne offered no resistance, and Avery kissed deeply everywhere. His tongue caressed her insides, and she shivered. His mouth was indulgent and tasted like movie popcorn butter.

After her orgasm, Anne thought about what the
next day held. Perhaps a trip back to Pegasus for packing and moving. Then Avery’s house. In two days, he had a class.

Hello students,
Anne imagined Avery saying.
Remember our lesson on Anne Boleyn?

Sure, Dr. Franklin.

Great. Well, tear it up. She’s alive! Let’s meet her for show and tell.

Avery Franklin. Anne liked that he was
conflicted. He was a good man. Anne’s imagination played Avery’s tongue on hers again. His desperate, hungry penis thrust inside her and filled her.
Oh, Avery. Avery.
Anne slipped her hand between her legs yet another time.

**

Mandy paid a visit as Avery settled into bed.
You were in 1536. Can you believe it? Was it like a dream or a nightmare?

“Felt
real to me. Nothing like a dream.” The touch of Sir Kingston steadying Anne burned into Avery’s back. Kingston’s handprint was a forever scar, and Avery’s chest squeezed every time he replayed looking into the masked men’s faces. He still felt like a little part of Anne had come back with him.

Mandy:
You like Anne. She’s different. She just is. You’re attracted to her.

No!
I’m not.

Yeah, you are.

Avery blinked his dead wife out of his mind. More thoughts rushed forth, and he stumbled over them, tripping like a dog’s ungainly maneuverings. He wasn’t attracted to Anne, per se. He, a time traveler through kidnapping, identified with Anne. He had been in her body. He
had been
her. He felt her fear and her panic. He more than felt it, and he could not let go of the sensations. By no means did it follow that he was attracted to her.

**

“So,” Avery said. “Wow. Just wow.” He stood in Anne’s library at Pegasus, and her paintings stole his breath.

Anne smiled modestly
, but her glowing eyes betrayed the extent of her pleasure. “You like them?”

“This is my favorite
.” Avery indicated the painting in front of him. It showed a woman clawing out of her grave. Creepy. Creepy as shit. Avery loved it. “I bet you could sell the paintings for millions. We’ll transport them gently.”

“No. I
desire to leave them.”

“Whoa.
Come on.”

“
Or I could destroy them.”

“
Why?”

Anne shrugged. “I am not this...
this
woman.” She pointed to herself. “Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“I am ready to leave Pegasus behind, and these paintings are part of Pegasus.” Anne indicated Avery’s favorite. “That woman. Who do you think she is?”

“You mean she’s someone from your other life?” Avery asked.

“Yes. Who do you think?”

Avery mulled possibilities: Anne’s mother, one of Henry’s wives, or maybe Anne’s sister, who had an affair with Henry before Anne did and possibly bore him a son. “Catherine?” Avery guessed. “Henry’s first Catherine?
”

“Close.
She is Mary, my stepdaughter.”

“Why did you paint her?”

“Guilt, I suppose.” Anne sighed, hating that security cameras were probably picking up every morsel of her confession. “I was never rude to her face, but every chance I got, I put her down to Henry. I told him Elizabeth should come first before Mary. I told him Elizabeth was the legitimate child, Mary the illegitimate one.”

“You
did what Catherine did, looking out for your own child.”

“You are correct. Nonetheless, I erred
. I often wonder about Mary’s last moments.”

“Me too.” It had been
Mary’s second so-called pregnancy. The first one was wishful thinking causing her belly to swell as if she was pregnant. Pseudocyesis. The second time around was probably a tumor.

Anne indicated the black suitcase at her side. “
I can create new artwork. All I wish to bring to your house is in here.”

“As you like.
” Avery remembered the fade delay and attempted a playful grin. “Hey, can I ask you something? You held a bug for some fades, right?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of bug?”

“A caterpillar. It was fat and soft and hairy. I liked it.”

“The same caterpillar each time?”

Worry crept into Anne’s gaze.
“No, different ones.”

“
Cool. Just wondering,” Avery said gruffly. “Come on, let’s go.”

**

Anne finished putting up her few possessions and surveyed her bedroom at Avery’s house. She liked the room. For one thing, it had two windows. It was not a dungeon. The view was nice, and—
oh no.
A chill enveloped Anne. She recognized the blue car parking in the distance.
Nate.
And Anne was in the bedroom that faced the street, also the bedroom closest to the front door.
I am unsafe. I always will be.

Anne took a deep breath
and tugged the blinds down.
Calm yourself.

“Your Majesty,” Avery said behind Anne, causing her to jump.

“Sir Franklin,” Anne replied disapprovingly.

Avery held up a can of peas. “
How about peas to go with the chicken and baked potato? Have you eaten peas?”

“Yes. And that would be fine.”

Avery smiled, his eyes crinkling. “Great.”

The disarming smile couldn’t make Anne forget about Nate lurking
. “I miss Elizabeth,” she said. She was alone and scared, and she hoped that her daughter had felt alone and scared as little as possible.

Avery
hazarded a cautious step forward. “What was your daughter like?”

“She did not live with me.”

“Right. She had her own household.”

“I saw her infrequently. She was
partly a stranger to me. But a lovely stranger with the most charming laugh.”

“You picked out her clothes.”

“The materials and colors, yes. She probably never remembered me.” Elizabeth was not yet three years old when Anne was executed. That day likely was just another day for the little girl.

“I’m sorry,”
Avery said.

“Were you surprised when you saw me?” Anne asked. “At my plainness?
This
is the woman Henry VIII tossed England over for?”

“You’re not plain.”

Anne laughed. “I
am
plain. I am nothing to boast about.” It was her confidence, her apparent confidence anyway, her training in seduction and her playfulness that gave Anne her beauty. How she used her body, her sexuality. Her dark eyes, too.

Anne let her gaze fall to her hands. She had been careful to keep them groomed. Her fingernails, like Benjamin’s,
wore no imperfections. If Anne thought long enough, if she tried hard enough, perhaps she could rediscover the seductress that lay dormant inside her.

“Okay,”
Avery said. “Fine. You’re plain.”

Anne grinned. “So are you, Sir Franklin.”

**

Avery jam
med his hands in his pockets a lot, Anne noticed. Like about right now, as he stood in the doorway of her bedroom close to midnight. His expression was troubled, and Anne took a moment to breathe in the man. He looked more kissable than ever. His hair was a tousled mess, and Anne loved that he apparently had no idea.

“
Join me for a beer?” After a pause, he added: “Or wine?”

“Certainly.
I will have wine.”

They settled in the living room. 
“The Pegasus car is still here,” Avery said darkly as he drank from his beer. “Nate’s gone, though. Someone I don’t recognize is behind the wheel. I guess that rules out Nate being a robot who can go without food and sleep.”

The wine tasted like choking dust. How could it not?
Pegasus’s presence and Charles Franklin’s presence sneered at Anne. Ominous, everywhere.

“I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” Avery said. “Nate or whomever is in the car. At least
it isn’t labeled. We don’t need neighbors nosing around.”

“Thank you
.” After a pause, Anne added: “I should not have left my paintings at Pegasus.”

“Why?”

“You said they would have made money. Upon reflection, I need a way to support myself.”

“
We’ll get them tomorrow. Not a problem. You’re good. Really good.”

“Your mother taught me
most of what I know.”

Avery nodded. “I thought she might have. Your styles are similar.” He
chuckled. “Can’t say your subject matters are similar, though.” He sipped from his beer. “Someday you’ll tell me what you know about her. But not now.”