I shift on her bed, hugging the pillow tighter. “I wasn’t a queen. And I really don’t want to talk about this any more right now.” I just want it to all go away.
“Griffon knows what happened,” Rayne says quietly. “You said yourself that he admitted being the one on the scaffold that day. If he was the executioner, then he knows all about it. Don’t you deserve to know the truth too?”
I nod, my mind flashing back to the scene at the Tower and the ritual the two of us performed with the payment and the polite words just before he carried out somebody’s order to have me killed.
“Okay, now, don’t freak out on me,” Rayne says. “But maybe you should talk to him. Just once. Get all the facts so that you don’t have to try to guess at things on your own.”
“No way,” I say, my heart contracting at the thought of not seeing him again even as I stand my ground. “You didn’t see the look in his eyes on the scaffold that day. He could have been the one to stop it. He could have not raised the axe, but he did. How can you possibly be a good person when your entire job is to chop the heads off of innocent people?”
“I agree,” Rayne says. “And I think that you should be careful. But maybe he had no other choice. You’re mad at him for something that happened between you five hundred years ago.”
“No,” I correct her, “I’m mad at him for lying to me an hour ago. I’m more convinced than ever that he’s lying for a reason, and
that his soul or his essence or whatever you want to call it is evil.”
“You don’t think that’s a little dramatic?” she says, sitting down at her laptop. She types in some search words and clicks on a link. “There’s a ton of stuff here on the executions at the Tower of London. It says here that they only executed those of high rank inside the Tower walls.”
“That’s what they said on the tour that day. The ones on the hill were mobbed with spectators, but the executions that took place on the Green were always private.”
“Private as in not wanting to humiliate them,” Rayne says, looking over her shoulder at me, “or private because the execution was a secret?”
All this talk about my own execution is making me feel sick. “Let’s just drop it, okay?”
“Come on, Cole,” she says. “Maybe if we do a little research, we can come up with some answers. Might make you feel better if you know some of the details.”
“Knowing details from five hundred years ago isn’t going to make me feel better now.”
Rayne clicks the mouse a few more times. “How do you know? Maybe it will.” Her fingers hover over the keyboard. “You said fifteen-what?”
“Fifteen thirty-eight.”
“Okay. We have 1538. We have England—the Tower of London, specifically. Do you know what your name was?”
I swallow hard before answering. If Rayne does find something, some sort of record of a beheading, it will make it that much more real.
“Cole?” Rayne prods. “A name?”
“Allison. Lady Allison. But I don’t know the last name.”
Rayne types quickly with two fingers. “Hmm,” she says, peering at the screen. “Ooh, there’s a list of all the beheadings at the Tower of London.” She clicks on the site. “There’s a lot of them. Mostly men, though.” She turns to me. “You’re sure you weren’t a guy?”
“Not that time,” I say, watching the screen over her shoulder.
“Really?” Rayne glances at me and then turns back to the screen. “I don’t see an Allison on this list anywhere. Maybe I should do a search of ‘Lady Allison’ in Tudor England and see what comes up.”
“Tudor England?” I repeat.
“Forgive me for owning the entire boxed set of
The Tudors
,” Rayne says.
I suddenly remember his name. “Try ‘Connor,’” I say. “See if there was a Connor executed somewhere around that time.”
“Connor?”
I hesitate. “Lady Allison’s husband.”
“Let me do a search for that name, then.” We both say nothing as the search results come up. “There’s not much here.” She studies the screen. “No. Crap. No. Wait, here’s something.” She clicks through to another site. “Here’s one that has hundreds of Tudor and Elizabethan portraits scanned in. The search results says that there is a Lord Connor Wyatt somewhere in here.” She clicks on a few links. “Here it is. It says it’s from 1536.”
The image of the young man in the flowing black robe is so familiar I gasp out loud. He has green eyes, and I can see blond hair peeking out of the flat black hat he’s wearing. Looking at his
picture, I can almost hear his voice in my ear, and I’m surprised at the sense of loss that slams into my chest. “That’s him.”
Rayne glances at me. “Hang on, I saw that name somewhere else.” She clicks the back button on the screen until she comes to the list we’d been looking at before. “Here it is, on the list of people who were executed on Tower Hill. Lord Wyatt, burned at the stake, 1538.”
I close my eyes, trying to put the image of the man in the painting in a specific memory, but all I can see is the engraving in the tower.
For eternity
.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself as the answers fall into place. “So there are records of him being killed, but nothing on Allison,” I say, scanning the list.
“Let me look for her full name.” She scrolls down the list of portraits, my stomach churning as I look at the people dressed in their finest robes. It’s like playing a game of hot and cold, and although I don’t know why, it feels like we’re getting hotter.
“Here it is.” Rayne clicks on a tiny thumbnail, and the portrait fills the screen. The woman in the painting is young, with dark brown eyes and strawberry-blond hair in a braid over her shoulder. She’s wearing a dark red velvet dress, with the square neckline that you see in pictures of Renaissance Faires, and folds of golden fabric wrap halfway down her arms.
“I’ve seen her before,” I say, recognizing her eyes and dress from somewhere.
“It was painted by an unknown artist in 1536,” she reads. “It says it’s of Lady Allison Wyatt and that it’s now hanging in the National Gallery in London.”
Allison Wyatt
. I roll that name over in my mind. It seems vaguely familiar, but there’s no jolt of recognition like I felt looking at the picture of Connor. And then I know where I’ve seen her before.
“Oh my God,” I say. “This is the same girl that was in Griffon’s room that day.”
“In Griffon’s room?” Rayne looks at me like I’m crazy.
“In a notebook,” I explain quickly. “He’d been drawing her in a notebook.” I shift the computer to my lap and study every detail, from her gold and jeweled belt to her outstretched hand. Looking closer, I can see that the painter has been true to every last detail of Lady Allison, from her small mouth and delicate gold earrings to the scar on her forearm. The scar that she’d gotten as a little girl when boiling candle wax spilled on her arm and her mother wrapped it up with special salve and crisp white dressings.
As I scan the image on the screen, my eyes are drawn to her right hand. A silver chain dangles from her fingers, and cupped in her palm is a barely visible pendant. The artist has painted it in shadow, but I can still make out the cross with the loop on top and the dark red of the ruby set in the center. My heart skips a beat as I recognize it. It was in my hand as I climbed the scaffold steps that day. My ankh.
The next morning I walk toward my house, and all I can think of is going to bed, pulling my shades down and the covers up and letting go of all this craziness. I want my old life back—the one without Akhet, memories of other lifetimes, and not knowing who I can trust. The life without Griffon.
By the time I see him lounging by the planter in front of my house, it’s too late to turn back.
“Cole! Wait!” He stands up, but doesn’t move toward me.
My heart is racing and I know I should run in the other direction, but my feet stay firmly planted on the sidewalk.
“Two minutes,” he pleads. “Just give me two minutes and I’ll go.”
“Two minutes,” I agree. I study his face as I walk toward him, feeling slightly satisfied by the fact that he looks tired and
miserable. I stop a few feet from him and fold my arms across my chest. He’s even more handsome today, the stubble on his chin and shadows around his eyes adding a rugged touch. His bike is nowhere in sight, but his curls look like they’ve been recently crushed by the helmet, and I wonder if he’s been home at all. I force myself to look straight at him, but I don’t say a word.
Griffon attempts a small smile. “Two truths and a lie?”
I stare at him without changing my expression. “I’m through playing games. What do you want?”
“I’ve been trying to find you,” he says, standing up and taking a step toward me.
I watch his lips as he speaks, remembering being free to run my finger along their curves. I force myself to take a step back. “I was out.” I pace my breathing and congratulate myself on sounding disinterested. Aloof, even. I wait a few more seconds, gazing at the house behind him. “Is that what you came all this way for? To find out where I went?”
He closes his eyes and bites his bottom lip, as if trying to find the right words. “No. You left so quickly last night. And then you didn’t go home. I was worried about you.”
I stand up as tall as I can make myself. “Don’t be.”
“Has Veronique been around?” he asks, glancing down the street.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “Despite appearances, I can take care of myself. And besides, it’s you I should be worried about.”
“Is that what you think?” he asks, his voice louder than before. “That I’m going to hurt you? Cole, you have to know that I would never do anything to hurt you.”
“Too late for that,” I say quietly. My anger boils over and I push past him to go into the house. He has nothing new to say, nothing that can defend what he’s done.
“I deserve that,” he says. “But you have to hear my side.” He grabs my left arm, his strong grip sending shooting pains up to my shoulder. Griffon sees my grimace and lets go quickly.
“Don’t touch me!”
“I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry. Really. Give me another minute,” he pleads. He holds his hands up. “I promise. Just one minute. I won’t come near you again.”
I glance down the empty sidewalk, the anger coursing through my veins. “One.”
Griffon looks off into the distance. When he looks back, his eyes are wet and rimmed with red. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth sooner, but you’d never have listened to me if I did.” He pauses, waiting for me to interrupt him, but I say nothing. “I’d been able to control my thoughts and feelings so well that I figured I’d be able to hold off telling you the whole story until later when you might understand, but last night at the beach … it was as if everything I’d hoped for was coming together in one amazing moment. I couldn’t keep my hands off you, and when I touched you, my concentration was broken. Which is why you were able to see … what had been in the past.”
My mind flashes to that gray English day and the panic and disbelief that had followed me onto the scaffold. “The day you swung the axe and killed an innocent person.”
“I had no choice!” he yelled. “Don’t you get it? If I hadn’t, we’d have both been killed, and it would have been worse for you. I wish I could change things.” Griffon shakes his head sadly. “I
found out later that you had refused the King’s advances after he executed your husband.” He looks at me. “Back then, that was enough.”
I feel my legs shaking beneath me, but I focus my energy on staying steady. “That only makes it worse,” I say.
“I know. Believe me, I know. So when I saw you and Kat at the Tower, I knew I had a second chance.”
“A second chance at what?”
“To find out why our paths crossed again,” he says. “To be with you. To watch out for you. And when I met Veronique that night, I knew that she was dangerous to you in this life.”
“As far as I can tell, you’re the only one who’s dangerous to me,” I say as evenly as I can.
Griffon runs his fingers through his hair, making it stick up even worse than before. “That is not true,” he says, a slight tone of panic in his voice. “Yes, I lied to you. But only because I was trying to help you.” He pauses and takes a sharp breath. “And because I was falling in love with you.”
I let the impact of what he’s saying hit me full force, and I crumple slightly. Closing my eyes, I picture him standing over me that day on the platform again so that I can get my nerve back. “I can’t believe anything you say.” I turn to walk past him, praying that the tears will hold off, when he starts to follow me up the stairs.
“Wait,” he pleads. Griffon fumbles in his jacket pocket and brings out a dark green silk pouch. “This is really why I came.” He holds it out to me. “It belongs to you. It’s always belonged to you. I promised myself I’d give it back if I ever got the chance.”
I step back slightly. “What do you mean, it belongs to me?”
“It was given to me over five hundred years ago. As payment.”
My mind is whirling, because I suddenly know what’s inside. “But how did you … how did you keep it all this time?”
Griffon lifts his eyes to meet mine. “There are places to keep things safe and go back for them later. Places that stay the same through the ages.” He pauses again. “It was the one thing I could do for you.” Pressing the pouch into my hand, he holds my gaze for just a second, and then walks purposefully down the street.
I watch him turn the corner, then race up our front steps and into the house, wanting nothing more than the safety and quiet of my room. Griffon is in love with me. Now. When it’s too late.
The green pouch is heavy for its size, and I can feel the outline of the chain through the fabric as I set it gently on my bed. I take a deep breath, wondering for a second if I should open it at all, but feeling a tug of curiosity that forces my hand. There’s a small ribbon holding the ancient fabric closed, so I gently untie the knot and ease the opening wide enough so I can slip the contents out into my hand.
Despite its age, the pendant is bright silver—like someone has taken the time to carefully polish every crevice. There are symbols engraved on the front and a deep red ruby embedded in the center. I touch the curving top of the cross and feel the familiar dizziness take over as the pendant and the room become a blur.