Page 16 of The Heir (A Young Queen Victoria Mystery #1)

V ictoria was not surprised that the ghosts came to her that night. With the day she’d had, and all its revelations and up-endings, how could they fail to rise?

Kensington Palace was haunted. Victoria had always known this. She had begun to see the ghosts when she was still a child. Even then she’d known they could not possibly be real, but she’d seen them nonetheless.

It began as it always did, with Victoria opening her eyes to darkness.

Was she awake or only dreaming? She never knew.

She stood. She walked. She felt the carpets under the soles of her stockinged feet, felt the palace’s eternal drafts across the backs of her hands.

But no one stirred as she passed their beds, not Mama, not even Lehzen.

Did she open the doors? She must have, because she was at the top of the stone stairs or in the queen’s wing or in the clock yard, walking. She would turn a corner or descend a stair or step into a patch of moonlight, and there she would be, that other queen.

Elizabeth was easy to recognize by her bright red hair and her heavy gown.

Mary Tudor showed herself sometimes, as well—small and gaunt, dressed in black like a widow, with her bony hand held before her eyes, as if she could not bear to see what was to come.

Little Lady Jane was most often found huddling in a corner, as if she could hide from her approaching doom.

None of them had ever lived in this house, but it didn’t matter. They were here because she was here. They haunted Victoria because she was one of them.

There was one pair who walked arm in arm, holding tight, as if they could not bear to let go of each other. This was Mary Stuart and her sister Anne.

There were others whom she did not recognize and who were not to be found in any portrait in the galleries.

One sturdy, pale girl with dark waving hair, who pressed both hands against the wall, as if she meant to shove her way straight through it, her mouth open in a silent scream.

And the other one—painfully thin, with her fair hair cropped so short, Victoria at first thought this shadow must be a boy.

Later, when Victoria saw her bent over, weeping and retching, Victoria realized she was simply horribly ill, perhaps even dying.

Victoria understood them, all these other shadows of women and girls.

She knew what they were doing. They were crying, screaming, trying desperately to void themselves of their unbearable feelings before someone could see.

Before someone could scold or judge or—worse, infinitely worse—make use of that little bit of weakness.

She wondered if one day, one of them might come across some dream shard of Victoria, huddled in a dark corner, tears spilling down her cheeks, terrified that Mother, that Conroy, that anyone at all would see her crying.

Tonight, though, Victoria walked only as far as her dressing room. She stood in front of her white and gilt table and stared into the darkened mirror.

Inside, she saw the dark paneled rooms of the queen’s wing.

Saw a tiny, pale young woman. It was Jane Grey, the girl who had worn the crown for just nine days before she was toppled and beheaded.

Lady Jane stood with her forehead pressed against the wall, bowed over a prayer book she clutched in both hands. Her mouth moved.

Help me.

Victoria reached toward her, but she was too far away.

Save me.

Hot tears spilled down Jane Grey’s cheeks and down Victoria’s cheeks.

Please , begged Lady Jane. They will take me away.

“Come away, ma’am.”

They will lock me up. Please.

“Please.”

And Victoria was herself, was standing in front of her dressing table, was in her nightgown and stockings. Lehzen stood over her, her face drawn tight with worry.

“I—”

Lehzen embraced her, pulling her close, as if she was nothing more than a girl who had had a bad dream. Victoria let herself be held, let herself be returned to her bed and tucked in. When Lehzen told her to close her eyes, she obeyed. But she still heard Lady Jane.

Please. They will take me away.

Please.

It was a very long time before Victoria was able to fall asleep.