Today when Mary gets up, she is a ghost. She tries to call her maids, but she can't, and when she reaches for her door, she finds herself passing right through it.
That's okay though.
She wanders through the halls with a strange sense of calm, and everyone she meets ignores her. She doesn't really mind. It's easier this way – easier to pass through the crowds unscrutinised if no one can see her, easier to escape when no one can touch her. Sometimes she doesn't quite touch the floor, other times she feels herself sinking a little too far into it. But it doesn't matter. She's through the castle doors and out into the garden before she knows it.
The air is still and the night lingers in the breeze. Mary breathes in, and it goes right through her. As she breathes out, something flies free, and she feels lighter than she has in weeks.
Clarissa is a ghost too, so it's notsurprising when Mary meets her one day in her journey about the castle. Clarissa's face is uncovered and her hair sleek and combed. The birth mark on her face has faded and she smiles when she sees Mary.
"Hello," Mary says calmly.
"Hello," Clarissa says. "You killed me."
Mary considers this. "I didn't mean to."
Clarissa nods like it makes perfect sense, and maybe here it does.
"You were my friend," Mary says. "Everything got worse after you left me."
"I'm sorry," Clarissa says. Her eyes are soft. "I didn't want to leave."
They are walking, and maybe have been for a while before Mary remembers to ask: "What are you doing here?"
Clarissa considers her question. Maybe there is no good answer. "The same thing as you, probably."
"And what exactly is that?"
"Going for a walk."
It's a short walk through the castle, but it's taking Mary past some painful scenes. In her old chambers, Francis tosses and turns. In his sleep, he reaches to her side of the bed, but finds it empty. Mary feels a responding ache deep in her chest, yet she is glad for her ectoplasm. She approaches his bed with newfound confidence. It's been a while since she's seen him up close, and he is older than she remembers, yet younger in his sleep.
"He loves you," Clarissa says.
Mary doesn't take her eyes off Francis, but there is a dry humour in her voice when she answers. "Time was, you killed my friend to keep us apart."
"Things change," Clarissa replies.
They do, Mary thinks. She buries this image of Francis deep in her heart. One last look before daybreak. One last moment, untouched by their sorrow.
She turns away from him and meets Clarissa's gaze.
"Things change," Clarissa says. "Not people. Not in any way that matters."
But she feels different, and she feels changed. And something in her has hardened and set like amber, trapping the best parts of her deep within. So despite what Clarissa says, her experiences tell her differently, and Mary's not sure what to believe.
They pass Kenna, Greer, and Lola. Lola has the baby over her shoulder, and the other two are embroidering. They are deep in conversation, lively and animated, and in this dream-like state, Mary can't quite keep up with the words flying around. But their faces are open and beautiful, and she wants nothing more than to sit down with her friends and join in the conversation. Or just to sit in the corner and listen for a while.
"You're not like them, you know," Clarissa says. She is still standing behind Mary, in the shadows. "They're free. You're a queen." Her voice is low and pitying. She twists a corner of her dress in her fingers.
Mary watches Greer pick up a ball of yarn and throw it at Lola. Laughter spins around them.
"When I was younger, I thought I was like them," she admits.
Clarissa's face doesn't change. "You're not like them," she repeats.
Mary turns away. Only the baby watches her go. "I wanted to be," she says.
Clarissa laughs. "We want a lot of things, Your Grace."
It haunts her.
Funny. She's the one that should be doing the haunting.
When they pass Catherine, talking wildly with what looks like King Henry, Mary expects Clarissa to stop, but she doesn't. Instead, she watches her mother walk away, a softness in her eyes. There are no tears.
"We're all haunted," she says.
They pass Conde, and they pass Bash, the two men oddly similar in the grey morning light. Their faces are handsome but lined, their bodies poised for battle. Mary watches as Bash leaps up on his horse, as Conde lunges with his sword. War is a familiar dance for them, these two men. It's funny seeing them side by side, like seeing her past and her future superimposed, if that's what Conde is. She doesn't want anything from him, yet can't help but feel herself gravitating towards him, nearing that inevitable collision course. Neither of them will escape unscathed.
Clarissa is shaking her head. "What?" Mary snaps, though she knows already.
"Nothing," Clarissa says. It's not nothing. "It's just that you keep making the same mistakes."
Here, the past, present, and future meet.
She's seeing Francis walk away from her. She's seeing Francis in bed with Olivia, naked bodies intertwined, breathless and sweaty. She hears him cry out her name, sees the deflation on the Olivia's face. She sees the silence.
She's seeing herself walk away from him, ride away from him, flee the country with Bash, with Conde, with Tomas. She sees them side by side, yet so far apart, sees them turning to other people for comfort. She sees their conversation run dry. She sees him dying, a young man, an old man, head on the chopping block, in battle. She's not with him.
She's seeing him in childhood, hand in hand with her childhood self. She sees them old together, surrounded by children and grandchildren.. She sees him by her side in labour, her own face scrunched up with pain, knuckles turning white as she squeezes his hand.
It dawns on her then. Mary and Francis: they might have a future. She just doesn't know how to get there.
Clarissa and Mary sit together for a while, legs dangling translucently into the lake. The morning is grey and pink, and for the first time this morning, Mary is starting to feel the chill.
"I'm cold," she tells Clarissa, drawing her nightclothes closer to her for warmth.
Clarissa is wearing a simple silk shift, and her feet are bare. A cold wind blows, and as Mary shivers, she notices that the breeze doesn't touch Clarissa's hair or clothes. "I'm sorry," says Clarissa. "It's nearly over."
In the distance, Mary can hear voices, urgent and panicked. Is that a hand on her shoulder, or someone shaking her knee? She closes her eyes, and focuses on drowning the voices out. "Not yet," she says. She opens her eyes, and the voices fade. "I'm not ready yet."
Clarissa shrugs. "We're never ready." They sit in silence.
"You were wrong to kill Aylee," Mary tells her. The years have passed but the bitter taste lingers in her mouth. "I miss her so much sometimes."
Clarissa doesn't apologise, but there is something in her gaze as she stares out into the horizon that tells Mary she might finally understand. She follows Clarissa's gaze. In the distance, a small sailing boat has started to appear on the horizon. The sunlight rising is starting to glimmer on the water.
"I miss you too," she adds. This feels like a goodbye.
The corners of Clarissa's mouth quirk up in a wry smile. "Does that mean you were wrong to kill me?"
They are walking back to Mary's room. There are considerably more people lining the halls now, all rushing in the same direction. Some carry basins of water, others medicines. There are so many people in her room, all staring at her empty bed, but they slip in easily.
She knows that she has to return, but this freedom as the people in the room look through her is so tempting, so intoxicating. "I don't want to go back," she says softly, but she doesn't need Clarissa's reply to know that she must. The weight of her crown is returning heavily.
She sits down on the bed, as Clarissa moves towards the door. At the last moment, she stops and looks back at Mary. She is smiling, and as Mary looks at her, she feels warm.
"We are the same, you and I," Clarissa tells her as she leaves. "All we ever wanted was a family."
Mary lies back down on the bed. "We never get one," she says.
"Really?" She can't see Clarissa anymore – all she sees as she closes her eyes is the ceiling of her room. Clarissa's voice is fading, but her last sentence rings out insistently. "Look around you."
She opens her eyes. Francis is there. His hands on her don't make her skin crawl, and his gaze isn't as searching as she remembers. Behind him, Catherine hovers, the concern raw on her face. She can hear Greer, Kenna, and Lola's voices somewhere in the room, their hushed whispers not as hushed as they think.
Family, she thinks, and a smile washes ashore.
"Hello," she says.
The relief breaks on Francis's face like the sun after a rainstorm. "Hi," he says.