A/N: I seem to have real trouble with endings...hmm. I wasn't sure how to end this one, so I just…ended it! And I'm debating on whether or not I should continue this farther than one "moment" in their lives. Please R&R and give me your thoughts! Also: In Dreams is not dead. This, as well as You Are Not What You Seem have only been published recently because I had about half of each already done. I don't quite have the time I want to devote to Chapter 2 of In Dreams yet, so please bear with me and be patient. I know it was a cliffhanger.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, and I'm certainly not making a profit. Don't sue, please. =]

I can't remember when it was me;
Me that made you smile, that made you laugh,
That was your world, your perfect girl…

- "When It Was Me," Paula Deanda

They had just been informed that they were to have a new stepmother – again. It pained Mary's heart to know that this would be her father's sixth wife. In truth, regardless of how much he had loved Jane Seymour – or even how much she had loved that beautiful, sweet woman – he ought to only have had one: her mother, Catherine of Aragon. That latest Queen, barely even a girl, younger than Mary herself – imagine! – had made a mockery of her title. While Mary had not cared for Katherine Howard, or Kitty as her friends had called her, she still had room in her heart for sympathy. Unlike Mary's first so-called stepmother, Katherine's own cousin, she had simply been too stupid to realize that practically flaunting her adultery would lead her to the block.

Mary believed she had at least heard of the lady now in question. From what she had been told, the woman was a staunch supporter of reforming the new Church of England, which deeply troubled Mary. How could she love a stepmother who was practically a Protestant? Yet she was comforted to hear that she was of age with the new Queen: no longer would she be forced to curtsy to a simpering, idiotic child and write about her as if she was truly "my beloved mother".

As always, however, her sister Elizabeth appeared excited to hear that their father was marrying again. It was also said that Catherine Parr, the lady betrothed to the King, was a true intellectual and hoped to take charge of Elizabeth's education, as well as that of, their younger brother Edward, personally. Elizabeth had always been a precocious child, and would certainly enjoy the challenges the soon-to-be Queen would set for her.

Yes, precocious among any number of other things. If Mary had not known Elizabeth was the child of that witch Anne Boleyn, she doubted she would ever have guessed…at least not by looking at her. Her sister had beautifully thick red hair and though she perhaps resembled Anne a little in her face, she was so like their father at times that even Mary could not doubt Elizabeth's paternity. Even if her mother had been a whore, Elizabeth was a sweet and loving girl, and she deserved to have a father. Mary had known the pain of being ignored by Henry, and knew her little sister must suffer constantly from Henry's changing whims, especially towards her, the daughter of a wife he – and the rest of his family, for that matter, save for little Prince Edward – considered better forgotten.

Something in the back of Mary's mind nagged her as well – this sister of hers could be a rival in years to come. Mary hardly wanted her precious baby brother, the only child of Jane Seymour, Mary's gracious friend and stepmother, to die. Regardless of anyone's wishes, however, Edward was a frail boy. His eldest sister said prayers for him. She found it difficult not to keep in mind that if Edward were to meet such a fate, she would be the next in line for the throne.

And that would pit her against Elizabeth. They were both considered bastards by their father, but Mary was sure she would have the support of the people, who had adored Queen Catherine and had disapproved of the split with the Catholic Church. But how would the people view the daughter of the Great Whore if Mary ever became Queen?

Quite often Mary fretted about her father's soul. What would become of him, after he had disowned her and her mother, married a witch, killed innumerable innocent people, broken with Rome, and destroyed England's monasteries? She said countless prayers for him in Mass, which she attended faithfully several times a day. She also wondered about Elizabeth and Edward's spiritual well-being. Elizabeth, the child of a witch, had been raised on teachings which, in Mary's eyes, bore the taint of Protestantism. Edward, though his mother had been such a good Catholic woman, was being subjected to the same. What of them?

Sometimes, she prayed for herself. Would God punish her for wishing to become Queen, even if it meant her brother must die? How could He, when she was His true servant in England? But God never answered her, and sometimes – only sometimes – she feared that he could not hear her at all.

The first Christmas court over which Henry and his sixth wife and queen presided was a jolly affair. Elizabeth had just turned ten years old in September. She came to Whitehall basking in her new stepmother's attentions. Jane Seymour had rightfully replaced Elizabeth's mother, Mary noted, and had understandably been reluctant to speak on the behalf of her rival's small daughter. Anne of Cleves' time as Queen had been so short-lived, Elizabeth knew her not as a mother but as a sort of aunt. Kitty Howard had been a child herself, though she had undoubtedly been fond of Elizabeth (and vice-versa). Therefore Mary hardly begrudged her sister the motherly affection she found in Catherine Parr.

Mary watched Elizabeth, as ever, with mixed emotions. The girl was always somewhat subdued in the presence of their father. She had learned by now that he could be extremely loving and at the same time have a violent temper. That temper had turned often enough on Elizabeth, Mary reflected, as often as on herself.

She did love her sister – sometimes she fancied Elizabeth could charm anyone out of their wits. Mary told herself it came from the King and not from Anne Boleyn.

"Mary!" Elizabeth squealed, running forward happily. They were meeting in her sister's private chambers. She looked as though she had hastily changed out of her dirty and wrinkled traveling clothes, now clad in pale green silk.

Mary smiled indulgently at her ten-year-old sister, opening her arms to Elizabeth's ginger embrace. She pecked Elizabeth on the cheek and stepped back to examine her. "My, how you've grown, sister! You put me in mind of a weed at times," she murmured, shaking her head with a good-natured little laugh.

Elizabeth bobbed a curtsy quickly. "I shall be as tall as you, soon!" she sang. "I'm sure I'm a head above Edward by now!"

Mary laughed again. Elizabeth could be so petty and yet so brilliant. She didn't pretend to understand. "I have missed you, Elizabeth. Shall we attend Mass this evening together?" She extended the opportunity at every possible occasion to her sister, and Elizabeth always found a way to squirm out of it.

Sure enough, Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably. Her pale, freckled cheeks flamed. "I had rather hoped to see Edward, and our father will want to see me, too…I hope he will," she amended softly.

"Then we shall go together some other time," Mary replied with a strained smile. "How have you fared at Hatfield? Your tutors must be much harder on you now that His Majesty has married Queen Catherine." What subject could interest Elizabeth more than herself? The child had always been a vain little thing, and only her blatant innocence spared her from being scolded for it. When her mother had been alive, no one had dared. Now, all were too thoroughly charmed to do so.

Perhaps, too, Elizabeth's skills as an actress had improved as she aged. But Mary knew the truth.

"Well," Elizabeth said shortly, obviously less eager to remain in the presence of her sister than she'd been at first. Mary would be willing to bet her sister found Edward much better company. As they were of an age, she couldn't blame her much. "I quite enjoy my lessons. Queen Catherine expects much of me. I do not wish to displease her."

Suddenly they were interrupted, to learn that Prince Edward had arrived. The seven-year-old had stubbornly demanded to see his sister Elizabeth, and no one was keen on displeasing him, either. Mary kissed Elizabeth's cheek and watched her rush off. She still felt torn between amusement and a less-pleasant emotion to which she could not put a name.

Oh, she was a pretty child, Mary thought with a sigh. Had she been a pretty child once, too? Childhood had been robbed from her, cruelly snatched up by her father's "Great Matter". For all she loved Elizabeth, Mary envied her as well. Their illegitimacy made marriages more difficult to attain, but Elizabeth was still a desirable young daughter of a powerful monarch. She, however, was already twenty-eight, practically a spinster. All because of Anne Boleyn! Though Anne had at least met her rightful fate, she had left behind a girl to remind any potential suitors that she was too old to be a desirable wife.

And Anne had forced her into servitude for her attractive little daughter; Elizabeth had begun life knowing her elder sister as a servant rather than a sibling; a servant, rather than a princess. Elizabeth had snatched away her father's heart – she knew. He called his younger daughter "sweetheart," the way he'd once addressed her. He cried out in pleasure when she spoke to him in French the same way he'd once done with her.

Though they were both the daughters of women Henry felt were better left forgotten, and yet Mary still felt he cared for Elizabeth more. Was it because he'd loved – or thought he'd loved – her mother more, witch though she had been? Or was it, perhaps, that he thought Elizabeth's mind was more pliable? She knew about her mother's death, yes. But she had not even been three years old – Henry probably believed she did not care about Anne's fate as much as Mary cared about Catherine's. And since she could not begin to fathom the way her father's mind worked, Mary didn't bother wondering what Elizabeth really felt – about her mother or about their father.

For that Christmas season, at least, Mary forced aside her misgivings about her pretty, Protestant-minded sister. She tried to forget that she'd once lived in servitude to Elizabeth; that she'd once been beaten upon refusing to call her the Princess of Wales; that Elizabeth's mother had made her life so unbearable…

Henry was very courteous to Mary on Christmas Eve, when she approached him before the court. He lifted her from her curtsy before she'd even really reached the floor, and his fingers had brushed her cheek tenderly. "Mary," he murmured. For a brief moment, her grey eyes met his blue ones.

"Your Majesty," she answered softly, moving away to let Elizabeth approach. Her sister was certainly a picture in her heavy green silk and with a holly bough woven through her long red curls. She grinned amiably at Mary as she passed by, and Mary smiled in return. This Christmas would be a good one. They'd be a happy family. Mary therefore tried to think kind, Godly thoughts. Elizabeth looks like an angel.

Yet it was still with a heavy heart that she watched Henry call out "sweetheart!" Elizabeth hurried forward. "Your Majesty," she chirped, and curtsied to him deeply. Henry stretched out his hand, which Elizabeth kissed. He raised her up by the chin, pinching her cheek and tickling her. Elizabeth beamed at him, clearly thrilled by the attention. Then she leaned forward to give him a chaste little kiss on the cheek as well. "Joyeux Noël, votre majesté." Then she glanced at Queen Catherine and sunk into another respectful curtsy. Henry's booming laugh echoed through the hall; the court laughed along with him.

Later on in the evening, his eyes softened as he watched Elizabeth and Edward attempting to dance with one another. The two children stumbled and Edward fell into his sister's arms; they both dissolved into fits of giggles. Mary felt she might cry. After all, even if she sat beside him, somber and silent, was she not also his daughter? Had she not been his little girl once, too?

Mary closed her eyes. Jane Seymour had replaced Anne Boleyn. Jane had, in some way, acted as Elizabeth mother's death just as Anne had been Mary's mother's. But Anne's daughter still flounced happily around the Christmas court, hugging her little brother, Jane's son, as though she would never let go. Why could Mary not allow herself that same carefree forgiveness? If Elizabeth held nothing against Edward, shouldn't she be able to look at her younger sister without always being haunted by memories of the Great Whore?

But Jane deserved my father's love; she deserved to be a Queen, if anyone did. Mary reminded herself bitterly. Anne Boleyn pried my father's heart away from my mother. Anne deserved to die. My mother should still be alive.

So the next morning, Mary walked to Mass with tears in her eyes and memories clouding her brain. She knelt and said her prayers – for herself; for the King and the new Queen, for her little brother, for the souls of her mother and Queen Jane…

And, of course, for Elizabeth.

A/N: Elizabeth's POV next!