January 1561

As the last counselor left the room, Catherine de Medici allowed herself a brief moment to give in to her weariness. She raised her hand from where it rested upon the arm of her chair of state and, lifting it, tiredly propped her chin upon it. It had been a long day.

Lately, there had been nothing but long days.

"Mother, may I go now?" asked young Charles, his voice full of hope and impatience. He sat upon the throne beside her, his thin frame not even filling half of it, his feet dangling inches from the floor. He was ready to be a boy again.

He had been king long enough for one day.

"Yes, of course, Charles," she agreed, smiling at him fondly. She signaled to one of the guards. "Please escort His Majesty to his chambers." As they led her son away, she called after him, "Be sure to get to bed soon, Charles. You have an early day tomorrow."

Her tone was pleasant enough, but it was clear that her words were not to be disobeyed.

"Every day is an early day," he grumbled as he passed from the room. He had been king for only a month, but he was learning quite quickly.

Once the young monarch's entourage had swept from the room, Catherine's eyes fell upon the servant girl who had been lingering in the shadows for some time, nervously awaiting her chance to speak. Now that the kingdom's business had been attended to and disaster averted for yet one more day, the queen mother beckoned her forward. As the girl stepped closer toward the center of the room and into the light of the burning sconces and candelabras, Catherine realized with a small jolt that she was one of the Queen of Scotland's household.

It was easy to forget sometimes that Mary still resided within the palace. Francis had been dead for only a month, but since that time Mary had taken to her chambers, rarely allowing visitors and even more rarely making her presence known to the castle's other inhabitants.

Charles had gone to see her, of course, and assured her that she was welcome to stay in France for as long as she wished. Forever, even, if that was her desire. She would be awarded the title of "Queen Dowager"—an honor that not even Catherine had enjoyed after Henry's death—and continue to receive an income as Francis's widow. She could stay on at court, retire to the country, or set up a luxurious compound in Paris, if it pleased her. Catherine had not been there for the interview, but she knew that Mary had not given her young brother-in-law a firm answer, which gave the regent hope.

She wanted Mary gone.

It was not out of any personal malice. No, the time for that had passed. It was simply that she could not look at Mary, or think of Mary, without her heart seizing painfully within her chest.

Francis was gone. Catherine's beautiful, golden, blue-eyed boy was gone, and the empty space next to Mary was nothing more than an excruciating reminder. Francis's absence—the wrongness of it—was never more real to Catherine than when staring at void where he once had been, the void where he had always so wanted to be.

Always next to Mary.

Catherine fought to push those thoughts aside as she stared down from the dais upon the anxious young servant girl. "What is it, my dear? I trust all is well with the Queen of Scots?"

"She's…missing, Your Highness."

"She's what?"

The poor thing dropped her eyes to the floor, quaking with fear. "We saw her to bed last night, but she was gone this morning. We thought that perhaps she had woken early to go for a walk in the gardens—she's done that of late, you see, slipping out before the sun rises—but...she never came back. It's been fully dark now for two hours. We don't know what to do."

Catherine shot the girl a withering glare. "Well, thankfully, I do."

She summoned for the guards.

An hour later there was still no sign of Mary, and Catherine felt herself to be running out of options.

"Is it possible that she's inside the castle?" asked Bash urgently. "Somewhere we haven't looked? Not in her chambers or in the library, but some other place, perhaps?"

Catherine, who had been pacing the throne room like a caged tigress, stopped suddenly short, and her keen eyes darted to Bash. Her husband's eldest son had dealt with the death of his younger brother by continuing on with his duties as deputy under Charles, working endlessly and without complaint. His dedication to his brothers, proven now beyond a doubt, had endeared him somewhat to Catherine, though she was loathe to admit it.

"Yes," she said slowly. "There is."

"Where, for God's sake? And why haven't you gone to look for her there?"

Normally, the queen mother would have responded to the impatience in his tone with icy superiority, but she found that she did not have the heart for it. "I only thought of it just now, and I…I can't go there."

"Why?" Bash demanded, but something in Catherine's face panged him, and though he didn't know, he thought he might guess.

He sighed, and said finally, in a much kinder voice, "Tell me where to look."

"Upstairs in the north wing there is a suite of rooms behind a double door. They were hers, when she was a girl here. Look for her there."

"Many of the rooms in that part of the castle haven't been used in years," Bash pointed out, his brow furrowing. "How will I know that I'm in the right one?"

Catherine averted her face, so that he might not see the shadow that passed over it like a heavy cloud. "Look for the swords."

"Mary? Mary, are you here?"

The glint of moonlight on metal told him that he was in the right place, but there was still no sign of his brother's young widow to be seen. He shivered, for the air in the room was frigid enough to turn his breath into puffs of smoke, and as his eyes scanned the room the culprit was revealed to be an open door along the far wall. All of the windows here were large, practically floor to ceiling, but one pair seemed to be not windows at all, but a set of French doors that led onto a stone balcony. Following his instinct, he crossed the room and pushed the door open wide as he exited into the cold January air.

And sure enough, there was Mary.

At first, her pale face was the only part of her visible in the ghostly light of the moon. As his eyes adjusted, he began to see the rest of her—her tangle of tumbled-down hair, the faint sheen of leather trimming on the vaguely familiar cloak that she wore wrapped around herself like a blanket. She was huddled on the floor of the balcony, her knees up to her chest, and as he stepped toward her, his heart clenched as he suddenly realized just why that cloak looked so familiar.

"Is that keeping you warm enough?" he asked gently.

She was staring up at the stars, and she did not even glance at him as he settled uneasily down beside her. "It still smells a little like him," she said in a voice that was hoarse and rusty from disuse. "That's warm enough for me."

They sat silently for a moment, contemplating the sparkling sky, before Bash—never one to beat around the bush—simply asked, "What happened?"

She said nothing.

"Fine, don't answer. But I have it on very good authority that you've been in somewhat better spirits this week, all things considering, and now I can see that instead of moving forward, you've been set back almost completely. So, will you tell me, or will I have to guess?"

She raised her arms and rubbed her face against the rich black cloth. "My monthly course arrived this morning." Her voice came out muffled against the fabric.

Bash was thankful for the dark, for he immediately felt his cheeks flame with embarrassment for having drawn such an intimate detail from her. "Oh! Well, I, uh…"

"It was two weeks late."

It took a moment for the full import of her words to sink in. "And was this the first time since…?"

She nodded miserably, and burst into tears.

"Oh, Mary, I'm sorry," he murmured, and he was unsure if he should allow her to cry in peace or comfort her. He gazed helplessly up at the sky.

What should I do?

And whether it came from his own mind or someplace else, he would never know, but the response was clear: Don't let her cry alone.

Please.

He placed an awkward arm around Mary, and was somewhat relieved when she seemed to accept the gesture by collapsing against him, sobbing as if her heart would break. "I knew better than to get my hopes up," she managed to choke out through her tears. "I've been under so much stress, and I know what that can do…but this past week, I started to hope…" She continued cry for some moments, and when she spoke again, there was a vicious and brutal bitterness in her words. "Francis believed in a loving God, and so did I. I did not think He could be so cruel, so without mercy. I did not think He would take my heart and my love and leave me with nothing. But He did! He took him, and now—" The words strangled in her throat, and she wept once more.

"Oh, Mary," Bash consoled her, seized with profound pity for the shattered young woman who trembled beneath the weight of his arm. "You aren't left with nothing. I know that it seems that way, but you aren't…"

"But I am," she wailed. "Why him? Why? I don't understand. I don't understand anything! I don't understand why he's gone and I'm still here. I don't understand how he could have gone, or where he could have gone, when I need him so much and he was just here. " She lifted her tear-stained face to the heavens. "Where are you?" she asked in a voice both broken and pitiful. "Where did you go?"

The North Star glimmered faintly against the frozen ink of the winter sky.

"Mary, Mary, don't do this to yourself. No one knows the answer to that question. It is not for us to know. We, who are no more than cogs in a wheel—mere parts in a Grand Scheme. One day you'll know, I promise, but it won't be today. I daresay it won't be for a long time."

Slowly her sobs subsided, and after a time she carelessly wiped her face with the hem of Francis's cloak. She kept her gaze fixed on the crystal gleam of the stars, though her chin continued to quiver with threatening tears. "I'm going back to Scotland," she said finally.

Bash sighed. They all had been waiting for her to make a decision on this front, and in his heart he had always known that this would be her answer. Still, he felt duty-bound to remind her of her options. "You don't have to do that, you know, if you don't want. Charles has told you that you are welcome here at court for as long as you wish to stay."

"I can't stay."

"Well, perhaps not here, but there are some lovely chateaux along the valley—"

"I can't, Bash, and you know why. I can't stay here, not in this castle or any other in this kingdom. It's hard enough to think of the rest of my life without him, but here, in France? I'll miss him too much. I'll miss him too much anyway, but here I'll go mad with it."

He nodded slowly. "That's that, then."

"Yes."

"And how will you manage, now that your country has fallen to Protestantism?"

She straightened her spine and sucked in a deep breath, and he could practically see the Queen within her taking over. "In our hearts, Francis and I always wanted to promote tolerance. I still believe in it. I think Protestants and Catholics can coexist. I just don't know how."

"And what of your half-brother, James? He's a Protestant, and he hated your mother. Will he help, or does he feel the same hostility toward you?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. He's been sending me letters—overtures promising to work with me, to support me if I return with an open mind. I'm not sure if I can trust him." She lowered her head and lightly banged her forehead against her knees in frustration. "I don't…know what…to do," she muttered, her voice keeping time with her movements. "I want to trust him, but how can I? After he betrayed my mother's regency? After he threatened my rule?" With savage mournfulness she burst out, "If only I could talk to Francis! Together, we always seemed to work out an answer." She chuckled, but there was absolutely no warmth to it, only a hollow, mirthless sound. "What a cruel trick of Fate this is: now that I have a problem for which I need his advice more than ever, he isn't here—but if he were here, I would not have the problem, nor need his advice." She drew the folds of the cloak around her like a cocoon, then whispered, "I wish so much that I could just talk to him. About everything."

"I can't pretend to know what he would say," said Bash, his voice pensive, "but I can tell you what Francis would do, if he were in your place right now. If that would help."

Mary eyes flashed to his, sharp and bright. "Tell me."

The words did not come quickly, and he took his time, choosing them carefully. "He would want you to be safe, first and foremost, but he would also want you to follow your gut and try trusting this half-brother of yours. You may feel like James betrayed you—and maybe he did. Maybe he did." He swallowed against the unexpected lump in his throat. "Forgiveness, however, is a wondrous thing. Francis would want you to give it a chance."

"How do you know?" Mary asked softly.

This time, it was Bash who had to blink past the tears his eyes. "Because, once upon a time, he had a wayward brother of his own in need of trusting and forgiveness, and he was good enough to give it."

"Oh, Bash."

All the stoicism of the past month seemed to drain from him as he finally succumbed to the grief that he had not yet dared to let himself feel. There had been too much to do. There had been a kingdom to run. Suddenly, none of that mattered. Suddenly, the hole within had become a monstrous, hungry thing.

"He was my little brother," he ground out between clenched teeth, his shoulders heaving. "He followed me everywhere…I taught him to hunt and play cards…"

"Shhh, I know. I know."

Mary cradled his head in her hands, and it seemed impossible to believe that there had once been a time when he had desired her, when he had thought his bond with his brother was something that could be tossed aside and forgotten. He had been a fool. It was his love for Kenna that had truly made him regret those months he had spent at odds with Francis, but this was different. Now he grieved for them. There was no amount of penance he could do to get them back.

For there was no getting him back.

It was some time later before they were once again sitting calmly side by side, the passion of their sadness spent, leaving behind only the ache that had become their constant companion.

"I suppose I should let Catherine know that you've been found."

"I'll go with you. It is probably time to tell her that I will be leaving."

"I suspect she already knows."

"Yes."

"She won't say so, but I think she'll be relieved." He saw the expression on Mary's face, and before she could speak he cut her off by adding, "Not for the reason you think. She's a mother, and the grief she endures is different. But, you're young. You'll heal, and I think she wants that for you. You'll move on. Eventually."

When Mary made no response, he looked swiftly at her to see if she had been listening. He saw that the moonlight on her face made the heartache etched upon it something stark and beautiful, and that the luminous stars were reflected in her eyes like a thousand tiny fireflies. "No," she said resignedly, "I won't. You don't move on from a love like that, Bash. You can only hope to survive it." Her lips twitched with a smile, faint and melancholy. "That's why she wants me to return to my country. Not because I'll move on, but because I'll survive. It's a talent she and I share." She abruptly climbed to her feet, and as she gazed down at him he thought he understood what she meant.

For at that moment, she looked like much more than just a survivor. She looked like a woman of steel. And as she pulled Francis's cloak about herself more tightly than ever, adjusting it like a suit of armor, Bash was struck by the sudden certainty that the strength which she drew—and which she would always draw—from his brother's love would be Francis's greatest triumph and legacy.

If that proved to be true, Bash knew that Francis would be the first to agree that his brief life had been well-lived, indeed.

"Come," she said, offering him her hand. "I've a journey to arrange, and a reign to resume." She glanced one last time over her shoulder, her gaze northward. Then she brushed past him and stepped noiselessly into the castle that was no longer her home.

June 1566

"Here, Margaret, allow me to take him."

At the sound of the voice, the young wet nurse gave an anxious start. Before her stood Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, and though she was dressed relatively simply in a richly embroidered dressing gown, she still appeared impossibly lovely and regal to Margaret. She had only been in the employment of the royal household for little over a week, when the imminent arrival of the queen's child had sent men from the castle scouring the streets of Edinburgh for a suitable nurse.

Margaret had been deemed suitable, and her life was thus altered forever.

Though Edinburgh Castle was said to be less lovely than its near-neighbor Holyrood, it was far more majestic. Its intimidating façade glared down upon the city below, the hulking towers and rocky cliffs daring anyone to breach its walls. It was here, in the safety of this fortress, the Queen Mary had chosen to give birth, and it was here that the household remained.

Margaret gingerly placed the young prince into his mother's outstretched arms, but when she saw that the queen was carrying him toward the door that led from the sitting room onto the balcony, she could not keep the tremulous question from her lips.

"Are you sure you want to be taking him outside, Your Majesty? You've only been up and walking for a few days."

The queen paused and turned to Margaret, a mysterious smile playing on her lips. "Oh, yes. I'm sure."

Without another word, she slid out into the cool mid-summer air, her son asleep upon her breast.

Mary Stuart sighed.

What was it about a June night that made everything seem so beautiful? Even here in Scotland, where they seemed so fleeting, they stirred something within her. Something sweet and painful.

The moonlight bathed the gardens below the castle in silver, and bleached the copper that was James' Tudor legacy from his short, downy curls. Seeing them brought forth into her memory another set of curls, ones from a different time and place.

Above her, the North Star shone brightly against the indigo sky.

"Well," she said softly, nodding her head toward the sleeping bundle in her arms. "I did it."

You can still talk to me, he had said, just before he died. You can always talk to me.

So she did.

Of course, she didn't really believe that she was talking to him. It had been over five years since she had last known the comfort of his voice, and yet sometimes, when her mind was troubled, she could not help but take his words to heart. Sometimes, when she felt most in need of a guiding hand, she could not help but seek him still.

On this night, she gazed up at the sky and spoke to him of the uncertainty of her reign, the explosive state of Scottish politics. She lamented the world they had wanted to build—the better one—for the new age that was dawning all around her held no place for such dreaming. No one was interested in building a new world anymore; they wanted only to send out ships full of greedy men to claim and reap the benefits of this one. She told him of her concerns for her kingdom, her fears of the increasingly hostile Protestant majority, and her growing distrust of her cousin Elizabeth, whose throne cast a foreboding shadow that stretched across the borderlands and chilled her heart.

And lastly, she told him of the joy and gratitude she felt for the tiny boy nestled in her protective embrace.

"I wish you were here," she said finally, her eyes misting with the tears that continued to spring into her eyes every now and again, even after all this time. "I wish he was yours. And I miss you. I miss you each and every day."

James stirred unexpectedly and gurgled in her arms, and when she looked down she saw that his bleary newborn eyes were open and gazing out over the balcony, his tiny brows knit into a frown. His absurdly small hand jerked erratically within the tight bundle of blankets, almost as if it wanted to reach for something and did not know how.

She found his every movement delightful.

"What is it, darling?" she murmured, squeezing him lovingly, her voice full of a quiet, profound happiness. "Did you see something?"

Indeed he had, for then she saw it, too.

It was a firefly.

She immediately froze, and her breath caught in her throat.

Impossible.

She had not seen one since leaving France nearly half a decade before. The unwelcoming Scottish landscape was simply too inhospitable for them to survive. It was too rugged. It was too cold.

And yet, there it was.

It glowed feebly in the chilly air, and she and James both watched it with rapt eyes as it floated lazily about their heads, bobbing in their vision like a cork upon the tide, until it was ultimately swallowed once again by the darkness from whence it had come.

Impossible.

A gust of warm, southerly wind quickly dried the lone tear that spilled down her cheek. The sudden breeze sent her dressing gown flapping about her ankles, ruffled the silken tufts of James' hair, teased the loose strands of her braid, and bore upon it the scent of salt from the sea. It had apparently made a long journey to reach her here where she stood upon the balcony of Edinburgh castle. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs up with it, and then—

A memory, startling in its vividness. For a moment, she was a child again, a little girl leaning upon the railing of King Henry's ship, the one he had sent to fetch her, with the ocean spray dampening her hair as she squinted into the distance, squealing in delight as a coastline emerged on the horizon.

France, she thought.

And as the breeze swirled across her face, as soft and smooth and familiar as a caress, Francis.

She looked up.

The heavens glittered in all their glory above the sleeping city. Countless sparks of winking lights moving, slowly moving, in their leisurely dance through the night sky.

Fireflies.

All of them, save for one.

The North Star hung utterly still in its orbit, unwavering, constant, and true.

Francis.

Perhaps, sometimes, he heard her after all.

She smiled and cradled her son, who was once again asleep, a little closer to her heart. Then, with one last, longing glance skyward, she stepped noiselessly back into the castle that was now her home.