When their story began, she fell in love with him.
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When she thought their story had ended, she still loved him - only she had lost him.
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And she was stupid. She had told him that she would never love anyone the way she loved him, but somehow she'd forgotten that.
She thought she could love Gideon Blackburn, but she didn't really - she loved the way his arms felt around her and she liked his kindness, his gentle reassurances. Even when she knew it wasn't love she still thought, maybe I can learn to love him, maybe she could be happy with him, and she was for a bit, but then he left, as everyone did, back to England.
And then there was Scotland, and with it came Lord Darnley. She was afraid to, afraid that she would lose him as she had lost France, because everyone she loved was in constant danger...but then she thought she loved him away, caught up in the passion and excitement and doesn't it make you feel alive, Mary?
But he was not Francis. Nor was he Gideon. He was obsessed with power and when he realized she would not bow to him, would not submit, he chose to move against her. And she hated herself and hated him too, for the ruin they would make of each other.
Then there was Bothwell. She fell for him hard and fast, and she called it love, lost in his eyes and the flash of an infuriating dimpled grin. He wanted to get rid of Darnley for her, to kill him. She allowed it because she could no longer tolerate her husband, and he eventually did just that in a fiery explosion, and that was the beginning of both of their downfalls.
Looking back, she knew it was not love, but maybe an infatuation. An addiction, even - to the thrill he brought her. And in a way it was Bothwell she had to thank, because it was that first mistake she made with him that started her on the path that would lead her to the beginning of a new story with Francis.
She had thought that their story was over, that he was lost to her permanently, and that her heart had died along with him. She was wrong. The axe came down and when she opened her eyes, she was lying next to him in bed. She had missed him so, and everything had been so much more difficult without him, and it's you, it's always been you.
Francis held out his hand and she took it before she could think about it. And then they were outdoors, next to the lake by which they had first made love, the French castle that had been her home for so long in the distance, and Mary was happy. Truly happy. He was holding both her hands and spinning her round and round and round, she was laughing, and there was nothing between them, nothing to stop them from having this moment. He was just a boy, not the Dauphin or the king of France, and she was just a girl, not the queen of anything.
They were finally just a boy and just a girl.