He was late.
Where is he? she wondered nervously. He promised. He promised.
Little Mary Stuart pulled the hood of her dark, embroidered cape down lower over her face and pressed herself even more closely against the great stone wall of the south gate. There was no moon to speak of on this mid-June night, and the stars shone against the inky black velvet of the sky like a thousand scattered diamonds as she furtively peered back toward the blazing castle lights, her eyes searching anxiously for any sign of movement along the lawn. Although it was past her bedtime—past both of their bedtimes—there was still life stirring within those walls, as members of the court wound down an evening of feasting and drinking. It would not do to be caught now, not after all the trouble she went through to ply her nurse with wine to ensure a deep, untroubled sleep.
What if he didn't come?
Would she dare to brave it alone? She would. She had not come this far to turn back now, with or without him. She hugged Lucette, her favorite doll, close to her chest, and stared back at the castle with eyes hardening in resolution. She knew that she could do this on her own.
She just didn't want to.
It wouldn't be any fun.
Not without him.
And then, suddenly, there he was.
She knew it was him the moment she saw the dark shape bobbing across the lawn toward her. Thin legs flying out in all directions, arms swinging like loose pendulums at his sides—Francis ran the way an injured baby bird might crash to earth. As she watched him from the gloom of the shadows, her heart filled to bursting with a simple, warm affection for him.
He had said he would be there, and he was. Not like her mother, who had promised all last year to visit during the Yuletide celebrations, only to send an apologetic letter a few weeks before she was due to arrive, explaining that she couldn't possibly get away from Edinburgh and for Mary to remember her in her prayers. Not like her uncles, the Cardinal of Lorraine and Duke of Guise, who came and went from court without notice and who only had a smile for her whenever they wanted something, which was always. Not like her grandmother, who rarely left Joinville now that her husband had died, and who appeared in public less and less often, even though Mary frequently addressed letters to her, pleading with her to make the journey to Fontainebleau or Blois to see how her granddaughter was maturing into quite the proper young queen.
No, Francis was nothing like them.
Mary smiled in relief and poked her head out of the shadows. "Francis," she called to him, her voice no more than a whisper on the breeze. "Francis, over here."
His head swung instinctively toward the sound of her voice, and moments later he was slowing to a stop before her, wearing the easy smile that she wanted to believe he reserved only for her.
"I had almost given up," she hissed. "I thought weren't coming."
He looked taken aback. "You thought that I would leave you out here alone?"
"Well, no…" She faltered. "I thought that maybe you had been caught."
"I nearly was. I stopped for provisions." He brought forth from within his cloak two pears. "I thought we might get hungry."
She smothered a grin, falling into step behind him as they made their way onto the south lawn. It was so very like him to think of such things, and so very like her to set out without sparing them a thought.
Pears were her favorite. Had he thought of that, too? She wondered. Or had he simply grabbed the first thing he could reach from one of the kitchen's large fruit bins? She desperately wanted to ask, but could not bring herself to do so.
She kept her eyes trained on him as he marched ahead of her, the receding glow of the palace torches glinting off his golden hair. The darkness did little to dim the bright curls which she had seen shining under a thousand suns, and yet they looked so alien—so silver and so new—here in the glimmering starlight.
It won't always be this way, she mused, hugging Lucette close as they traipsed through the silent grass. Someday, he'll be as familiar to you by moonlight as he is in the light of day.
The thought made her shiver, though not unpleasantly, and she felt her face flush with sudden warmth. He glanced back over his shoulder at her just then, and she was very thankful for the darkness that hid the rising color in her cheeks.
A few minutes later, he came to a halt atop a gently sloping hill with a wide view of the fields beyond. "I think this is a good spot." He spun eagerly around to face her. "What do you think?"
What do you think? She couldn't help but dimple at him. He was always asking that, and she knew that it was genuine. She knew that he cared about her answer. "I think it's a fine spot."
Spreading his cloak upon the grass, Francis then collapsed onto the soft ground in a pile of awkwardly bent long limbs and motioned for her to join him. Gathering up her skirts, she sank down next to him as daintily as possible, though she landed on her backside far more soundly than she would have liked. His mouth quirked up in a smile, and she furrowed her brow at him, scowling.
"And so we wait," he said pleasantly, rubbing the skin of a pear against the richly woven linen of his shirt.
"And so we wait," she agreed, drawing her knees up to her chest as he flopped lazily onto his back and chomped out a bite of fruit.
To pass the time, they spoke of their lessons and the games that they played, of Francis's favorite horse and the new dance Mary and her ladies were being taught in anticipation of the king's annual coronation ball. They complained of their hovering nurses, their endless duties, and Mary beamed with pride when her impersonation of their Latin tutor sent Francis into peals of laughter.
The heady rush of conspiring together, of not being safely tucked into their beds and instead gazing up into the endless dome of the night sky, had washed away all traces of the teasing and bickering of their everyday selves. She found that she liked this Francis, this starlit and silver Francis, who smiled so easily and boyishly, who was not poking fun or throwing apples at her and instead lying on his back under a glittering canopy, one arm bent beneath his head and the other resting by his side, his fingers spread open against the fabric of his cloak so close to her own that she could feel their warmth.
Eventually they fell silent with the strain of waiting, and Mary buried her face against Lucette's hair while willing herself not to cry.
"That's the doll that your mother sent for your last birthday, isn't it?" he asked suddenly.
She nodded mutely, too crestfallen by the dawning realization that they had undertaken this journey for nothing to respond to his question aloud. It did not surprise her that he recognized the small figure clutched so close to her bosom.
After all, he had named her.
"Lucy," he had announced promptly when Mary had given him the honor of christening her.
The small, ornately wrapped wooden casket had arrived from Scotland on the evening of the fifth of December, just three days shy of her birthday. It had only been a week since her mother's most recent letter had arrived, brusquely explaining that her upcoming and long-awaited visit to France was now out of the question and would have to be postponed indefinitely. Although the previous days had given Mary time to grow accustomed to her disappointment, she had spent that entire morning and afternoon wrapped in a melancholy whose origins she could not explain, restlessly roaming the castle and trailing along in Francis's wake even more than usual. He had found her behavior both puzzling and annoying, and when he had finally barred her from sitting spectator at his fencing lesson that afternoon, she had burst into tears.
"What is the matter with you?" he had demanded in frustration, uncomfortable and at a loss, as always, in the presence of her tears.
"I don't know," she had snapped helplessly, unable to find the words to tell him that she was afraid to let him out of her sight, lest he should suddenly disappear.
He had frowned, his eyes probing hers. "Is this because your mother isn't able to come for Christmas, as she promised?"
Mary had hesitated, looking away from those soft blue eyes of his. Francis was wrong; that was not what troubled her. Yet she found that she could give no voice to the nameless, oppressive dread that squeezed her chest like a corset that had been laced too tightly, and so, eventually, she had merely pressed her lips together and nodded silently.
Francis had seemed relieved to have finally pinpointed the issue. "Don't worry," he assured her, his gaze warm and sympathetic, even though she could tell that he was impatient to be off to his lesson. "We'll have such fun that you won't even notice that your mother isn't here. We'll sneak down to the kitchens and watch them make the frittered pears that you love so much, and perhaps Maurice will even show us how he fashions all those terrific little figures out of marzipan. If it snows, there'll be sledding parties and games, and we'll convince Father to arrange a snowball fight like he did two years ago—I ended up with a bloody nose, but it was so exhilarating, Mary, you'll see—and there will be all sorts of food and dancing—"
"You hate to dance," she had pointedly interrupted, though his eagerly glowing face had her smiling once more.
"No, I don't. Not anymore. I don't mind it. Not with you."
She had looked down, feeling the tops of her ears go hot with embarrassment and pleasure. He, too, seemed to remember himself suddenly, and they had both fallen silent for several moments and avoided each other's eyes.
"We'll have such great times, Mary," he had said finally in his quiet, steady voice. "You'll see. I won't let you be sad. I promise."
And she had nodded, knowing that he meant it.
Still, the inexplicable worry had remained, which he must have sensed, for when the messenger from Scotland arrived that evening, Francis had appeared at her chamber door, tiny Henry in his arms, and joined the small party waiting to watch as she opened her gift.
She had smiled upon seeing him, grateful for his calming presence, and motioned for him to come stand by her side. He had complied, quickly depositing Henry into the arms of Aylee, who sank down upon a cushion with the young prince and immediately began cooing at him in delight. Francis had joined them just in time to watch as the messenger pried the wooden lid off the small, satin-lined casket, and everyone soon gasped in delight upon seeing what was inside.
It was a doll—but not just any doll. It was the daintiest, most beautiful doll imaginable. It lay nestled within the folds of its lavender, watered-silk gown, and as Mary had lifted it free of its casing so that everyone might have a better look, her own eyes had filled with tears.
For the doll was her.
Months before, she had sat for a portrait by the master Francois Clouet, which she subsequently had framed and sent to Scotland along with a tender letter to her mother, whom she missed dreadfully. Her mother had written back, praising the fine features of the painting, but it was only now that Mary understood just what it had meant to the indomitable Marie de Guise to see her daughter's face once more. It was evident in the perfectly rendered eyes and lips of the figure she then held in her hands, in the dark waves of glossy chestnut hair gathered back with a jeweled clip.
I have not forgotten you, this gift said. Time and distance are no match for a mother's memory. Do not fear, my child. You will never fade for me.
Even Francis, never one to be keen on dolls and poppets, had recognized its fine craftsmanship. "That's quite lovely, isn't it?" he whispered, bending close to her so that no one else could hear.
She nodded, feeling overwhelmed. At that moment, her mother had no longer seemed like an intimidating stranger, issuing orders from a cold fortress hundreds of miles away, and Francis was there, so close that she could reach out and touch him if she wanted to. All her needless worrying earlier may have troubled and baffled him, but it had not stopped him from coming to her side when he knew that was what she needed.
Is this what it feels like to have a family? she had wondered. Is this what it feels like to be loved?
She had turned to him in a burst of impulse. "Name her."
"What?"
"I want you to name her," she had said, in a voice that brooked no refusal. Surely he could see that the doll had her hair and lips, that its sparkling glass eyes were the exact shade of dark amber as her own, couldn't he? Her gaze had fixed on him expectantly, hopefully. Would he simply call her Marie? Jolie Marie? La Belle Reine?
No.
"Lucy," he had said quickly, smiling at her and sending Kenna into a fit of giggles as Lola blurted out, "I had a chambermaid back home named Lucy." Francis had then taken an awkward step back and turned away while Mary had glared at them, though secretly she, too, had been disappointed in his choice. He had not noticed that the doll was meant to resemble her, after all—perhaps because he did not notice her, not unless she was skipping along behind him and driving him mad with her ceaseless prattle.
It was not as if there was something wrong with the name Lucy, exactly. It just sounded so common. There was nothing regal in it, nothing inspiring or lovely. After allowing him to christen the doll so publicly, she had been reluctant to change the name completely lest he find out and it should wound his pride somehow (though she admitted that the likelihood that he would care at all was slim, indeed). Instead, she amended Lucy to Lucette, which she felt sounded a trifle more dignified, and the matter was never mentioned again.
All of that was far from her mind at the present moment, however, as she struggled against the disappointing realization that there would be no dazzling display of lights for them against the enveloping darkness of this mid-summer night.
The fireflies were not coming.
The longer they sat and waited, the more obvious it became, and still she did not stir to leave, nor did he seek to pressure her. He seemed content to lay stretched out by her side gazing up at the infinite stars and basking in their silence.
"You like the quiet, don't you?" she asked, her voice sounding abrupt and harsh against the softness of the summer air.
His eyes slid over to hers. "I like the peace of it," he conceded, "and the stillness. Don't you?"
She sighed and looked back out over the darkened fields. "I'm not sure that I would know what peace and stillness were if they hit me over the head."
To her surprise, she felt him reach for her hand. "Lie back," he told her.
"Francis—"
"Lie back," he repeated, and this time she set Lucette aside and did as she was told.
He did not release her hand as, with the other, he pointed to the sky. "Do you see those four stars…there….and there…that form an uneven square?"
She squinted. "Um, yes…Yes, I think so."
"Now look at the four corners…see the stars extending out from each, and how they align with others close by, like the limbs on a tree?"
She widened her eyes, wanting to see as he saw. "I think…yes, yes I do!"
"That's Hercules, and if you follow the lines…you can see that he is kneeling…and…there…see? He's raising his club against the Lernaean Hydra."
She blinked as Francis's voice spun its magic and the image of the Greek hero came to life before her very eyes. "Was that the second or third of his twelve labors?" she inquired, her voice nothing more than a hushed murmur.
"His second. His third was to capture the golden stag of Diana."
She giggled. "How do you remember such things?"
He smiled, wistful. "It seemed like such a grand adventure."
"We'll have our own someday, Francis. We will." It was a promise.
Several moments passed before he spoke again, his tone hesitant. "When I look up at the stars...I think…I think I understand why you so love to see the fireflies."
She turned toward him, marveling at the blue glitter of his eyes as they fixated on the sky above. "Why is that?" she asked softly.
"It's good to know that, even in the darkness…one can be surrounded by light, isn't it?" He faced her then, so close that his breath, smelling sweetly of pear, fanned her cheeks. "It's...comforting. It feels like…hope."
She nodded and felt the sting of tears once more, but this time they weren't tears of despair and disappointment because the fireflies had not come. They were something else. "It feels like hope," she agreed.
There was no way of knowing how long they lay there, looking at each other, the sky, then back to one another again with shy smiles, making no sound other than breathing. He did not let go of her hand, and after a while he squeezed it and whispered, "Mary?"
His blond curls shone against the dark fabric of the cloak upon which they rested, and she longed suddenly to reach out and touch them. "Hmm?"
"This is stillness."
This is peace.
This here—now—with you.
But it could not last.
Soon she knew that it was time to turn back toward the castle, and he made no protests or arguments as she stood and dusted off her soft muslin skirt. He gathered up his cloak and offered her the last pear, and as they retraced their steps, he even slowed his pace to match hers as her feet began to suffer the pinch of her inadequate slippers, through which the sharp bite of every stray rock and pebble along their path could be felt. It wasn't until they had once again reached the south gate that she gasped in horror at the sudden realization that she had left Lucette behind.
"I have to go back," she cried, whipping around in a swirl of skirts, prepared to flee backwards. It was only the pull of Francis's hand on her arm that jerked her to a stop.
"Are you mad?" he hissed, all business now that they were again within sight of the castle. "It will be a miracle if they haven't noticed our absence already. The guards could be sent out after us any minute. Leave it. We'll go back tomorrow."
She glared at him. Where was the Francis of only moments ago, who had seemed so understanding? "Leave her?" she echoed shrilly. "I can't leave her. What if it rains? What if she's carried off by some wild animal?"
"Mary, it's just a doll."
"She isn't just a doll!" she spat, something within her snapping as frustrated tears welled up within her eyes. "My mother sent her to me! She had her especially made for me! I let you name her and you don't even care. You don't know what it's like to not have a mother! I won't leave her behind like I was left behind…Go on inside! Leave me. Go! I'll go back on my own. I don't need you!"
She could see the wounds her words inflicted, and the internal debate that raged across his face before it finally softened. He closed his eyes and sighed in that way he did whenever he felt helpless to her stubbornness. "Don't move," he commanded before finally releasing her. She obeyed and stood in front of him, sniffling, while he wrapped his cloak around her shoulders and led her over to the stone wall of the south gate so that she might lean against it. "Stay here," he instructed sternly. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
"I said I would go," she insisted mulishly.
"In those shoes?" he shot back. "You won't walk for a week."
"I don't care!"
"I care!"
It was this last that sent them into dead silence, both of them shocked by the sudden intensity of their argument, and by his final words which had ended it.
He cared.
With her back against the gate, she huddled inside his cloak and watched him disappear once more into the night.
An eternity seemed to pass.
What if he caught cold?
What if someone had stumbled across him, the thin little dauphin all alone without a guard or weapon, and done him harm?
She would never forgive herself.
He was right. Lucette was just a doll.
Even so, he had better not drop her.
Finally, finally, she once again caught the glimpse of the castle lights on his fair hair as he approached, her doll tucked awkwardly under one arm, his hands held cupped before him. No longer caring to play aloof, she flung off his cloak and ran to him, anxiously calling, "What is it? What have you got in your hands?"
He said nothing, only smiled and beckoned her closer with a toss of his head.
She came to a stop by his right shoulder, her eyes raking his face for any sign that something was amiss. As she studied its familiar lines, it was suddenly lit from beneath by an unearthly glimmer, and it was only then that she looked down to see what he held in his hands.
Two fireflies glowed against the walls of his palms, and she gasped as he released them, watching as they drifted lazily into the air, bathing them both in flashes of gold.
"Francis," she whispered, delighted. "Where on earth did you find them?"
He grinned, happy that she was happy. "Hovering around Lucy, believe it or not. Perhaps they were looking for you and found her instead." He paused, then added quietly, "She looks like you."
Her heart gave an odd sort of splutter. "I wasn't sure if you had noticed that."
Francis laughed, and under the starlight, with the glow of the fireflies above and the castle beyond, everything about him gleamed silver, blue, and gold.
He had told her once, long ago, that she was beautiful. What she had not said, and what she still did not dare to say, was that he was, too.
"What, that she looked like you?" he asked, his eyebrows lifted teasingly. "Of course I noticed. Why do you think I named her Lucy?"
"I don't know," she admitted, sheepish. "Why did you?"
"It means light."
She felt a lump in her throat, and together they watched as the two fireflies wove drunkenly in and out of the night air, watched with straining eyes until they finally faded from sight. Then he took her hand once more and they sank down onto the damp grass just beyond the palace gate, no longer in a hurry to return to the safety of their rooms, no longer saying a word as they stared up at the countless sparkling stars, enjoying the peace and stillness.