Author's Note: I apologize for this chapter taking a bit longer than the others. Blame should be placed entirely on my inability to stop writing stories in line with this show. I somehow added another one-shot to my collection last night instead of writing this! Thanks for everyone's kind comments and reviews. I'm excited to see the rest of this play out in the remaining eight chapters. Enjoy!

FOUR: Mother and Daughter

With only so many days left before the wedding, guests began to arrive from all over the continent. Their usual custom was to arrive for Christmas, bearing costly gifts to bandy favor with the King and Queen, but their arrival came earlier on this particular year, nearly six weeks prior to the holiday, eager to partake in the wedding festivities and their abundance of wine.

Among them was Marie de Guise, Mary's mother. Expectant to see her for the first time in many years, Mary anxiously awaited her mother's arrival. Will she be the same? she wondered as she sped through the corridors one morning, on her way to meet Francis in the eastern wing. Word had come by a rider that they would see the girl's mother in only a day or two.

In spite of Catherine's attempts to delay the wedding, everything was moving forward as expected. Mary's worry over Francis appeared from time to time, but Francis would reassure her and it would dissipate quickly. They determined not to let Nostradamus' unclear prophecies determine the course of their lives.

Francis stood waiting for Mary when she arrived. He took no time to exchange pleasantries before snagging her hand and pulling her up the stairwell behind him.

"Come with me. I want to show you something."

His excitement put Mary's thoughts of her mother far from her mind. She followed him up the stairs, scrambling to keep up with his quick pace.

"Where are we going?" she asked, laughing.

They came to a halt outside of a room they had decided would be theirs. Francis pulled open the door with his free hand and motioned her inside. Her curiosity piqued, Mary stepped into the room, surprised to see it had been furnished since their last visit.

"Do you like it?" He let her hand go as she wandered through the room, taking the time to see every detail. She gasped as her eyes fell upon a plaid cast across the back of a chair.

"Where did this come from?" Turning to look at him, she fingered the edges of the worn fabric. The stunned expression she wore startled him.

He found his way to her side, catching her elbow in his hand, before he responded.

"Your mother sent it along shortly after the wedding date was set. I had assumed it was her way of reminding you of your own country, but I gather from your shock that it is more than that ... Mary?"

She stood there silent, her gaze fixed on the piece of cloth. "Mary?" he tried again.

Mary breathed deeply, her eyes threatening with unshed tears.

"It belonged to my father." She paused. "I never knew him, you know. This piece of plaid was all I ever really had of him." Another breath, another attempt to steady herself. "I am surprised my mother kept it. She was never the sentimental type."

"She should be here soon, yes?"

Mary nodded, turning her frame back toward his. "Yes, she should be here by tomorrow's nightfall at the latest." She laughed bitterly as she thought on her mother.

Francis decided it was best not to say anything until she shifted the subject. He suspected her mother's visit was the cause for much of her recent distraction and he hoped she might now grant him an insight as to why. And, so, he waited.

"You would think that I would be happy to see her, wouldn't you?" She began to ramble. "But I haven't in so long that I don't even know what to think ... She was always so cold, keeping herself from me. We were never just a mother and her daughter. It wasn't possible - I was her queen before she really had the chance to know me as a daughter."

Sighing, she walked toward one of the windows, lost in memory.

"She brought me here when I was six and just left me. There were no tears shed, no drawn-out goodbyes. She had already buried two sons and her husband, and there was no sentiment left for me. I watched her ride away, just over there," she pointed out the window. "She never even waved."

His heart ached for her. As manipulative as his own mother had proven herself, he at least knew she did what she had done out of love for her son. He couldn't fathom never having seen any proof of that love. Francis closed the distance between them, snaking his arms around her from behind and dropping a gentle kiss on her shoulder.

"She was wrong, Mary. Perhaps she knows that now." He felt her shudder in his arms. "We will make our own home, Mary. Together. Here."

She turned in his grasp and he reached up to wipe a stray tear from her cheek. A timid smile cracked at the corners of her mouth as she replied, "Yes, we will."

He sensed she was eager to entertain a different conversation, so he pushed her back into the wall, a teasing flicker in his eyes.

"And that bed over there," he indicated the furnishing with a nod of his head and smirked. "That bed will have stories to tell."

Feigning innocence, she presented to him her best doe-eyed face, returning his tease in her own right. Grabbing hold of his shirt, adding a slight tug toward her, she began to cheekily inquire, "What kind of stor-"

But he cut her off, his desire for her more than his desire to continue their short-lived game. His one hand moved to support her head, his other directing their bodies close together with a crushing hold on her back.

Lost in one another, they failed to notice the first knock or the opening of the door. A second knock followed, accompanied by the distinct sound of someone clearing her throat.

They froze, slowly turning and opening their eyes to discover their interrupter: Greer. Mary's face flushed in recognition of their compromising position.

A mischievous sparkle in her eyes, Greer chose to act as though she hadn't just walked in on the two of them already taking advantage of their future bedroom. Her humor at the situation couldn't be concealed, however, and her face wore an amused smile even if she did manage to stifle her laughter.

"Mary, there you are! I have been sent to find you. Your mother's carriage has been spotted. We are to go out and greet her upon her arrival. Are you ready?"

Francis squeezed Mary's hand tightly as they both moved toward the door, Greer leading the way.

"It will be all right," he whispered into her ear.

Later, Mary found herself in her rooms preparing for the evening meal. A knock sounded on the door and her page popped his head in, announcing her mother's request for an audience before the meal. Mary agreed, and the page led Marie de Guise into her daughter's rooms.

Their earlier exchange had been brief, though Marie had presented every sentiment of joy at being reunited with her daughter. Though certainly intimidating, the hardened, stalwart woman from whom Mary had received her stubbornness was nowhere to be found.

After Marie had embraced her daughter, Mary heard Catherine remark behind her that this was certainly not the same woman who had dropped her daughter off at the French Court ten years previously. At least Mary hadn't been alone in noticing the change.

Marie settled herself into a chair, chatting about her journey and the wedding. She asked whether Mary had received her father's plaid, one of several wedding gifts.

Mary tried to accept her mother's changed demeanor without question, but she couldn't ward off the nagging feeling that something wasn't quite right. She hoped for the best and continued on with their conversation.

"Yes, mother. Thank you. It was one of my favorite things as a child."

Marie let out a cluck of affirmation but didn't respond otherwise, taking a moment to survey her daughter, the air in the room shifting as she did so.

"Mary, I would like to speak to you of something," she spoke firmly, her voice dropping a bit and breaking their uneasy quiet.

"Of course, Mother," replied Mary hesitantly. "What is it?" The room grew even more still, the fire's crackling in the hearth its only sound.

"Once you and Francis have married," her tone took on a once-familiar coolness, "I would like you to return to Scotland."

Shock registered readily on Mary's face, the request disarming. Her silence encouraged her mother to continue.

"Now that you will have a king, it is time."

Mary's expression hardened in queen-like fashion in spite of her surprise. She should have expected something like this. Even in their regular correspondence over the course of many years, her mother had never changed. Why should I have expected otherwise? she wondered.

"I will think on your advisement, Mother. In the meantime, I do believe it is time for the evening meal. Shall we go down together?"

Mary rose and her mother followed suit. Marie refused her daughter's offer, claiming a need to freshen up before the meal. They walked into the corridor together, and then branched in two directions.

Francis found Mary just outside of the supper hall. Her face was emotionless, unsure of how to convey her mother's request. She did not notice him until he reached for her hand and spoke her name.

"Mary?"

She didn't answer at first.

He watched her swallow down a breath, saw her steel herself. His mind sought to figure out what had happened to make her so sullen, so suddenly closed off from him.

"What is it, Mary?" he tried again.

She finally caught his eyes and her lips spoke the words she dreaded to tell him:

"My mother would like us to return to Scotland, and soon."