The screaming registers first as I wander about my room, packing some clothing into my overnight bag. The fact that the scream belongs to Mary registers a fast second.
My hands quickly drop the shirt I've just retrieved from my closet and I'm through the door, my feet pounding down the staircase faster than I think I ever remember moving. I reach her door and push my way in, past the officers hovering about.
And that's when I see her.
They've managed to help her upright and away from her bed. A sea of enlarged photographs floats on top of her bedcovers, absent only in the portion where I assume she slept.
I step over to the armchair where she sits, shaking. Non-responsive. Gibbering a little. As confounded as I am by what I've found, I must admit to the terror of it all as well. Coming alongside her, I crouch down and reach for her hand, hoping to have her look up and meet my eyes.
But I see the green ribbon first, tied neatly around her right wrist. Looking up, I see that's where her eyes are fixated.
The officer to my left mentions that she hasn't responded since they rushed into the room – that she has simply stared at the ribbon, quaking.
"Is there anything I can try to get her to respond?" I ask, wracking my own mind for ideas.
"Sometimes, removing the point of fixation helps – in this case, the ribbon. Water, maybe? Anything, really, to shock the system back to normal." He remains calm, which baffles me.
"Do you think we could arrange for the ribbon to be photographed before I remove it, in case we need it for evidence?" My question seems silly, but the ribbon obviously means something. Perhaps it will prove useful in determining the source of these threats.
"Sure," the man replies. "Just a moment."
I wait while he obtains a camera and hold tightly to Mary's left hand in the meantime, fingering her engagement ring as a means to distract myself. The longer she continues to rock back and forth, the more panic rises within me – the need to remedy the situation becoming more and more urgent. Though a grown woman sits before me, I can't close my eyes without seeing her at six, sitting next to me but not moving for hours. No words. Just fear.
By the time he returns, I have a plan in mind. He takes his time photographing Mary's hands, then has me stand her up so he can take a full photograph of her in the case that they've missed something.
"We need to get her out of here," I speak forcefully as I look around at the room. "Can I take her upstairs?"
"Sure," he nods. Certainly not the chattiest or most empathetic of fellows.
I wrestle with her limp frame, trying to position myself so I can support her weight and get her up the stairs and away from what has become a crime scene. For a moment, her focus breaks as I shift her arm so it falls across my shoulders. I hear her voice breathe out weakly, "Francis?"
She shudders and resumes her trembling. Her eyes must have caught a glimpse of the ribbon again. I move us slowly into the hallway, fighting the sobs threatening to make their way out of my own chest at seeing her in her current state.
"Come on, Mary," I plead, pulling her up stair by stair. Her shaking makes me fear I'll somehow lose my hold on her, so I stop halfway to make sure she's still secure in my grip. A few moments later, we step onto the landing and make our way toward my door.
My adrenaline begins to wane as I guide her into the bathroom that adjoins my room, fatigue taking its place. I reach around the curtain and into the shower, turning the handle to where I know it will be warm enough.
I prop her up against the wall and work to remove the ribbon from her wrist, the knot proving a slight challenge but giving way with a little persistence. I place it on the counter and watch her gaze drift with it.
Something has to change here.
When we were six, it took me months to draw her out of this state. Fear spreads through me when I think of having her gone from me for that long again. I refuse to let that happen.
My hand pulls the curtain aside and drags us both inside under the spray. It matters little to me that we're both fully clothed. I just want this madness to stop.
She sputters as the water hits her face, her mouth taking in the stream as she gasps for air and her eyes widening at the startling suddenness of being wet.
"Mary!" I take her face in my hands, my voice imploring. "Mary? Look at me!" Her brown eyes finally glance up, blinking wildly. There is no grace to how hastily I take her into my arms, hers tentatively reaching up to wrap around my neck as she buries her face in my shoulder and whimpers. She weeps and I weep with her, not fully understanding but still fully grateful she has come back to me.
"That's right, Kenna … Yes, hold everything and reschedule my meetin– We should be back in the office Friday morning … It was very generous of Henry and Catherine, wasn't it?"
I hear the strain in Mary's voice, her attempts to be joyful – in the lie that my parents have gifted us with a few days away to celebrate our engagement – proving a little thin. My own phone call to Natalia done with, I watch the landscape as it rolls by outside the window, constantly changing. Our driver has yet to tell us where we are going.
"Of course, Ken– Please take the day tomorrow … Uh-huh. Yes. Thank you, Kenna. Goodbye."
She finishes and sets her phone down in her lap, sighing loudly. This unexpected 'trip' will cause several delays with the public filing, but we don't have any control over the matter. My father will undoubtedly be furious.
Unbuckling her seatbelt, she slides down the seat and reaches for the middle belt. She tucks herself beneath my lifted arm and settles her head against my chest. I desperately hope she sleeps, given the events of the last several hours. Shaky breaths rattle in and out of the cage of her lungs for a while. I continue to watch as New York fades into Connecticut. Eventually, I feel her body relax against mine, her breathing even.
Somewhere in the middle of Massachusetts, I start trying to digest all that has happened since this time last week. Well, not even a week. I shift in my seat, trying not to jostle Mary as she sleeps against me. Three days ago, I took her on our first real date – made so by my actions and not necessarily by intent. As we walked through the park, I realized how much I wanted to be with her and how irresponsible that was considering I couldn't guarantee what she needed.
And, in the midst of my own mental conflict, I did the only thing I could think of: I kissed her.
I don't think anything prepared me for what that would lead to over the last few days. The weeks of touches, of pressing small kisses onto her cheek, of smelling her scent as she stood next to me whenever we were in public – it caused an acceleration in physicality I don't think either of us intended. I may have jested about the staff believing we have been behaving ourselves in my parents' absence, but all bets are off now that I've tasted the sweet flesh at her neck, heard her gasp under the moonlight and seen her skin glow come morning.
This whole situation began as a ruse, an attempt by my father to wield power. In spite of my initial reluctance, however, the irony is that we now wield our own power by choosing to be together. She understands me better than any woman I've ever known; she laughs at my feeble attempts at humor; and she's still the beautiful, kind-hearted girl I got into trouble with on a regular basis as a child.
It's a good thing my parents don't know what almost happened in their guest house Sunday night after the party, but I can't help smiling at the memory. Mary, lightweight that she is, drank a glass or two more than she should have in her attempts to endure the endless social gathering that is any event planned by my mother. Personally, I would like to say I was perfectly sober, but that would be a lie. After dessert, as the night wore on and I spoke with colleagues and board members and family friends, I was never without a drink in my hand. Convenient for taking my mind off of how it felt to have Mary up against that arbor in the gardens, but not so much for exercising business acumen or wise decision-making skills.
And, so, as the last of the guests departed and we were freed for the sake of sleep, we both stumbled into the guest house with our last drinks swiftly making their way into our bloodstreams. I had never seen her drunk, as she has always made a habit of being extremely cautious. Inhibition quickly found its place on the floor along with most of our clothing.
Intoxicated as I was, I still knew one thing as we walked toward the bed: This was not how I wanted this to happen. Not the first time. I didn't want her to regret anything other than her impending hangover. So I stopped it, which might be one of the most difficult things I've ever had to do.
The truth remains that Mary Stuart is beautiful in every way, with 'beautiful' barely capturing what I saw that night. Those first few days after she arrived, I was so foolish to think I could ever resist her charm and kindness.
I lean down and touch my lips to her temple. She adjusts, nestling herself closer to me in her sleep.
What did I do to deserve this?
We pass into Vermont and my mind turns to yet another unsettling conversation I've had with my father, this one taking place last night after we were briefed and I regrettably put Mary into her own bed.
His simple question sticks with me because of what it reveals about his loyalties – With this latest threat, is it worthwhile to retain ties with Mary?
What he doesn't know is that I would go to great lengths to retain such ties, especially now. My answer will always be a resounding 'yes' when it comes to her.
Mid-afternoon, we pull into the wooded drive of a modest cabin near a ski town. John and Pete, our drivers and source of protection while out of the city, inform us that Mary and I will be staying inside while they keep watch around the clock – just in case. They open the door to the small building and sweep through it to make sure everything is as it should be before inviting us to enter, set down our things and rest. From my vantage point, I spy a single bedroom and bathroom, an open kitchen and dining space, and a living area with a fireplace I doubt we will make use of. All simply furnished, but clean. It will definitely do for a few days.
As he and Pete duck back outside, John mentions his plan to head into town and get some dinner for the four of us. For the first time in hours, Mary and I are finally alone.
"How are you doing?" I ask cautiously, moving to sit beside her on the couch where she has allowed her tired frame to sink.
"How much danger am I in?" she inquires worriedly, her voice soft though there's no longer anyone around to overhear. Her eyes undauntedly meet mine.
Every ounce of air seems squeezed from my lungs as I hear her question, simply because I have no answers for her. "I don't know," I reply. "But we're going to find out. They'll let us know more when they can. Until then," I smile, attempting to reassure her. "We'll simply need to find something to keep us occupied."
She nods and I see her fighting the urge to retreat fully into herself in our new surroundings. I hesitate to bring up the topic, but we haven't spoken about what she found when she awoke this morning. Something in me needs to know what prompted her to shut down altogether.
"Mary?" I stretch for her right hand and begin tracing the path of the now-absent ribbon with my thumb. "Can we talk about what happened this morning?" She hesitates, but nods mutely.
I breathe deeply and give voice to what I've wondered about all day. "What was the green ribbon?" My hand hasn't moved, my fingers still padding their way around her wrist.
Fear flits past her eyes but it doesn't linger there, something for which I realize I'm incredibly grateful. She steels herself to speak. I refuse to rush her, instead giving her every second she needs. In time, her mouth opens and she utters, "My father had the same."
"Your father?" I confirm, perplexed for the moment as I scour my memory to recall what I know of her father.
"When I found him ... " The words barely audible to start, they trail when she can't continue. She looks away and I note the twinge of emotion as it crumples her face, if only for a moment. I know she wants to be brave in this, but I want to tell her she doesn't have to be, that it's probably healthier if she would just let herself feel. She falls into me, burying her head under my chin as my arms wrap around her. We remain just like this for quite a while, our understanding of time lost.
"Mary," I say softly, voice cracking a little from my own emotion at seeing her like this. "I'm so sorry."
"They must have drugged me," she musters. "There's no way I could have slept through that." Defeat rings in her words.
"Maybe they'll have some information for us when they get back," I offer. "Maybe – "
A knock at the door interrupts my train of thought. I cross the room and open it to find John holding a paper bag with what I assume to be food inside. That was fast. "I saw you two talking through the window," he says. "I didn't want to interrupt, but I also didn't want the food to get cold. Here," he hands me the bag. "It's Thai – a little bit of everything. Let us know when you're ready for an update on the investigation."
I accept the bag, surprised at its heft, and step aside to motion him in through the door. "I think it best if we know sooner rather than later, if you're all right with that."
"Of course," he responds, entering the room, Pete close behind. "It makes sense that you would want to know."
The two men drop into chairs at the table as Mary walks over from the couch. I expand the bag and peer inside, removing its contents and setting them on the table. Behind me, I hear Mary opening and shutting kitchen cabinets, presumably looking for some plates and flatware. The bag now empty, I fold it and set it on the counter. She walks over; four plates, forks and knives in her hands.
"I assume you haven't eaten?" she kindly asks our security detail. "There's plenty for all of us, from the look of it." Smiling shyly, she distributes the plates and cutlery and sits down while I open containers. Soon enough, each of us has a full plate. As we eat, John and Pete take turns relaying what little has been uncovered since we left the city this morning.
"Well," John begins. "As you know, someone managed to slip past our guard last night and into your room, Ms. Stuart. We regret that terribly. After we left this morning, our colleagues questioned the household staff and everyone who had access to the house overnight. One could not be located. Your maid, Sarah, has disappeared. A look at her accounts suggests someone paid her a substantial sum to scare you." He looks at Mary empathetically. "When we traced the money, we discovered that it led back to a shell company set up by Tudor Enterprises."
I hear Mary's sharp intake of breath as she gasps in the chair next to me. Instinctively, I drop my fork and reach for her hand, clasping it on top of the table. She twists her head slightly so she can look at me and mutters, "Sarah gave me some tea. That must have been it." Remembering her sudden onset of sleepiness last night, I have to agree. Sarah must have drugged Mary so she wouldn't be interrupted as she carried out her task.
It seems so absurd to be sitting here, listening to federal agents relay our involvement in a corporate feud nearly two decades old. I run my hand over my face, incredulous. If I weren't here myself, I wouldn't believe it. And, yet, here we are.
Pete takes over, giving John a chance to eat. "The connection to Tudor didn't really surprise anyone after what we found on your wrist this morning, Ms. Stuart. Public knowledge of what police discovered at your home and in your father's office is extremely limited, much of it never coming to light during either trial as it was not needed."
Mary's attention holds to Pete's every word, her dinner long forgotten.
"Now, we are not at all certain how unreleased photographs from the scene of your father's murder wound up in your bedroom." My head bolts upright. I remember seeing the images on Mary's bed, but my focus had been her. Combing my memory of the morning, I realize I never saw what was pictured. Police photographs of her father's murder? Any last trace of curiosity as to why she sat there, staring at her wrist and completely detached from the flurry of activity which surrounded her, vanishes when I consider what it must have been like for her to wake as she did.
It must have been like finding her father at age six – all over again.
"But we do have some leads that we are currently following," Pete continues. "For starters, I assume you both know a man named Tomás Aviz? We're told he is part-owner of a startup that specializes in high-tech safes." We both nod, silently acknowledging Tomás' job offer between us. "Mr. Aviz has apparently been negotiating with Tudor for months – hoping that they would back the startup. While on the East Coast, he rents office space in Tudor's headquarters. His assistant, Miguel, appears to have returned ahead of his boss to San Francisco. Without disclosing too much, we have sufficient reason to believe that Mr. Aviz is behind this latest threat. If Miguel can be located and convinced to testify, we should be able to secure a warrant to search Mr. Aviz's New York office."
I watch the proverbial wheels turn in Mary's head as she absorbs this information.
"Is there cause to believe the condition for Tudor backing Aviz was keeping me away from Valois?" she asks.
Having finished his last bite of pad Thai, John responds. "Yes, there is. Over the last two decades, Tudor has repeatedly tried to buy out your father's company – never succeeding. It's quite possible they're responsible for the ongoing labor dispute, but we haven't been able to fully link them to it. Someone reported last week that Tomás' assistant Miguel was drunkenly spouting off in a Brooklyn bar about how Tudor was finally going to acquire Stuart Technologies."
She leans heavily back into her chair, the day having taken its toll. Not much food has made its way from her plate to her mouth, but I decide not to mention it. If she doesn't feel hungry, I'm not going to push her to eat. Not tonight.
John and Pete stand up and walk toward the door, once more letting us know that they will be outside if we need anything and that they will keep us notified should anything change.
I shut and lock the door as they exit, knowing they have a key if they need to come in later. A small thing, surely – and perhaps entirely ineffectual – but I'm willing to try anything to help Mary feel safe tonight.
Still slumped in her chair, she hasn't moved. I return to the table, sit down on the edge of my chair and reach for her hand. When she looks up, I inhale from relief. It isn't terribly late, the sun having only just set, but I assume my own fatigue mirrors what I see in the lines of her face.
"Let's go to bed," I urge, standing and pulling her up alongside me. "I won't leave you alone tonight."
For an unfamiliar bed, this one lends itself well to sleep. I feel surprisingly rested as I stretch out my arm and find the space next to me empty. I don't know the last time I spent two nights sharing a bed with anyone – much less someone I hadn't actually spent the night with. As much as the one bed necessitates sharing, I can't say I would push for anything else if it didn't. I don't know how she feels about it, but I know I'm not ready for her to be alone yet.
If that means I get to hold her in my arms while she sleeps, then so be it.
Sitting up, I realize that I can hear the shower running in the next room. Standing with her under the water yesterday, my only thought was of dispelling the shock from her system. Today, not so much. I rest my head against the headboard and close my eyes, trying to think of anything else, but it only makes matters worse. Instead, I vividly remember the outline of her frame from the other night, barely concealed by the slip she wore under her dress – and the smooth skin that rested beneath that slip. I force myself to open my eyes, determined not to need a shower of a colder variety when she's finished.
Thankfully, the water turns off, helping me finally to switch my thoughts elsewhere. It's Wednesday, right? I've lost track – too many events and too little structure have resulted in days that bleed together. No one expects us back in the city until Friday at the earliest, but I have no idea what we'll do for the next two days. Work, I suppose. Or maybe she'll read. I saw her pack that absurdly thick novel into her bag before we left the house. I glance over at the clock, its electric numbers telling me that we have risen early – 6:52.
Seriously, what are we going to do all day?
"You're certainly deep in thought for someone who just woke up," her voice sounds next to me and I startle a little at it. I'm beginning to realize that she has the ability to sneak up on me in more ways than one – I never seem to hear her steps. I turn my head and get a good look at her. Hair damp and thrown back over her shoulders. Shorts and some sort of loose shirt. I'm sure there's a more technical term for it. All I know is that I like how it falls.
"I was thinking about you," I admit, honest but not fully so. She blushes as my eyes wander over her, appearing a bit more at ease this morning. I lean forward to grasp for her hand, encouraging her to join me and snagging her waist as she descends.
"Francis!" She playfully bats at my hands, but doesn't attempt to get away. Both of us sprout smiles, basking in our enjoyment of this simple moment together and briefly casting aside all that has followed us here. When she stops her squirming, settling into her splayed position across my legs with my arm cinched around her middle, I seize hold of her lips. She responds, eagerly meeting my every movement with an equally enthralling one of her own.
A guy could definitely get used to this.
Tearing herself away for air, she sets her forehead against mine. I take the opportunity to draw out our closeness, nudging my nose along hers. My mind refuses to entertain any thought other than her tantalizing nearness. Making their way to her jaw and down her neckline, my lips set to work. It satisfies me to hear the small gasps that escape her mouth, knowing that I'm the reason for their existence.
Returning to her lips, I know I should put a stop to what I'm starting – but I can't bring myself to do so. The taste of her demands to be savored. I reach to reposition her, to shift her body so I can have more direct access.
A knock sounds at the front door. Groaning, I reluctantly let her break away and sit upright. She runs a hand through her slightly disheveled hair and wets her lips, trying to remove any signs of what we've been doing. Leaning over to kiss my head, she slips her feet off the bed and onto the floor. "I'll get that," she says raspily, looking back over her shoulder as she travels toward the bedroom door. "You should get dressed."
The door closes behind her and I shortly hear John and Pete's voices join hers in the next room. I throw my legs over the side of the bed and stand up. Grabbing some clothing from my bag, I head toward the bathroom. Turns out I need that shower.
Their chatter drops off as I enter the main area, John and Pete greeting me and Mary rising to pour me a cup of coffee from the pot in the kitchen. I sense I've tread into a conversation they might not want me to hear, which goads me a little.
"What have I missed?" I ask as I seat myself, hoping they'll disclose fully what they have been discussing. Mary sets the mug down in front of me and herself in the chair to my right.
"Not too much," Pete begins. His tone reflects a certain level of hesitance, which matches his eyes as they look between his partner and Mary. "We were just relaying that the San Francisco Police Department located Miguel last night and, from what he shared, we were able to secure what we needed for a warrant."
"All that's left," John chimes in. "Is to determine when to search Tomás' office."
I reach for one of the bagels near the middle of the table, dragging it back to my plate and adding some cream cheese to it. Maybe they're not hiding anything, after all. Maybe I'm just paranoid after all that has happened.
"What," I start as I swallow my first bite. "What thoughts do you have so far?"
The three of them exchange glances before Mary speaks evenly. "I have offered to go to dinner with Tomás on Friday night to give them enough time and to keep him from interfering."
I nearly choke on the second bite of my breakfast, which has come close to lodging itself in my throat. "You must be joking," I sputter. "He wants to secure his company's future by selling you out."
"That is why you must agree to our plan. He won't suspect anything if I go to him and request dinner to discuss his generous offer further – he'll think I've played directly into his hand."
My frustration mounts as I listen to a brief summary of the plan they've drafted in my absence.
"The plan is madness!" I attempt to keep my voice stable. "I walked into your bedroom the other morning – I've seen how he can get to you if he wants. You're asking me to leave you with him? You know you can't trust him. No, when we get out of here, the last thing I'll do is let you go anywhere alone."
"But if I don't go alone, there's risk to whoever goes with me. I can't allow that to happen – not to you, not to your family. Think of your brothers." Fear stares back at me from the depths of her eyes. These men have taken her life and left a crippling terror in its place for too long.
"I won't leave you alone – this is not negotiable!" She looks stunned and I realize I'm speaking quite loudly, largely unnecessary as no one is more than three feet away from me in this moment. John and Pete have shrunk back, prudently recognizing the need to keep out of our argument.
"Mary, I … " I falter, wanting to speak aloud of how I can't let anything happen to her; how I can't begin to consider what Tomás might do to her if he has any idea of the concurrent search at his office. She reaches for me, taking hold of my hand and meeting my eyes.
"I know," she whispers, softly tracing circles into the back of my hand. Sighing, she resigns, "If you insist I not be alone, then you'll have to come with me. They need a good window for Tomás to be out of the way at a time when few people will be in the building to see them."
I nod and hear John speak across from me, but I can't bring myself to look away from her. "We will put in a call to our supervisor to make sure he thinks this to be an option worth pursuing. If he does, we will have you contact Mr. Aviz by phone this afternoon. Is that all right with you, Ms. Stuart?"
She purses her lips. "That will be fine," she mumbles. "Thanks, John."
Once again, they return to their posts outside, leaving us at the table. At some point, I should probably finish my breakfast – my bagel half-eaten, my coffee long cold.
But none of that matters when I feel Mary's hand in mine, trembling.
Author's Notes: Yes, the chapter title in the system does say, "Part One." The entirety of it wound up being 9k words in my first draft. While the first half was ready to go, the second half needs a wee bit more editing before I'm ready to hit the publish button. "Part Two" picks up at the end here and is still in Francis' voice. It will be up tomorrow at the latest. I'm also hoping to respond personally to reviews this afternoon. It's been so wonderful to watch you engage with the story – it's a beast, but it's my beast and I love it. :)
Disclaimer: As always, I've borrowed most of the characters and several strands of dialogue from "Reign" – this time from episodes 103-107. Those things are not mine. The plot is. As are John and Pete. You're jealous, aren't you? ;)