*Notes: Just as a general warning, this chapter features a flashback to a disastrous event that acts as a painful memory for several of the characters...
Francis paced rapidly up and down the small room that was just off to the side of the main Throne Room in the Scottish castle, where he was separated from the television crew by only a closed door, almost as though the door was creating a physical barrier between his past and his future.
It wasn't that there was anything particularly wrong with the room-it was neat and tidy and clean, with several comfortable chairs placed about it, and a small window that offered a view out to the castle grounds, but the combination of the small space, and the presence of the French guards who had travelled to Scotland with them, as well as his father and several journalists, made Francis feel like a prisoner, or worse, like a caged animal.
Then there were the ever-growing nerves over what was about to happen, the pounding of his heart, his shaking hands…
Please don't hate me, he chanted over and over in his head, as though she could somehow hear him through some sort of telepathic connection. Please understand why I had to agree to this. Please see that I was only trying to protect you, your family, your country. I never wanted to hurt you."
He knew that all of these thoughts were pointless, ridiculous, especially when he wasn't actually saying them out loud, but he couldn't help it.
Yet, even if he could put all of these thoughts into words, what difference would they make? She didn't feel the same way about him-perhaps they had been close, once, when they were children, but since then, she'd always treated him with something like indifference. She'd always treated royalty in general with indifference. And after that night, things had only got worse…
Please don't hate me, he begged her again in his thoughts.
Francis was distracted from his negative thoughts by the sound of a radio communication coming through to one of the guard's radios.
"They'll be ready for you in five minutes, Your Highness," the guard informed him, his tone sounding rather flat.
"Thank you," Francis replied with a curt nod, even though he wasn't ready for them. He wasn't sure he'd ever be ready for Scotland and its royal family; ready for her.
As the minutes ticked away and the moment of facing the cameras drew ever closer, Francis's thoughts grew increasingly irrational: I knew it was you, he told her. I knew it was you, behind the mask, that night. I knew it was you before the others worked it out, before you revealed yourself. You looked beautiful. I always knew it was you. I still know. I called out for you, later that night, early the next morning, but you didn't hear. You'd already left…
Perhaps these thoughts in particular were the most difficult to deal with. He knew how to be a king; he'd been trained for that role since birth. He knew how to manage his subjects and French politics and policies to the best of his abilities. He knew how to charm people, and even how to flirt, when it was necessary. He knew how to kiss, how to conduct something akin to a relationship within the walls of the castle back in France. But nothing had ever prepared him for this. For real, romantic feelings. For unrequited love.
He wasn't supposed to have these feelings in the first place-his first priority was always supposed to be his role as a future king. He was supposed to treat this matchmaking process as nothing but a wise political decision; a clever move for the French pieces on some sort of imaginary chessboard. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to hide his true self behind his own invisible mask that he was forced to wear every day when he faced the public.
"They're ready for you now, Francis," his father told him, with a definite warning in his glance.
Francis's heart started beating even faster. As he headed towards the door that would take him to the Throne Room, he made a few more futile attempts to communicate with her through his thoughts: Please try to remember the day under the tree, when there were petals raining down on our heads; please try not to remember the night years later, when there were shards of glass falling down on us…
He shuddered, trying to shake off those last-minute thoughts as he reached out a shaking hand to open the door.
Mary, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, he couldn't help thinking, over and over.
Perhaps after today's show, this would be the one thought that he would be able to put into words.
James didn't answer her question.
Mary wasn't even sure she'd really expected him to answer.
Instead, he continued to stare back at her with wide eyes. He still looked pale, and shocked, and there was an expression of panic written all over his face.
Mary was sure that the look on her brother's face was some sort of twisted reflection of her own inner fear. She wondered how bad this could be, for James to look so shocked; she wondered what terrible moment her parents were about to subject her to.
After a few long, tense moments, her brother finally broke the silence: "Mary, please," he whispered. His tone of voice was desperate, pleading.
As always, Mary could read between the lines of what he was saying: Don't make me tell you. Don't put me in this position. Don't make me choose between loyalty to you and loyalty to our parents. Don't ask me to break the rules for you this time. Not today. Please just do your duty so we can both get through this.
Suddenly, a memory of a time when she had asked for James's silence started to play out in her mind…
She was in the hospital wing of a castle that was definitely not her family's, the morning after a terrible disaster had happened.
"James," she whispered, the moment he arrived beside her hospital bed. "Please don't ask me why I'm here. Please don't tell anyone I'm here…"
He nodded his head, solemnly, silently agreeing to her plea.
And he had never told anyone about the mess that Mary had almost got them all into, not even their parents.
Mary felt her eyes widening in horror at the realisation that she'd just let that particular memory enter her head on a day like today. Of all the days for the fragments of that memory to appear in her mind. Why was she thinking about it now? It was in the past, and today was not a day to be thinking about the past.
Eventually, Mary answered her brother's silent plea with a sad, resigned nod of her own.
Her brother was not going to ease this burden for her, and she knew it. Deep down, she'd known it right from the start, when her mother had first persuaded her to sign up for this.
And, to make matters worse, she couldn't sulk or make demands of James, because she had asked for his silence once, too, and he had done just that, never telling her parents where she'd been that night, never telling anyone that she had been there. He had saved her from so many awkward questions, and kept her secret. And now she owed him.
Whoever the man was who her parents were planning to introduce her to, she was going to have to walk into this process blind. She truly would be finding out who she was supposed to marry on live television, at the same time as the rest of the country.
With another sigh, she took James's arm (trying not to grip too tight) so that he could lead her out of the television room.
"Oh, and Mary?" a voice called out to her, just before she could step out of the room.
She turned around and saw Narcisse, who was standing in the middle of the room with his arms folded and a calculating expression on his face.
With James's not-so-welcome arrival, Mary had almost forgotten that her Publicist was still here.
"Whoever you see in that studio this afternoon, remember-do not let any worry show on your face. Keep that poker face well and truly in place."
In spite of a fresh wave of fear that washed over her at Narcisse's words, Mary couldn't help rolling her eyes. Already, it seemed typical of Narcisse to use a poker reference in his instructions to her. It seemed like the sort of game that he would be good at, like chess.
Feeling too nervous to protest at the moment, Mary simply nodded at him before she followed James out of the room.
Her parents were not permitted to take her the Throne Room. It went against the rules of the process, as there were fears that they could accidentally reveal something to her in advance of the start of the show, and her reaction to seeing the man they wanted her to marry was supposed to be natural and organic after all-not polluted by any outside influence. So, it had been decided that James would have the dubious honour of walking with her.
She walked down several corridors and flights of stairs arm-in-arm with her older brother, treading over more blue carpets and glancing at several exquisite paintings and suits of armour along the way.
As they walked, Mary couldn't help thinking about how even though everything in the castle looked the same, the tense atmosphere all around them made everything seem different somehow: darker, more gloomy. Or maybe she was just allowing her nerves to warp her perception of the castle right now, as though what was on the outside was merely a reflection of what was going on within.
When they reached the final corridor on the ground floor that led to the Throne Room, James let go of her arm. The movement was only gentle, but still, Mary almost felt a jolt of pain in her arm. It was as though some sort of tie had been severed between the two of them.
Her brother open and closed his mouth several times, like he was trying to come up with something important to say, but in the end he gave up, simply nodding at her before he started to walk away in the opposite direction, heading towards the other side of the Throne Room, where he would enter through a more discreet side door and take his seat next to Mary's mother.
James could only take her so far. Now, she would have to take this part of the journey on her own.
She took slow, tentative steps down the corridor, almost back to walking on tiptoes.
He's in there, she couldn't help thinking to herself, even though she wasn't sure who 'he' was.
She shook her head as though to clear it. It seemed like too big a thought to have right now. In order to get through this, she would have to treat today like a straightforward royal event, a negotiation, or a political meeting. A meeting she simply had to get through before she could start considering other, future events.
On either side of her stood the castle's guards, all of them dressed in black uniforms and holding weapons. The guards were a requirement now, in every part of the castle, since the threats and the riots had rapidly increased over the past few years, but that didn't make them any less intimidating.
Mary knew that they were here for her protection, for her family's protection. Her mother had told her this, over and over. And yet, as she continued to walk nervously down the corridor, she felt almost as though they were not in fact protecting her but were instead holding her here, in this corridor; holding her prisoner in the castle.
As she got further down the corridor however, closer to the door leading to the Throne Room, she saw someone who lightened her mood a little.
"Aloysius!" she called out with a smile, temporarily abandoning all protocol as she ran the last few steps towards him.
A few of the guards looked a bit disgruntled, but they didn't tell her off, the way they would have done back when she was a child.
"Mary!" he called back to her. His smile was kind as he held out his arms for a hug.
Mary's mother had known Aloysius, back when she'd been a politician and he'd been a member of the Scottish equivalent of the House of Lords.
Nowadays, after several successful appearances on various political panel shows and royal documentaries, Aloysius's career seemed to be more focused on the world of television. Mary had seen him conduct many an on-screen interview with royals and celebrities alike, and she therefore guessed that he had been selected to present this strange television show today, and to carry out the initial interviews.
For all of her other emotions at the moment, Mary couldn't help feeling relieved that there would at least be a familiar, friendly face on the stage with her today.
"How are Greer and the children?" she asked him with another smile after they'd hugged, almost forgetting for a moment that she was about to appear on television in front of the whole country.
"Oh, fine, wonderful!" he replied, beaming proudly. "They're all very busy, of course, getting ready for the wedding!"
Mary felt a rush of excitement on her friend Greer's behalf.
Back at school in London, Greer had been in a relationship with a boy called Leith. The two of them had often been nicknamed 'the model pupils', and they'd been Head Girl and Head Boy together in their final year.
Everyone at school, Mary included, had just assumed that Greer and Leith would get married one day, but, much to Mary's surprise, the two of them seemed to have drifted apart after they left school, and they'd broken up not long after.
One evening, Mary had introduced her friend to Aloysius Castleroy at a political party her mother had organised, and they hadn't looked back since.
Now, nothing seemed to make Greer happier than spending time with her fiancé and her soon-to-be-stepchildren.
It was strange, how life worked out, how things changed. How people changed.
"Well, tell them that I'm looking forward to the wedding, too," Mary told him. And she really meant it. She couldn't wait to be a bridesmaid for the girl who had been her closest friend at school. "Greer's wedding, I mean," she added hastily, as though she really needed to clarify this. She couldn't yet comprehend the idea that her mother was expecting her to be planning a wedding of her own in three months' time.
"I'll pass on your best wishes," he beamed at her. "So, are you ready for today?" he started to ask, before they were interrupted by a woman leaning around the Throne Room door, wearing a headset and carrying a clipboard. She was no doubt a member of the television crew.
"Lord Castleroy?" said the woman, after she'd nodded curtly in greeting in Mary's direction. "We're ready for you now. Princess, if you could just wait out here for a few more minutes?"
Aloysius nodded, all-professional now.
"I'll see you soon, Princess Mary," he told her with a quick bow before he went to follow the woman into the Throne Room.
"I'll see you soon, Lord Castleroy," Mary told him with a bow of her own just before he left, trying to sound cool, calm, professional, the way that he had just done.
In the presence of others, at a time of royal duty, they had to revert back to titles and protocol.
The door closed with what seemed like a loud echo in the almost-empty corridor. Again, Mary was left alone, with only the guards for company.
As she paced anxiously outside the door, she passed the time by thinking about all the rules of this process, this television show; rules that her mother had 'helpfully' printed out and put together as one large document, which she always left displayed on Mary's desk for 'extra reading'…
According to the rules, her parents were supposed to take charge of this matchmaking process. They were supposed to find her a suitable match, and they were supposed to offer their reasons for their choice in various interviews along the way, explaining their decision on both a personal and a professional level.
There would be an official opening ceremony, where the television crew could film the initial meeting (and get a good look at the castle while they were at it).
Her mother was probably up on stage at this very moment, giving her first interview as the show got started. Or maybe James was giving some sort of opening speech, the way he always did at official events.
After the opening ceremony, there would be an opening party, or a ball, more accurately, which the cameras were also allowed to film.
Then, Mary would have three months to get to know her potential husband, before she had to make a final decision on television at the closing ceremony as to whether or not a proposal would be happening.
Along the way, she and her match would be expected to appear in interviews together, to attend events as a couple, to meet each other's family and friends, to get a taste of what day to day life together would be like.
They would also be expected to go on dates, to make the show more interesting, and the public could even vote on several possible locations and settings for the dates.
The man would also be expected to plan several of the dates himself, to give Mary an idea of what he would be like when it came to romance, and an idea of a possible future life as a couple.
Three months, Mary thought to herself as she continued to pace up and down. It isn't long enough. There's never enough time. How will I know for sure?
Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted when the young woman from the television crew opened the door again.
"They're ready for you," she whispered, clearly trying to keep her voice down now that the cameras were rolling.
With a sigh, Mary headed towards the open door, only pausing so that the crew member could attach a microphone to her dress.
The show was about to start. Her show.
The chairs in the Throne Room had been positioned so that the audience members were facing away from Mary as she entered from the back of the room, but it didn't matter. The second she moved to stand in the doorway, everyone in the room turned in their chair to stare avidly at her.
Mary was tempted to run away. She wasn't used to this level of attention. Usually, people were looking at James, or at her mother, not at her.
But she couldn't run, not when the whole country was watching her. She had to be brave, the way that all her royal ancestors had been.
Mary held her head up high as she walked down the aisle that led to the raised platform at the front of the room, which was usually a platform where royal and political speeches were delivered.
Her mother's throne had been moved to the back of the room. It was only really used for show anyway. Modern queens did not spend their days sitting on thrones. Still, it made for some nice royal photos in tabloid magazines.
Perhaps everyone would say that Mary's tiara was just for show, too, but still, she wanted everyone to see it on her head; she wanted them to believe that she was a rightful member of the Scottish royal family, even if she had trouble believing it herself, sometimes.
As she walked, taking slow, dignified steps, Mary thought about the long-sleeved, black lace dress that she'd chosen to wear; she thought about the key on the black ribbon around her neck. They were her choices. She was going to do this on her own terms. She was not going to lose herself along the way.
She was distracted for a moment by the sound of applause. She blinked and looked around the room, noticing that it was James who was applauding her.
Following their future king's lead, everyone else seated in the room started to do the same. Mary felt a little emotional at the gesture. This was James's attempt at showing her that he was with her, supporting her; it was his attempt at rallying others in the room to do the same, to make this process a bit easier.
With a quick smile at her brother, Mary continued to head towards the front of the room, where she was helped onto the raised platform by Lord Castleroy.
"Your Highness," he greeted her, with another bow, as though they had not just been making casual conversation outside.
"Lord Castleroy," Mary greeted him, with a curtsy this time. Her mother seemed to prefer it that way; she seemed to think it was more 'ladylike'. Mary really hoped that her voice wasn't shaking as she spoke.
She turned and looked out at her audience. For a few seconds, she was dazzled by the flashes coming from various phones and professional cameras. She blinked rapidly a few times, desperately trying to adjust to the flashes of light.
As the lights faded, Mary noticed that the room had been divided almost equally into four parts:
In one section of the audience sat her family and other royals.
She glanced at her father, who was grinning at her encouragingly. His red hair looked a bit of a mess, and a few buttons were fastened incorrectly on his shirt. Mary smiled fondly back at him as he waved at her. In many ways, he was her mother's complete opposite, but something about them as a married couple just worked. Perhaps they balanced each other out.
Mary looked again at James, who still seemed tense and nervous, and he was currently refusing to look her in the eye.
Then, she chanced a glance at her mother, who was watching her with pursed lips as she took in her dress and her jewellery. Apparently, her mother didn't approve of her choice of outfit.
She couldn't help noticing that her mother looked pale and drawn today, and there were dark circles under her eyes. And she'd been looking so well lately, too...
More than anything, Mary hoped that she wasn't ill again. She remembered those dark days during her childhood, when her mother had been in and out of hospital. She remembered finding her in the woods one day, collapsed on the ground, when they were on a royal visit to some country or other…
Out of nowhere, an image of a tree and falling white petals appeared in Mary's mind. She blinked, wondering where that image had just come from, what it was about remembering her mother's illness that had conjured up the image in her mind. She blinked again and shook her head, telling herself firmly that she needed to focus. She was on live television, and she couldn't afford any distractions.
She looked around at her audience again.
In another section on the other side of the room sat various journalists and photographers, many of them holding up their phones or cameras as they filmed or took pictures of her.
There were also larger cameras being operated by a camera crew all around the room, along with several pieces of equipment attached to the ceiling, making sure to capture the show from every angle.
Every few seconds, a journalist would type something on their phone, or take notes on bits of paper. Mary could only hope that they would write positive comments about her, although she couldn't be sure.
Behind the journalists sat several members of the public who'd won various competitions and had therefore been invited to the castle today to see the show up close. They watched Mary eagerly, looking a lot more fascinated by her than anyone else in the room. Some even sat on the edge of their seats.
And, last but certainly not least, several of the palace staff sat behind the royal family, along with Mary's stylists and hair and makeup artists, and of course her new Publicist, Stephane Narcisse, at the end of a row of seats. He had apparently slipped into the room at some point while Mary had been waiting outside.
She noticed that Lola was watching him out of the corner of her eye from the other end of the row, where she was sitting. The second Narcisse turned to look at her, she blushed and turned away, trying to pretend that she hadn't been looking at him at all. Narcisse smirked. He had seen her looking. Mary suspected that he had been playing this game for a lot longer than Lola had.
Without thinking about it, Mary looked around the room to see if the boy with blue eyes was sitting there somewhere, or hiding away in a corner, ready to appear as her 'match', even though she knew that this would be highly unlikely. Of course he wasn't here.
To start, Castleroy asked her a few pre-prepared questions about life as a member of the Scottish royal family, and life in the castle. These were the things that members of the public always seemed to be strangely curious about.
"So, Mary," Lord Castleroy beamed at her, as soon as the preliminary questions were out of the way. "It's a big day for you today! How are you feeling about it?"
"I'm very…intrigued to see where this will go," Mary recited automatically, after she'd taken a few deep breaths to calm herself. Her voice sounded almost robotic. "I'm curious to see how this process will play out, and to see what might happen. And of course, the whole time, I will be thinking of Scotland, and acting on my country's behalf."
Discreetly, she glanced at Narcisse. He nodded at her and subtly gave her a thumbs-up. As he raised his hand in approval, some remnant of a memory, or perhaps just a sense of deja-vu seemed to strike her, but she couldn't quite place this feeling of eerie familiarity.
Narcisse might have approved of her words, but her mother didn't look very impressed. She shook her head in Mary's direction in obvious disapproval.
At the very least, the members of the public in the room seemed to be encouraged by her words about Scotland. They nodded and beamed at her as she spoke. Apparently, her mother had ensured that only the most patriotic subjects were invited here today.
"Well, without further ado," Castleroy smiled at her again, looking far more enthusiastic than Mary actually felt, "shall we introduce you to the man your parents are eager for you to see?"
Later, Mary would remember that he had not said: 'The man your parents are eager for you to meet.'
Automatically, Mary nodded, the way she was supposed to.
Already, various members of the television crew were fussing about over on the left-hand side of the room, opening the door that led to a side room just off the Throne Room.
Mary tried to ignore the fact that her heart was beating fast, and the fact that her hands were starting to shake.
And then, the door opened, and a young man walked out of it.
With a gasp, Mary put her hand to her mouth as she blinked several times, as though she couldn't believe that this was actually happening.
Her eyes started to widen. Her heart beat even faster. She felt like she'd been frozen to the spot. It was as though time had stood still.
It was not the boy with blue eyes.
It was not a stranger.
She would recognise that wavy blond hair anywhere.
She would recognise the way he walked, tall and proud with his back straight, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression serious, tense.
"Francis," said Mary, the word pulled from her lips as she stared at him with wide eyes.
Surely this was a dream? Surely this wasn't actually happening?
"Ah, I see that you two already know each other!" Lord Castleroy joked with a jovial laugh, like this was all some sort of hilarious coincidence.
Even the audience had laughed as Mary said his name out loud.
Mary could barely react; there was no way she could fake a smile, or even speak right now.
Instead, she felt like the room was spinning, disappearing all around her as she plummeted into her deepest, darkest memory that had been triggered by the sight of the prince standing in front of her…
She was sixteen years old. It was the middle of the night, and the moon and the stars were shining bright in the sky.
She was walking slowly up the long path that led to the magnificent 'Chateau Valois', as her family always nicknamed it. She was not supposed to be here. After years of animosity between the two royal families, the Scots were not invited here tonight; they were not welcome among the Valois' friends anymore.
The Scottish royal family was supposed to officially meet with the French royal family tomorrow at a public event in Paris, but the allure of a masked ball, and the thrill of sneaking out of her family's luxurious, everything-is-in-order hotel in the French countryside and into this forbidden castle right under the French royal family's nose had just been too tempting.
Carefully, she adjusted the Venetian mask covering her face, hoping that the mask (and the additional makeup she'd applied) would be enough to conceal her identity.
The pathway leading up to the castle was lined with journalists, photographers and various guests who were taking pictures of themselves with the cameras on their phones. It would be all too easy to accidentally appear on a picture.
Every time she walked past a flashing light, Mary made sure to raise her hand, to cover the part of her face that wasn't already covered by the mask, or to brush her long hair in front of her face, further concealing herself.
As she reached the end of the path, she successfully got past the first set of guards, but then her way was blocked by another pair of guards when she reached the front doors, both of them holding out their arms to prevent her from entering as they regarded her with suspicious expressions.
"Who are you?" they demanded of her several times, both of their voices abrupt.
The guards who worked at the French castle were known for their more aggressive tendencies. Deep down, Mary believed that their work ethic was merely a reflection of the attitude of the aggressive king who employed them.
In broken French, Mary tried to tell parts of her semi-plausible backstory that she'd come up with in advance: it was the same story that she'd used along the path when she'd been questioned by other guests, where she used a false identity, taking on the name of a distant relative of the French royal family, mentioning an official invitation that she'd received by post. After years of practice, she was adept at sneaking around and covering her tracks.
But neither of the guards seemed to believe her this time. They were just starting to get angry and make threats when-
"What's going on here?" she heard someone ask the guards in French.
She looked up to see Francis Valois standing a few feet away from her, behind the guards and inside the castle's entrance hall.
Mary felt a flicker of nerves, telling herself that she was panicking because she feared that she truly would be caught now. She looked at the floor, unable to look Francis in the eye. It had been a while, since they'd last seen one another. She remembered them being close friends, during childhood, but since they'd become teenagers, it always seemed like Francis went out of his way to avoid her, or like he simply shut down and acted more distant whenever she walked into a room.
The guards turned their attention to Francis.
Mary caught a few 'Your Highnesses' in their sentences, and she could just make out a few exclamations in French about how 'this girl' wasn't supposed to be here, while Francis shook his head, looking angry at the way they were speaking to him.
Then, much to Mary's surprise-
"Let her in," Francis suddenly said in perfect English, with an accent that could rival those of the students from wealthy British families who had attended Mary's London school. "She is with me," he added when the guards continued to protest, as though this was explanation enough.
Mary looked up in shock, and Francis looked her right in the eye. She had a sneaking suspicion that he knew exactly who she was, behind the mask, and that he was covering for her. Although she had no idea why he would do her a favour like that. Why he would allow her to enter the party. Why he would want her there.
Finally, the guards relented and allowed her to pass.
Mary walked past them and into the castle with slow, dignified steps, but she couldn't help smirking smugly at the guards when she caught their eye.
On the other side of the entrance hall, she saw another man watching her. He appeared to be older than her, but she couldn't tell for sure, because he too was wearing a mask. He smirked at her when she got past the guards, and held up his wine glass to her as though in a toast to her success, like he was proud of her for getting one over on the French royals.
Feeling slightly unnerved by the older stranger's actions, Mary looked back at Francis, who still seemed to be watching her, as though waiting for some sort of reaction.
Mary was just about to thank him when-
"Francis, will you not talk to me tonight?" a girl with blonde hair and a French accent asked him, interrupting whatever it was that Mary had been about to say.
The blonde girl was standing on the last step of the grand staircase that led into the castle entrance hall, and she held an open hand out to Francis before she beckoned him over to her, the gesture demanding, insistent.
After a few moments, Mary recognised the girl as Olivia, who she knew from previous events to be Francis Valois' latest girlfriend.
"Of course," Francis replied, as he instantly started to head over in Olivia's direction with a smile on his face, although the smile looked a little forced, almost as though the two of them had recently been arguing.
Mary felt a flicker of something that felt like anger, or loss, although she wasn't sure why she felt that way.
She hurried off in the direction of groups of other guests who were gathering in the long corridor that led to the ballroom, really feeling like she didn't want to be around Francis and Olivia right now, especially as they had just started to pose together for photographs taken by the press.
Olivia seemed to glare suspiciously at her as she passed, as though she was trying to work out who her boyfriend had just been talking to.
Eventually, Mary found her way to the ballroom, but not before she'd got into an animated discussion with a group of older men who seemed to find the whole party pointless and ridiculous.
Mary had had fun, for a few minutes, making sarcastic comments along with them, using a mix of French and English. They were just the sort of people who she always befriended at royal events, much to her mother's dismay-those who seemed to share her bitterness and her cynicism about life as a royal. Secretly, she'd always thought that she would have made a good rebel in another life, rallying people around her as she spoke words of protest.
The ballroom was as beautiful and as grand as ever, with its round tables, its polished floors, its dance floor, and its large chandelier hanging from the ceiling. There was even a band playing live music while many people danced.
Yet there was something overly polished, overly formal about the whole thing, something that made the party seem slightly unnatural: people were only talking about pre-approved topics; they were holding their cups in just the right way; they were dancing to well-rehearsed dances on the dance floor.
Mary wanted to change all that; she wanted to make her presence here tonight felt, somehow.
As the band picked up the tempo and the beat of the song got a little faster, Mary suddenly kicked off her shoes and ran to the middle of the dance floor, standing right under the chandelier.
Laughing, she started to dance to her own beat, using her own moves, like she was just an ordinary teenage girl who happened to be out at a party.
She felt younger than a teenager at the moment though-she felt like the little girl who'd laughed along with her older brother as the two of them had danced around the castle, without a care in the world. She could almost imagine that she'd once danced around this castle as a child, too, with someone who was not her brother.
Several other guests seemed to take inspiration from her, and they joined her in the middle of the dance floor, dancing in circles around her.
Quite a crowd had gathered to watch them by now, and with a smirk, Mary caught Catherine's eye. Francis's mother was watching her from the corner of the room with a glare and an expression of obvious disapproval. Apparently, Catherine had finally been informed that Mary Stuart, the daughter of a rival royal family, was here tonight.
Catherine looked in Francis's direction, who had entered the ballroom at some point since Mary had started dancing. It was as though she was silently appealing to her son to do something, anything, to stop the spectacle that was playing out in front of her eyes, while Olivia also glared at Francis with folded arms from the other side of the room, but Francis didn't seem to see either of them at that moment.
Instead, Mary noticed that he was watching her, with an expression that was a strange mixture of surprise, disapproval and amusement. He even seemed to be fighting off a grin.
With a grin of her own, Mary started to spin round and round in a circle on the spot, feeling more and more exhilarated every time she went around in yet another circle and she thought about how rare it was to see any sort of unguarded reaction from Francis at all; how rare it was for Francis to even look at her; but now, she seemed to have the prince's full attention, for some reason.
As she span around, Mary was laughing at them all, mocking them for their titles and their protocol and their expectations. Laughing at Francis's father, Henry, who had just started to glare at her from the other side of the dance floor, where he was dancing with a woman with dark hair who was definitely not his wife.
Mary was rebelling against all of it. Their judgement. Their hypocrisy.
Without thinking about what she was doing, she raised her arms up in the air, in a gesture that she'd seen several rioters and protesters use in Scotland, although she wasn't sure what the gesture meant, or if there was even any meaning behind it at all.
With her hands in the air, she continued to spin, almost feeling dizzy…
And that was when she heard it.
An almost deafening crash echoed around the ballroom, bringing her to an abrupt halt.
For a moment, she convinced herself that she'd simply imagined the noise, but then she heard another loud bang and a crash, followed by screaming as the people around her started to scatter.
The walls and the floor of the ballroom seemed to shake with the impact, and several people stumbled to the floor as they tried to run.
In what could have been minutes, or seconds, the glass in all of the windows shattered, and the shards of glass seemed to fall to the ground like waterfalls.
At the same time, several glasses of wine dropped to the floor, the glasses breaking into pieces the moment they hit the ground.
Mary remained on the spot, frozen with fear, not knowing what to do, how to act. It was as though years of royal training for situations like this had flown right out of the damaged windows.
She couldn't see any face she recognised, which made her feel even more afraid; for as much as she disliked them, Mary couldn't help wondering where the French royal family had gone, whether they were safe.
She was only spurred into action at the sound of more loud bangs, and the sound of various tables being upturned as the room descended into further confusion and chaos.
She knew that she had to move from this spot, where the people around her were pushing and stumbling, making it difficult to see what was happening, putting her in further danger by their frantic actions, and causing her panic to increase with each passing second.
She tore the mask from her face and started to run, pushing past people and using her hands to shield her head as glass from the lights on the ceiling started to rain down on her.
What was going on? How had this happened?
She didn't know the answer to either of these questions. She couldn't even think. All she felt was fear, and confusion.
For reasons unknown to her, she turned back to look at the spot on the dance floor that she'd just run away from, almost as though she'd left something behind.
To her horror, Francis was standing right under the chandelier, in the place she'd just left. She could see the injured people lying all around him, and she realised that he'd run right into the centre of all the chaos at some point in an attempt to help those who were hurt. He looked just as shocked, just as terrified as she felt, but still he hadn't neglected his duty. Ever the prince, ever the royal, unlike her…
Francis was so distracted trying to help others up off the floor that he seemed oblivious to the sound of another loud bang that sounded suspiciously like an explosion, now that Mary was listening more carefully, along with the sound of the chandelier slowly detaching itself from the ceiling with a loud tearing noise.
It was as though it happened in slow motion. One minute, Mary was standing on the other side of the room, watching in wide-eyed horror as the chandelier started to fall.
Then, she was running, with some deep-rooted instinct pushing her forwards.
One word was on her lips, one word that seemed to have been pulled up from somewhere deep inside: "Francis!" she screamed, as she ran towards him, her body now abandoning all attempts to run away from the chaos and instead focusing on pushing her back to it.
And then she reached him. In one swift movement, she grabbed hold of Francis and pulled him away from the falling chandelier, just in time.
The two of them fell to the floor due to the force that Mary had used to pull Francis out of harm's way.
Only feet away from them, the chandelier crashed to the floor and shattered, the sound reverberating all around the room.
In that moment, time seemed to stop.
Francis held her tight, and she held him too, as though afraid to let him go, even though they had barely touched each other for years.
They weren't friends. They weren't even allies. Francis had his whole life here, with his family and his girlfriend. A life that Mary had never been a part of.
And yet, in that moment, something deep inside had taken over, and all she'd cared about was protecting him, saving him from that falling chandelier.
The look of shock on Francis's face seemed to mirror her own inner confusion.
She hoped he wouldn't ask her why she'd done what she'd just done. Why she hadn't just run away, left it to someone else to save him.
She didn't know the answer.
"Mary," he whispered, apparently unable to say anything else.
They remained on the ground, holding on to each other, looking each other in the eye as the room and the noise seemed to fade to nothing around them.
But all too soon, the moment was over.
They were back, back in the noise, the panic, the horror.
Mary heard more screaming. She heard Catherine, frantically calling out Francis's name.
"You foolish, foolish girl!" Catherine would tell her later.
"How dare you sneak into this castle!" Henry would shout at her later.
"Mary, you could have put us all in danger," her brother would whisper to her later.
Later, Olivia would be by Francis's side, frantically checking that he was okay, and Francis would embrace her.
Later, Francis would sit with his mother, and his girlfriend, and his two younger brothers, holding them all close, protecting them, as though Mary had never even been there in the first place.
Later, Mary would not talk to Francis; she would tell James that she didn't want to see Francis Valois ever again, when really, it was more that she couldn't see him again, couldn't face him. She would not want to remember.
But she didn't know any of that yet, as she lay on the floor in the castle ballroom. All she knew was a sharp burst of pain, as though her body was only just realising that she'd somehow been injured.
All she knew was fear…
And now she was back, back in the Throne Room in Scotland, back in her mother's castle, although a part of her was still sixteen years old and in that castle in France. A part of her was just as afraid as she had been back then.
For two years, she had kept that memory safely locked up.
And now, seeing Francis again, it had been unlocked, too fast, before she was ready to face it.
And time hadn't really stopped. Still, Mary was standing in front of a television crew, in front of Francis Valois, and she was supposed to pretend that all of it had never happened; she was supposed to offer some sort of reaction to seeing him again; she was supposed to perform for the cameras; she was supposed to do something, anything.
As she stared at Francis with wide eyes, her mind still lost in her memory, where she was spinning around over and over until she started to feel dizzy, going nowhere, three thoughts suddenly seemed to crash into her mind:
He is a prince. He is the heir to his country's throne. He is a future king.
Then another thought appeared as a result, this one even more troubling:
There is no escape now.