THIRD

Q. Kelly

Thanks and acknowledgements

Melanie, my wife, deserves a medal for her support and patience.

Thank you to all my readers. I mean everyone: my beta readers, past and present, my editorial readers, the people who have bought my books and the people who took the time to review them and/or email me. Thank you all. You are a big part of what keeps me going.

Last, but not least, many thanks to cover designer Leigh Ann Britt. Love the cover!

www.ridetherainbowbooks.com

This book is a work of fiction. No part of this book may be reproduced without the permission of the author.

"Third" Copyright © 2012 by Q. Kelly

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Q. Kelly on the Web:

http://qkellybooks.com

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I would love to hear from you!

Email me at yllek_q@yahoo.com

Q. Kelly's Other Books

Waiting

Strange Bedfellows

All in the Family

The Odd Couple

The Old Woman and Other Lesbian Stories

Miss Lucy Parker and Other Short Stories

Prologue

Anne's teeth used to be bad, so she had a workaround for when she brushed them. No matter that her teeth were marvelous now. In her mind, they would always be worn little pebbles. Her workaround was simple: no looking in the mirror. Anne wandered through her apartment, taking in the library, the neatly arranged books, the many paintings she had done and the living room with the security guard, who was usually Jordan. When she was almost finished brushing her teeth, she went back down the hallway. Afterward, Anne took a long, luxurious bath, complete with bubbles. This morning was no different except that before her bath, Anne used a Ped-Egg to touch up her heels. Her morning routine was complete by seven a.m.

She decided she wanted to paint today. Outside.

Anne returned to the living room. "How is the weather?" she asked Jordan.

"Same as yesterday, ma'am."

Anne nodded and informed Jordan of her plans. She bundled up in her heaviest coat. She carried her paints and a chair, while Jordan carried the easel and a blank canvas. He set up camp a respectable distance from her, so respectable that when he inevitably talked into his walkie-talkie, Anne could not make out his words.

What shall I paint today? Anne had no model except the walls and the courtyard's sole ornamentation, a skeletal tree. She could go back in and find something to serve as a model, but she did not feel like it. She would pluck a model from her imagination. Anne wore gloves, thin gloves. Not the best to keep the cold from her fingers, but she would sacrifice comfort for mobility.

Hmm. Anne realized something. She had been approaching the courtyard's walls wrong. Yes, they confined her. Yes, they were high, white and foreboding. A terrible subject. But to paint on...

"Jordan, may I paint on the walls?"

Jordan frowned. He frowned at everything Anne said. "The walls?"

"I can get much more on them than on the canvas. Also, this space needs brightening."

Jordan barked in his walkie-talkie. A few minutes later, he said: "Yes, ma'am."

"Thank you."

"One section of wall to start with."

Anne chose her section, the farthest from the Icarus building, her prison. The skeletal tree had given her an idea. Anne dipped her brush into brown paint but changed her mind. She picked a fresh brush and went for purple. Her family tree would not have the usual brown trunk and brown branches. Anne painted a fat, solid purple trunk. The trunk had to be sizable, given the craziness of her family tree. Anne painted branch spaces for her mother and father, got more purple, and then painted spaces for her brother and sister, and then for her husband, his parents and his siblings.

She painted the branch for her child.

She added two branches for her child's half-siblings by Catherine and Jane. After a moment's thought, she inserted branches for Catherine and Jane themselves, and for her husband's other wives. Ah. Wait. Her husband had recognized one illegitimate son, so he and his mother ought to be part of the family tree too.

Anne stepped backward, then backward. No room for more branches, unfortunately. She had done a tremendous job. The spacing was excellent, despite the on-the-spur additions. Not perfect, but she could make a rough draft sketch later today and paint over the tree tomorrow. Start anew, add the two spaces. Purple had been entirely appropriate. The tree was long and expansive. The branch spaces curled downward like claws, like her husband's abusive power. Maybe Anne would add leaves later, after she added names.

Maybe leaves only with little Elizabeth's branch.

"Ma'am." Jordan again. "Dr. Franklin is coming down for a chat."

"Very well." Anne did not like Josiah Franklin, especially now that he was dying.

Death meant Josiah dropped by daily, sometimes more than once a day. Anne cleaned purple paint off her brush. She dipped it into pink paint. She painted pink grass—why the heck not? She would go psychedelic. Anne loved that word.Psychedelic, psychedelic.

Her life was psychedelic, indeed.

"Dr. Franklin, ma'am."

Anne continued painting psychedelic pink grass. Let Josiah Franklin come to her. His motorized wheelchair was smooth, but not smooth enough to be entirely silent on the brown, dead grass.

"Anne," Josiah Franklin said.

Anne stopped painting. "What?" She would make no move to sit. She would assert what little power she had over the man—this gaunt little dying creature who held her life in his hands. Pathetic.

"What are you painting?"

"My family tree. Or, rather, Elizabeth's family tree."

"Ah."

Anne pointed out the branch where she would put Elizabeth's name. "She goes here."

"Are you sure you do not want to see her again?"

"I am sure," Anne said. She knew that one thing. She felt it surely and certainly in her bones. Her daughter should stay where she was. Her daughter should not become a prisoner like her mother.

Josiah eyed Anne's brush. "May I?"

"No."

Josiah clasped his hands in his lap, and a small smile touched his lips. "Do you remember your first painting lesson with Regina?"

"Yes."

"Now look at you."

Anne refused to let Josiah's words sneak into the part of her that responded to flattery. "Why are you here? I am not telling you anything."

"I've made arrangements. Will make arrangements."

"Arrangements?"

Josiah's gaze roamed the family tree and settled at the top. "You realize I have a month left. At most."

"Yes."

Josiah eyed Anne speculatively, and she tightened her grip on the paintbrush. She had assumed Josiah would leave her here in the hands of his underlings, especially nasty Benjamin. But perhaps not.

"I will tell my daughter about you. She'll take care of you. She'll do better by you than Regina and I did."

Anne blinked. "Your daughter? Helen?"

A half-grin from Josiah. "Naturally."

The half-grin made Anne feel stupid. Naturally, Josiah had said. Meaning: You know full well I have but one child, and she is Helen. "You are dismissed," Anne said stiffly. "I must resume my painting."

"You have talent," Josiah said. "You truly do."

Anne kept silent. Josiah Franklin deserved no thanks, for anything. Anne selected black paint and pressed her brush against the wall. She would make a field of black poppies among the pink grass. A few moments later, she heard Josiah's wheelchair retreat.

Helen Franklin.

Anne was not sure how she felt about Josiah's news. At least Anne knew where she stood with Josiah. Starting over with another person was not appealing. What would Helen Franklin do with her? How would Helen treat her, view her? Would Helen see Anne as a plaything too, a wondrous creature, or as a person?

Regina, Helen's mother, had shown Anne several pictures of Helen. Helen had tousled, shoulder-length blond hair and light eyes, the kind that were green some days and blue other days. Helen's nose was slightly crooked, maybe from an errant fist or a misthrown ball. Or maybe it was genetics. Helen was married, Anne knew that much. She had dogs, and her wife's name was Yalia.

And Yalia had killed a six-year-old child. Accidentally, but still...Regina had worried about Helen and Yalia a good bit after the shooting. Yalia was a damn fine cop, Regina Franklin said, until she was faced with a situation no one should be in.

Guns, Anne thought. Guns are no good.

She finished the poppy field and wished that Josiah was not dying. Anne did not want, did not need, any more upheavals in her life.

"Ma'am," Jordan said. "Dr. Franklin has contacted his daughter. Be prepared to meet her tomorrow about two o'clock."

Anne's chest was heavy. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. So quick.

"Tomorrow is her birthday," Jordan went on. "Forty years old."

"How nice," Anne murmured. In other words, I am nothing but a present. A toy.

Chapter One

Helen would have to kiss Devon good night. No doubt about it; after three dates, Devon had been giving Helen certain looks, certain touches. Helen tried to focus on her dinner—chicken and baked potato—but could not taste the food. The chicken probably was good; it was thick, succulent and juicy. And Devon was nice, with kissable lips: full and pouty. In other circumstances, kissing them would be no tragedy.

"Are you all right?" Devon asked.

Helen cut a piece of chicken. "I'm fine." Insert fork, chew, pretend to taste. "Mmm. This chicken gets better with each bite."

Devon laughed. "I agree." She had gotten chicken too, but with salad. She speared a piece of lettuce and chewed.

"Rabbit food," Helen said.

"What?"

"Salad is rabbit food. Can't stand it."

"Come on. You can't beat salad."

"I'll bring you rabbit pellets next time. See how you like them."

Devon 's lips tugged up. "So there'll be a next time."

The knot in Helen's stomach intensified, and she forced herself to smile. "Sure."

"You don't sound enthusiastic."

Helen glanced down, at her half-eaten chicken. "I like you, Devon . I really do."

"I like you too. How can I make you feel better?"

Nothing will make me feel better. "I'll figure something out," Helen said as brightly as she could, avoiding a suggestive undertone to her voice. Move to safer territory. "So you started reading my book last night?"

"Mmm. Got to Chapter Five." Devon munched on more rabbit food. "It's tragic. So much went into getting Edward born, and then he dies at such a young age."

Helen had to agree. She was a Tudor historian and had written two books on the Tudors. Her more recent book was on Edward VI, the only surviving legitimate son of Henry VIII, if dying at sixteen years old could be called surviving. Helen had a soft spot for Edward, whom historians had neglected. Edward became king at a mere nine years old and had never come into his own. His uncles and other power-hungry men had manipulated him, had ruled in his stead. He had died still a child, died at an age where historians would not write much about him. Helen wanted to change that, and her biography on Edward was a good start.

"I'm thinking about taking a risk," Helen told Devon .

Devon raised an eyebrow. "Tell me more."

"Maybe I'll dip my toe into fiction. I could write an alternate-history book, one based on if Edward had lived, had loved, had married. If he had become a true king and not a boy puppet."

Devon set down her fork. "Wow. I'd definitely read it."

"Thanks." You're just being nice. But that's okay. "I have it outlined already," Helen admitted sheepishly. "I gotta force myself to sit down and write. Type, rather."

"You having writer's block?"

"I guess so. Fiction is..." Helen chuckled. "It's similar to nonfiction in many ways. You gotta have flow and people to root for or identify with. But in other ways, fiction is a whole different animal."

"I can imagine."

"Plus you know I'm crazy busy with work." Helen's full-time job was as a history professor at Gallaudet University . Being a Tudor historian was not too lucrative.

Devon laughed. "I'm glad you found time for tonight." She squeezed Helen's hand and gave her another look. "Glad, for sure."

Helen hoped her responding smile was not strained. "Awesome."

Helen and Devon finished their meal without saying much more. Devon insisted on paying the bill, and they walked outside. Their cars were parked side by side. The night was frigid, normal for late January in Northern Virginia . Helen puffed out several breaths. She liked seeing her own breaths. Breaths were real. Significant. They had shape. They were not formless beings.

Devon opened her car door.

It's now or never. "Wait a sec." Helen slid her hand into Devon 's, hoping she was coming across as enthusiastic. However, she had the sinking feeling she came across as robotic, because robotic was how her heart felt—batteries, spark plugs, forced emotion. Helen had not kissed a woman other than Yalia in fifteen years. Yalia had always been enough. Had being the operative word. Helen could not remember the last time she and Yalia kissed, truly kissed, or had a good laugh or a good cuddle, and that made her sadder than anything. What the shooting had done to Yalia was crazy. The shooting had transformed Yalia into a different person. She shot someone, but she might as well have been shot in the head and gotten traumatic brain injury. But, no. Yalia was fine physically. Emotionally was where the damage was.

Stop. Not exactly true this is all Yalia's fault, or the shooting's fault. Helen bore her share of responsibility, but she would not think about that just now.

Helen kissed Devon, a peck on the lips, and Devon drew back. "Helen, I..." Devon sighed. She ran her hand through her short hair. "I really like you. But you're not into me. Not in the way that counts. Maybe we should say goodbye permanently. Don't waste my time, or your time. This thing with your wife..." Another sigh. "You're in love with her. You don't want anyone but her."

" Devon ."

Devon grinned. "Hey, good luck to you and Yalia. Really. And if you ever get over her, give me a call."

*****

Yalia was asleep when Helen got home, and so were the furkids. Great. Only eight-thirty, and they're asleep. They were snuggled together in bed: Yalia, Mario, Luigi, Toad and Bowser. No room for Helen. As usual. She wandered into the living room and flopped onto the couch. She'd move the pets in a bit. Or just fall asleep here. Whatever. Yalia certainly did not care. Helen fished her iPhone out of her purse and navigated to the ad she had posted two months ago.

Discreet Women Only, Please

This ad is more of an explanation, perhaps an essay, than an ad. But that's where I am in my life. Bear with me, and if you make it to the end, maybe we'll be good for each other ;-) First, know I am married and have been for ten years. (I am almost forty years old.) My wife and I embodied the "love at first sight" cliche. Several years ago, my wife was involved in an incident I won't go into detail on here. I will just say the incident has changed the landscape of our marriage, and not in a good way. So, this is where I am now. I love my wife. I keep hoping my wife will "wake up" one day and be herself again. In the meanwhile, I'm not sure what I am looking for. Perhaps a friend. A friend who can be a little more than a friend, if you get my gist. Someone who won't get involved overly deep. Someone who won't fall in love with me.

Someone discreet. Someone practical, who knows life is gray and purple and orange, not black and white.

Helen clicked the trash-can icon. A message popped up: ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO DELETE THIS AD? YOUR ACTION CANNOT BE UNDONE.

"Sure I'm sure," Helen muttered. She pressed "Yes." What had she been thinking? She had been a nervous wreck since she posted the ad, since she started going out with other women. Nothing significant had happened, nothing physical, anyway, until the slight Devon kiss tonight. Helen simply was not cut out to sneak around her wife's back. The time to face facts had arrived. She would have to leave Yalia. Yalia was showing no signs of changing her mind about not wanting children, and Helen would be forty years old tomorrow. She would need to get pregnant, or adopt, soon.

Sometimes Helen still had a hard time believing that gaga-about-kids Yalia had changed her mind. "I canceled the doctor appointment. I don't want kids anymore," Yalia said one day about a year and a half ago, and that had been that. Yalia was not wavering on her stance. Yes, the shooting had changed so much. Yalia could barely look at her little niece and nephew these days.

Helen did not want to hate her wife, but a tiny part of her did. She had married Yalia with the understanding they would have kids one day. After all, Yalia wanted kids more than anything, too. Then, presto! The shooting. Helen could not imagine how traumatic it must have been for Yalia. But that was three years ago, and judging from the kids issue, you would think the shooting had happened last week. It was unfair of Yalia to expect Helen to give up on kids as well.

Helen sighed. If a tiny part of her hated Yalia, a bigger part of her hated herself. After the no-kids declaration, Helen had begun to tune out of their marriage, plain and simple. Some days she treated Yalia like little more than a plastic plant in the corner. In turn, Yalia did the same. Helen could not remember the last time they kissed or had sex. I fucked up, Helen thought. I fucked up so badly. She should have been more understanding about the no-kids thing instead of withdrawing. If she had, who knew. Maybe Yalia would be ready by now to have children.

"Helen." Yalia's soft voice sounded from the hallway.

Helen jerked guiltily. She set her phone on the couch, screen down. "Hey, you," Helen said. Yalia's hair was tousled, dark curls tumbling past her shoulders. Her full name was Yalia Rose Yamaoto. Her paternal grandfather had been Japanese, and Yalia's heritage showed not only through her last name, but through her hair color and the slight slant to her eyes. Yalia had lovely bed hair. Always had. For a moment, Helen yearned to take Yalia into her arms, kiss her, run her fingers through Yalia's lovely bed hair. For life to be as it was before the shooting.

Yalia rubbed sleep out of her eyes. "How did the meeting go? Does Luke like how the book's progressing?"

Wow. Helen was taken aback at Yalia's questions. Was her wife showing interest in her? Double wow. "Um, uh, the meeting..." Helen swallowed. She could lie no longer. Lying was not Helen, and in that one second, carcasses blew into her brain, rotten, decaying, stinking, lying carcasses. "I have something to tell you," Helen whispered, and she went on to tell Yalia about the ad. About how Helen had been able to do nothing with these women. Did not want to. About how she desperately loved Yalia but was not ready to roll over and be sexless and childless for the rest of her life.

"I think we're finished," Helen admitted at last. "I'm forty years old tomorrow. I can't wait much longer for you to change your mind about having kids."

"I'm not stupid," Yalia snapped. "I know what you've been up to, flitting about on dates."

Flitting about on dates was inaccurate, but Helen let it go. The revelation did not surprise her; it made her want to reach Yalia once more. "Yalia, can we try counseling? One time? Please? Just one time. Try. We can work on the kids issue."

"You mean browbeat me into having a child."

"No."

Yalia directed her gaze to a framed caricature on the far wall. Helen and Yalia had gotten it done during their honeymoon in Myrtle Beach , South Carolina . Helen wondered if Yalia was thinking the same thing she was: Our marriage is a caricature. A sad, sad caricature.

"I want custody of the dogs," Yalia said.

Helen felt her temper rise. So this was how it would be. No fight, no protestations from Yalia. Yalia was truly going to choose not having children over Helen. Helen wanted to scream. She wanted to thump her chest and yell: You promised! You brought up having kids first! You wanted two boys and two girls. Get a grip!Helen wanted lots of red, lots of yellow, lots of dragon fire in her scream. She wanted to scream to swallow up both herself and Yalia.

Helen did not scream.

"Fine," Helen said, keeping her voice calm, maybe a bit icy. "Fine, Yalia. The dogs are yours. Happy?"

Yalia's chin trembled. "Who should move out? Are we going to try to be friends?"

Tears clouded Helen's eyes. This is for real. Shit. She went to her wife and put her arms around Yalia's firm body. Yalia wrapped her arms around Helen as well, which cheered her somewhat. "Let's talk tomorrow about who is moving out," Helen said. "Or talk later. Okay?"

"Okay," Yalia agreed in a whisper.

Chapter Two

Anne awoke at six a.m. She brushed her teeth but did not look at them. Her teeth used to be bad, and glancing at them only reminded her of these times. So, she wandered when she brushed her teeth. Better than staying in front of the mirror. She walked through her apartment, taking in the library, the neatly stacked books, the many paintings she had done, the living room with the security guard, who was usually Jordan , and back down the hallway to her bedroom. After brushing her teeth, Anne took a long, luxurious bath, complete with bubbles. Then she used a Ped-Egg to touch up her heels.

I want to paint today. Outside.

Anne let Jordan know and bundled up in her heaviest coat. She carried her paints and a chair. Jordan carried the easel and blank canvas. He set up camp a respectable distance from her, so distant that when he inevitably talked into his walkie-talkie, Anne could not hear his words. Sometimes, Anne actually felt like she was alone. Like she was free.

What shall I paint today? She would have to use her mind, for the courtyard's sole ornamentation was a skeletal tree. She could go back in and get something to serve as a model, but she did not feel like it. Anne wore gloves, thin gloves. Not the best to keep the cold from her fingers, but she would sacrifice comfort for mobility.

Hmm. Anne realized something. She had been approaching the courtyard's walls all wrong. Yes, they were high, white and foreboding. A terrible subject. But to paint on ...

" Jordan ? May I paint on the walls? I can get much more on them than on the canvas. Also, this space needs brightening."

Jordan frowned. He frowned at everything Anne said. He barked in his walkie-talkie. "Yes, ma'am," he said a few minutes later. "Only one section of wall to start with."

Anne chose her section, the farthest from the Icarus building, her prison. The skeletal tree had given her an idea. Anne dipped her brush into brown paint but changed her mind. She picked a fresh brush and went for purple. Her family tree would not have the usual brown trunk and brown branches. Anne painted a fat, solid purple trunk. The trunk had to be sizable, given how crazy her family tree was. Anne painted branch-spaces for her mother and father, got more purple, and then painted spaces for her brother and sister, and then for her husband, his parents and his siblings.

She painted the branch for her child.

She added two branches for her child's half-siblings by Katherine and Jane. After a moment's thought, she added branches for Katherine and Jane themselves, and her husband's other wives.

Anne stepped backward, then backward. Tremendous job. Despite the on-the-spur branch additions, the spacing was excellent. Not perfect, though. She could always make a rough draft sketch later today and paint over the tree tomorrow. Start anew. In any case, purple had been entirely appropriate. The tree was long and expansive. The branch-spaces curled downward like claws, like her husband's abusive power. Maybe she would add leaves later, after she added names.

Maybe leaves only with little Elizabeth 's branch.

"Ma'am." Jordan again. "Mr. Franklin is coming down for a brief chat."

"Very well." Anne did not like Josiah Franklin. The reasons were many, but oddly, the fact she was his prisoner was not reason number one. A time had arrived where he rarely stopped by to see her. However, now that he was dying, he dropped by daily. Sometimes more than once a day. Anne cleaned purple paint off her brush. She dipped it into pink paint. She painted pink grass--why the heck not? She would go psychedelic. Anne loved that word. Psychedelic, psychedelic.

Her life was psychedelic, indeed.

"Mr. Franklin, ma'am."

Anne continued painting psychedelic pink grass. Let Josiah Franklin come to her. His motorized wheelchair was smooth, but not smooth enough to be entirely silent on the brown, dead grass.

"Anne," Josiah Franklin said.

Anne stopped painting. "What?" She would make no move to sit. She would assert what little power she had over the man--this gaunt little dying creature who held her life in his hands. Pathetic.

"What are you painting?"

"My family tree. Or, rather, Elizabeth 's family tree."

"Ah."

Anne pointed out the branch where she would put Elizabeth 's name. "She goes here."

"Are you sure you do not want to see her again?"

"I am sure," Anne said. If she knew one thing, if she felt one thing so surely, so certainly in her bones, it was thus: her daughter should stay where she was. Her daughter should not become a prisoner like her mother.

"May I?" Josiah eyed Anne's brush.

"No."

Josiah clasped his hands in his lap, and a small smile touched his lips. "Do you remember your first lesson with Regina ? You were amazed at her style, at her subjects. Now look at you."

Anne refused to let Josiah's words sneak into the part of her that responded to flattery. "Why are you here? I am not telling you anything."

"I've, ah, made arrangements. Will make."

"Arrangements?"

Josiah's gaze roamed the family tree, settling at the top. "You realize I have a month left. At most."

"Yes."

Josiah eyed Anne speculatively, and she tightened her grip on the paintbrush. She had figured Josiah would leave her here, in the hands of his underlings, especially nasty Benjamin. But perhaps not.

"I've contacted my daughter. She is coming here today to meet with me. I have decided to tell her about you. She'll take care of you. She'll do better by you than Regina and I did."

Anne blinked. "Your daughter? Helen?"

A half-grin from Josiah. "Naturally."

Anne hated that the half-grin made her feel stupid. Naturally , Josiah had said . Meaning: You know full well I have but one child, and that is Helen. "You are dismissed," Anne said stiffly. "I am going to resume my painting."

"You have talent," Josiah said. "You truly do."

Anne did not reply. Josiah Franklin deserved no thanks, for anything. Anne selected black paint and pressed her brush against the wall. She would make a field of black poppies among the pink grass. A few moments later, she heard Josiah's wheelchair retreat.

Helen Franklin.

Anne was not sure how she felt about Josiah's news. With Josiah, at least Anne knew where she stood. Starting over with another person was not appealing. What would Helen Franklin do with her? How would Helen treat her, view her? Would Helen see Anne as a plaything too, a wondrous creature, or as a person?

Regina , Helen's mother, had shown Anne several pictures of Helen. Helen had tousled, shoulder-length blond hair and light eyes, the kind that were green some days and blue other days. Helen's nose was slightly crooked, maybe from an errant fist or a misthrown ball. Regina had not explained the story behind Helen's nose, and Anne had not asked. Helen was married, Anne knew that much. She had dogs, and her wife's name was Yalia.

And Yalia had killed a six-year-old child. Accidentally, but still... Regina had worried about Helen and Yalia a good bit after the shooting. Yalia was a damn fine cop, Regina Franklin said, until she was faced with a situation no one should be in.

Guns, Anne thought. Guns are no good.

She finished the poppy field and found herself wishing Josiah Franklin was not dying. Anne did not want, did not need, any more upheavals in her life.

"Ma'am," Jordan said. "Mr. Franklin says he apologizes for forgetting to tell you when to be ready. Be prepared to meet his daughter about two o'clock ."

Anne's chest was heavy. Today. Today. So quick.

"Today is Helen's birthday," Jordan went on. "Forty years old."

"How nice," Anne murmured. In other words, I am nothing but a present. A toy.

Chapter Three

“I am dying,” Josiah Franklin said. “I suppose you can tell.”

Helen could. Her first thought upon seeing him was: Dad's dying. She had not seen her father in exactly one year, since her thirty-ninth birthday--also the day of her mother's funeral. Then, Josiah's white hair was lush and thick, his chest strong, his posture confident despite his mourning. Now, he was in a wheelchair. He was a shrunken, wrinkled leaf. His skin hung loosely. His eyes were alive, though. Bright, startlingly, secretive green. As always.

Helen supposed she ought to bend down and hug him, but neither of them wanted a hug. "Cancer?” she guessed.

“Yes.”

Helen was glad her mother died in her sleep, of a heart attack. Unsuspecting, the best way.

“I have perhaps a month left at most,” Josiah said.

Helen attempted a reassuring smile. She was vaguely curious what kind of cancer her father had. Not curious enough to ask. The man in the wheelchair was her father in name and blood only. As far as Helen could remember, he had been gone, swept up in his work. She had put up with him because, for some reason, her mother loved him.

“I know I have not been a good father,” Josiah remarked.

Helen's reply was silence, and she kept her discomfort at bay. Her fault for coming. Her gut had told her not to meet with her father. She should have listened. Never mind her father's words on the phone: Defining moment of your life, Helen. Incredible birthday surprise. Please meet with me. Josiah was a brilliant man, a genius, she recognized that much. But stunted when it came to emotional intelligence. Or maybe he just did not care. She was embarrassed to tell people who her father was and what he did. Josiah Paul Franklin, billionaire. Yep, that billionaire, founder of defense contractor and weapons maker Icarus Corp. He was also owner of who knew how many smaller corporations and research foundations. Helen and her father connected over one thing, and one thing only: their passion for history.

“Well,” Josiah said. "How is Yalia? How are the Nintendo kids?"

"Fine. And fine." Not really. This morning, Helen had found Yalia, crying, in the bathroom. "I'm sorry," Yalia had said. "I'm so sorry. I know I'm being unfair." But she had said nothing about trying to salvage their marriage.

Helen surveyed her father's office. She had not been on Icarus property since she was a small child, not that she remembered much from these days. The office did not surprise her. Whatever his faults, Josiah Franklin was not a man of pretension and airs, and the simplicity of his office showed that. “What's this incredible birthday present you have for me? That you're dying can't be it.”

He chuckle-wheezed. “No, Helen Bear.”

She winced at the nickname, her father's eternal moniker for her. “Why am I here?”

A knock sounded. The man who entered was not handsome, but he had an air of confidence, of intelligence about him. He looked about fifty. He wore the Icarus security uniform, complete with a gun in a holster.

“Benjamin, you're right on time,” her father said. He beamed. With reverence. With love.

Helen narrowed her eyes. What's this? Her father going googly over a male security guard?

“Josiah.” Benjamin had the same love and reverence in his gaze.

“Meet Helen, my daughter.”

Benjamin executed a little bow and held out his hand. “How do you do, Dr. Franklin?” He had a rolling, mellifluous accent. Somewhat British.

Helen shook his hand. Smooth, soft. Not what she expected in a security guard. Benjamin's fingernails were meticulous. Curved. Manicured, most likely. The opposite of Helen's nails.

“Your father speaks highly of you, Dr. Franklin. I read both of your books. Perhaps you would be so kind as to autograph my copies? They're downstairs.”

“Certainly.”

Something was off about Benjamin's accent. Helen could not place what, and the fact bothered her. Because of her Tudor work, she had spent quite some time in England and in France , and knew all the regionalisms. What was off about Benjamin's accent? It was not quite modern, maybe, and such an odd mixture of American and British. Helen caught herself from wandering a pointless path. Benjamin was not someone worth wasting time on.

“Please follow me, Dr. Franklin,” Benjamin said.

*****

They descended ten floors, into the bowels of the Icarus building. Josiah, thanks to his motorized wheelchair, had no problem keeping pace with Benjamin and Helen. At the end of the first corridor, they took a right. They traveled the entirety of another corridor. Benjamin hung a left, into a room blanketed on one wall by video monitors. Helen counted twelve monitors, arranged in rows of three. Two of the monitors showed people. One was a man in the Icarus security guard uniform. He sat watching TV in what appeared to be a living room. The center monitor showed a woman curled up in bed. She was reading a book. She had short, dark hair, but further details were hard to make out because of how she was positioned.

“Anne's been with us three years,” Josiah said. “Three years and eight months, to be more exact.”

“She lives here?”

“Your second book. Loved this one.” Benjamin proffered Edward VI: The Reign of the Forgotten Tudor King.

“Where do you want me to sign?”

Benjamin proffered a purple pen. “The title page is fine.”

Helen wrote: To Benjamin, It was nice meeting you. Thank you for reading my books! - Helen Franklin

Benjamin handed her the other book, Anne Boleyn: Doomed Queen. On the title page, Helen simply signed her name.

“Thank you, Dr. Franklin,” Benjamin said.

Helen turned back to the wall of monitors. The woman--Anne, right?--was turning a page.

“What is she reading?” Josiah asked.

Benjamin shrugged. “Let's see.” He sat and pressed a button. The camera zoomed in. “ Fingersmith . Sarah Waters. Excellent book.”

Anne had long lashes, casting shadows on her cheeks. She glanced up for a moment, and Helen's heart froze. She knows we're watching. Anne had dark, dark eyes. Like coals, angry coals.

Helen looked down at her father. “What is going on?”

Josiah trembled to his feet, until he was standing as tall as he could, three inches above Helen's five feet eight. He placed a hand on Helen's shoulder. “Anne needs your help.” Desperation and--yes, panic, panic! tinged his voice.

“What's the incredible present?” Helen asked. Certainly not a woman on a monitor, reading a book.

“Anne's depressed,” Benjamin put in.

“I'm not a psychologist,” Helen snapped.

Benjamin winked. “Maybe you can reach Anne. No one else can.”

“Why would I be any different?”

Josiah swallowed. “Because you're not one of us.”

“I don't understand.”

Josiah sank back into his wheelchair. He nodded at Benjamin. “Helen and I are going in.”

Helen followed her father down another sterile, gray corridor. Florescent lights buzzed above them, and they did not have far to go. Josiah stopped at the third door on the left, a door labeled only by a two letters and a number: TT2. Josiah pressed his hand to a biometric key scanner, and it beeped. The door opened, and Josiah entered. Helen stepped into a room that was just as inviting as the corridor. On the wall facing her was another biometric key scanner. Her father repeated the procedure, but this time, as he rolled into the next room, she noticed him pat his hip. She knew that move. Yalia had done the same thing. Still did, although she had quit the police force. Automatic reflex, checking that the gun was there.

Why in the world did her weakling, almost-dead father have a gun on him? Did the woman reading in bed live here? Nothing made sense.

The next room was the living room from the wall of monitors. Same security guard on the couch.

“ Jordan ,” her father said. “This is my daughter, Helen.”

Jordan nodded an unsmiling greeting.

“How's Anne?” Josiah asked.

“Same.”

“Anne?” Josiah called, the strength and clarity of his voice surprising Helen. “Anne, it's Josiah. I've brought my daughter.”

“She lives here?” Helen asked. "She's lived here for more than three years?"

Josiah said nothing. He continued sitting in his damn robot wheelchair, tension bunching his shoulders. He and Helen waited. And waited.

Helen's patience ran out. “What is going on?”

“I had a script prepared,” her father said. “A speech. An explanation. I was going to explain to you--me and Benjamin, we were going to explain to you. You know what people say, the best-laid plans go awry. Best if you see for yourself. Then I'll explain.” Josiah beckoned for Helen to follow him. They passed several rooms, the doors all open. Helen recognized the rooms from the wall of monitors. A bathroom. A library, stacked top to bottom, wall to wall, with books. She glimpsed a painting, maybe of a green snowman? Want to see that one again. Another bedroom. The last door was closed, and Josiah knocked on it.

“Anne?” he called.

Nothing.

“I'm coming in, Anne.” He waited a moment then twisted the knob as if he knew it would not be locked. Helen felt a sliver of fear. Was her father keeping a woman prisoner? Why would he?

The bed was neatly made, and Anne stood in front of the nightstand. She wore blue jeans and a green polo shirt. Helen was drawn to her eyes again. Dark, dark eyes. Angry, vicious eyes. Also, somehow, defeated eyes, like Yalia's weepy, puffy eyes in the bathroom this morning. Yes, this woman was a prisoner.

Anne seemed about the same height as Helen. Where Helen had a few extra pounds on her and was curvy and generous of breast, Anne was almost like a rod, no curves, breasts the size of small apples. Her neck was slender and long, as if she had an extra cervical vertebra.

“Anne,” Josiah said, bowing his head.

Anne said nothing, and Helen noticed the other woman's hands were clenched into fists.

"This is my daughter, Helen. Helen, I have told Anne so much about you. She has read both your books. Did you enjoy them, Anne? You wouldn't tell me if you did.”

Anne's gaze burned into Helen. Hating Helen already.

Helen's heart went out to this Anne. What had her father, these Icarus people, done to traumatize her so?

“Anne, would it be all right if my daughter visited with you for a while?”

Anne betrayed no reaction.

“All right,” Josiah said. “I'm going to be in my office. You girls have fun. Take your time.” He closed the door softly behind him.

“Hello, Anne,” Helen said. “I don't know why I'm here, but I'm here.”

Anne looked about forty, too. Her skin was olive-colored but pale, what some people would call sallow or pasty. However, Helen did not like these words. In any case, sallow and pasty did not quite fit Anne, because Anne was lovely. She also had tiny, fine lines around her eyes.

Her eyes.

They really were arresting. Helen had never seen eyes that black. If ever there were a witch, she would have Anne's eyes. Black, black, black. Yalia's eyes were black too, but Anne's were black. Black with double emphasis. Triple emphasis.

Nothing from Anne, just continued clenched fists and a continued suspicious gaze.

“I'm a historian," Helen said, more from nervousness than from an effort to be polite. "I suppose love of history is the only thing I'm glad to have inherited from my father. I specialize in Tudor-era England . I've written a couple of books on the Tudors. Specifically, on Henry VIII's son, Edward VI. He's a neglected part of the family in contemporary study. Granted, nothing much happened while he reigned. He died when he was sixeen, but...” Helen caught herself wandering. Beautiful women tended to make her nervous, although she had not rambled like this on her recent dates. Move on. “The other book I wrote was on--oh. That's right. You read my books. What did you--”

Helen stopped.

She studied Anne's extra-long neck. The skin on Anne's neck was clear, but her shirt collar could be covering--

Anne.

Anne who?

Josiah on the phone: Defining moment of your life, Helen. Incredible birthday surprise. Please meet with me.

Little snatches and rumors floated back to Helen. Rustles that Icarus Corp. had been dabbling in making a time travel machine since before Helen was born. Josiah always denied the rumors, had continually claimed time travel was impossible, as much as he would like to think otherwise.

Helen shook off the ridiculous notion that had popped into her head. “I apologize, Anne. I have no idea why I am here. I'm sorry to have bothered you. Goodbye.”

Anne said nothing.

Her silence, the apprehension in her eyes, impaled Helen. “Why are you here?" Helen asked. "Are you happy here? My father said you've been here three years and eight months.”

Anne shook her head. No, I'm not happy , her expression said.

“Who are you, Anne?”

She opened her mouth. What Helen thought Anne said was: “Do you like Starbucks frappies?” Anne spoke slowly, stressing each syllable, as if she was concentrating on making her voice clearer, more legible. She spoke with a French accent, but like with Benjamin, something was off. Something not modern. Her tones were heavy and thick.

Helen concealed her surprise. “Did you ask if I like Starbucks frappies?”

“Do you?”

“Yes. Mocha, no whipped cream, nonfat, please add chocolate drizzle.”

Anne's lips curved into a slow smile. She had straight, white teeth. Impossibly white. Dental work? Plain good luck?

“I went to Starbucks a few times," Anne said.

“Do you want to go to Starbucks now?”

“I am not allowed.”

“Why not?”

“They are afraid a fade will happen.”

"I don't understand."

Anne shrugged, as if to say not my problem .

Frustration knotted Helen's stomach. Frustration at her father, for dumping her here on her birthday with this woman, this Anne, with no explanation whatsoever. No direction. No information. How the hell was this supposed to be a surprise? This Anne woman was delusional. Was this building also some sort of mental facility? Or perhaps Anne was intellectually challenged.

Anne's eyes glazed over. “Benjamin fades, also. Worse. His are uncontrollable. But he gets to walk around. I do not."

"The security guard? He's like you?"

Anne nodded.

Helen nodded back, but at what she was nodding, she did not know. “I'm sorry.” She had no idea what else to say, what to do, but she stayed, rooted in place. Something strange drew her to Anne, tied her to Anne. Maybe it was the witch eyes, the fear, the voice or the...

The whisper, the tickle of the impossible nudging the back of Helen's mind.

Defining moment of your life.

Helen returned to an earlier topic, a safer topic. “I bet I could persuade my father to let you go out with me. I'll ask. We'll go to Starbucks.”

“You can ask. He will say no.” Anne's voice was flat. “I am as much prisoner here as I was at home.”

“You want to walk out, walk right out.”

Anne laughed, high and shrill, startling Helen. “You really are not one of them. Maybe he will not let you out after today, either.”

“Of course he'll let me out. I'm his daughter.”

“I used to have a father,” Anne murmured. “Parenting back then was different, but some things about human nature remain constant. My father let me and my brother die to save himself. Helen Franklin, do not be so sure your father will release you.” Anne uncurled her fists, and Helen found what she was looking for before she was conscious she was searching. The snip of extra finger, like a nail. History had muddled which digit, or if there even was something.

The correct answer was: yes, there was something, on the right little finger. There the nail was, barely noticeable, but there.

Helen stared at it, and Anne stared at it, too. “I wanted it off,” Anne said, her voice vacant. “Your father said no.”

Helen was not sure how long she stared. Maybe only a second, maybe a minute, maybe ten minutes. However long it was, when she came out of her stupor, her knees were wobbly. Fury, astonishment and thrill shook her. She willed her body to steady, but her trembling grew more fierce.

TT2. Time Traveler 2?

Who was TT1? Benjamin?

Could this really be happening?

“Excuse me, Anne,” Helen said in as prim a tone she could manage. “I must get back to my father. It was nice to meet you.”

The death in Anne's eyes chilled Helen's bones. “Very well," Anne said.

“Excuse me.” Helen turned and fled.

*****

Anne made a point to note the time Helen left: two oh three p.m. , a Saturday. Helen had had been in the room five minutes. Time, so scarce to Anne in 1536, was her friend now. Not the vague concept of time, but concrete, red time, the numbers on her digital clock. Reassuring red time, ones and twos and threes and fours and fives and sixes and sevens and eights and nines. These numbers helped keep her sane and grounded. These numbers helped her measure.

Anne was not sure what to make of her captor's daughter. Helen Franklin was quite beautiful; Regina 's pictures had not done her justice. Helen was the kind of woman, whom back in Tudor England, Anne would either have despised, or been secretly in love with, and covered it up by despising her.

Anne, her first year here, had read both of Helen's books. She had read most of all the Tudor books, actually. She had also viewed Tudor films and television shows. Josiah, Benjamin and Regina wanted her to, and Anne agreed. Picking her battles. Mostly she skimmed the Tudor books. If nothing else, the books, movies and shows helped her pick up modern English. They hoped she would comment on what she read or saw, make some remark. Anne did not. Again, picking her battles. The books, the poor pitiful ignorant books. And they were better than the movies and shows! The books got so much wrong, and they were so bare bones, scratching the surface as if only the surface existed. And what the books got right…Anne particularly hated reading about her stepdaughter, Mary, known to the world now as the namesake of the alcoholic drink Bloody Mary. Anne had been horrid to Mary. Anne had been petty, jealous, vindictive, and Mary had died a wretch, unhappy, no doubt realizing at the last minute that the swollen tumor in her stomach was not her long-awaited child and that her non-Catholic half-sister, the witch's daughter, would be queen.

Elizabeth... Elizabeth .

Precocious Elizabeth, Anne's sole survivor, molded in the image of Henry VIII. The books said that when Elizabeth was an adult, she made people weep because she looked so much like her father. Elizabeth had been smart not to marry, not to cede her power and control to a husband. Or maybe she had been dumb not to allow herself the happiness and the pleasure of love, duty to her country be damned. After all, this was the country that killed her own mother, hapless, alive Anne.

Had been smart. Had been dumb.

Anne felt another weeping spell coming on. Had been. Had been!

Dear God. How could she be alive and well, and her daughter four hundred and nine years dead? The woman who sat on the British throne today was Elizabeth II, no direct relation of Elizabeth I. Or of Henry VIII, for that matter. For all of her husband's obsessing about male heirs, his genes lasted a pitiful generation. The royal family today was directly descended from Henry's elder sister, Margaret. Still, Anne liked the fact that the British queen's name was Elizabeth . Sometimes Anne pretended that Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor was her own Elizabeth Tudor. Sometimes Anne pretended that Elizabeth 's four children were her own grandchildren, and that Elizabeth's only daughter, the Princess Royal Anne, had been named after her dear old grandmother Anne Boleyn.

Now the clock read two oh seven. As good a time as any to sketch a draft of tomorrow's courtyard-wall painting. Elizabeth 's family tree was complete, and Anne was eager to continue with her newfound huge canvas. Anne set the clock face down and got her drawing pad and pencils. At the top of a fresh sheet, she wrote:

London , the morning of May 19, 1536

She drew a woman asleep. Herself. She had been worrying then about soiling her garments. Thing was, she was a queen, so she was determined to die with grace and dignity. With her bladder and bowels intact. She lay in bed and kept her eyes shut, lest she sense the creeping fingers of the sun. Lady Boleyn, her aunt by marriage, and Lady Kingston, wife of the constable of the tower, lay near her. Maybe they were pretending to sleep, too. In her head, Anne recited the sentences, polishing her last words: “Good Christian people, I am come hither to die, according to the law, for by the law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against it.”

The words were acceptable. Not what she wanted to say, because she was innocent. However, for the welfare of her daughter, Anne had to keep pledging her allegiance to the king and air no protestation about her sham of a trial. Elizabeth would not suffer for her mother's so-called sins. Anne continued in her head, lacing her words with double meaning and sarcasm: “But I pray God save the king and send him long to reign over you. For a gentler nor a more merciful prince was there never, and to me he was ever a good, a gentle and sovereign lord. And if any person will meddle me of my cause I require them to judge the best. And thus I take my leave of the world and of you all, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me.”

At this time she would draw a confident breath and kneel. Eyes clear, head held high. An innocent woman. Innocent woman found guilty of incest with her brother and of other adulterous acts.

No, she would not kneel just yet.

She would look into the crowd one last time, into the eyes of Englishmen and Englishwomen who brought food and their children. She would curse these people with her eyes, dare them to picnic over her spilled blood. Maybe they would behave with grace, as they had after her brother's death only two days before. The memory of George--lovely George, dead George, innocent George--forced Anne's eyes open.

Still dark. No sun. By nine o' clock a.m., she would be dead. She should be dead now. The execution had been postponed twice. Yesterday, at eight in the morning, she was supposed to have been beheaded. Then at noon yesterday, but the executioner from Calais was still delayed. Pray deliver me to you this morn, dear Lord. The waiting was more agonizing than the prospect of being without her head.

Anne pictured herself kneeling. What would her very, very last words be? Something ordinary? Something such as: “To Christ I commend my soul. Jesu, receive my soul...” And then the blow of the sword, would she hear its whoosh?--and her slender neck, formerly covered with love and kisses from His Majesty, would be no more.

“The sun.” The whisper rose from Lady Kingston.

George, dear brother, not long now. "The sun," Anne echoed. She felt the eyes on her, their presence stronger than ever. Not the gazes of Lady Boleyn and Lady Kingston, but the demon eyes. Anne was not sure what else to call them. She had felt them all her life. Invisible, watchful, curious, keen eyes on her. Not God's implacable eyes, but hungry, ravenous eyes. Some people said she was a witch; she had the devil's paw mark, the size of a strawberry, on her neck. A faint mark, quite faint, easy to cover with makeup. But there. She also had that twig of a sixth finger on her right hand. Maybe these people were right. Maybe she was a witch. She floated a silent prayer. Help me, whoever thou art. Help me die. Not tomorrow, but today. This morning. I cannot endure any longer. Deliver me to my paradise.

Anne dressed in a crimson kirtle first. Then a black damask gown, set off by a wide white collar. She must keep calm and composed. No matter what Henry declared, she was queen of England , mother of a legitimate heir. And she was innocent. God knew. Henry knew too. He had to.

To Christ I commend my soul. Jesu, receive my soul...

She turned to ask one of her ladies to bring a hood of black velvet. But the room was empty. Anne blinked. How? The guards had not--

“Your Majesty.”

Anne jumped at the voice, a man's. It was deep and gravelly, and different , and behind her. The Lord God? Anne's neck throbbed. Not the Lord God. No. The eyes. The invisible eyes were going to save her.

Anne turned to meet the owner of the voice. She beheld a light, a glorious white light. A man stepped out. Anne could not perceive him well, for the light was most dazzling.

“Will you come, Your Majesty?” The man held out his right hand, and Anne's neck throbbed again. Was this man proof she was a witch and indeed deserved to die?

“Your Majesty.” The man smiled, and his teeth--his teeth! White, straight, and without gaps. A desperate giggle escaped Anne, and she clamped her mouth shut. She was a queen. She would behave with grace and dignity, even if she was a witch after all.

Anne took the man's hand and stepped into the light.

Chapter Four

Yalia signed her name to Helen's birthday card. The card, store-bought, showed a balloon on the front. The pre-printed inside message read: To my lovely wife, happy birthday!

Helen had left almost two hours ago, called away by her father. Odd old rich man, that Josiah Franklin, but at least he had given Yalia the opportunity to run to the store and get a card. Helen would be gone a while. After the shooting and after Yalia quit the police force, she and Helen moved to Front Royal. The town was an hour and twenty minutes from D.C., and that was when traffic was good. Today was Saturday, but D.C. traffic was nearly always bad.

To my lovely wife, happy birthday! Yalia mentally adjusted the message so it would read: To my lovely soon-to-be ex-wife, happy birthday!

Yalia replayed Helen's anguish from the night before. The fear, the apprehension in Helen's green eyes. The wavering in her voice. The dread in Yalia's own soul. Helen had had enough, and there was no way Yalia could explain, no way she could make Helen understand.

Because they were over. No two ways about it. The end had come like a turtle, slow, but steady and purposeful. The end had become blacker, more fearsome, more sure with each day that passed after the shooting. Yalia did not blame Helen for clocking out of their marriage. Yalia had broken a huge promise, broken Helen's heart. And Yalia pretended she did not want sex anymore, that she did not feel the need to cuddle, to be with Helen anymore. To be with anyone anymore. Nothing was wrong with that, Yalia had told herself many times. Helen would adapt. She would adjust. She would grow to feel the same. They did not need human children. The dogs were enough. Hell, they could throw in a couple of cats, a couple of bunnies, for variety. Yalia wanted Helen to shut up about counselors, about therapy, about doctors, about date nights. Date nights: did Helen think Yalia was a prostitute? That if Yalia was replete with good food and drink, she'd spread her legs? Expose her dry, withered pussy? Magically forget she had killed a child?

Yalia bit her lip. Withered pussy was not exactly true. The past year or so, she had tried to masturbate. And she had come a few times. Maybe more than a few. Every time, really. Sometimes the shooting flashed in her mind, but more often than not, she was safe from memories while she jilled off. However, the masturbation was not borne of sexual desire, per se, but more of a desire to escape. To become something, and someone else, for a few minutes. Before the shooting, Helen and Yalia always slept naked. After the shooting, Yalia started sleeping clothed. After a while, Helen followed her lead. Many nights, Yalia had wanted to reach out and touch Helen. To kiss her. To sneak her hands into Helen's underwear, or guide Helen's hands to Yalia's breasts.

Yalia had been unable to. Simply unable to. And now we're over. We're done. Fork's stuck in us. Yalia imagined a solid, substantial fork: silver, perhaps six feet long. No, she would make the fork gold. Stop, Yalia. Stop what you're doing. Yalia hurt all over. Last night, after Helen's words, Yalia had felt like a weight was smacking her into a pancake. It was an awakening of sorts, screaming: "You're screwing up your life. The best person, the best woman, you will ever know is going to leave you. The love of your life is leaving you, and why in fuck are you letting it happen?"

Louis popped into Yalia's mind. Tell Helen you love her, Louis said. Tell her you want to have children with her. Because you do. You know you do.

Yalia blinked three times. Go away, Louis. Mercifully, he did. Many times, he did not. A few times, he told Yalia what he was up to in heaven. Of course, that was not Louis really, just Yalia's imaginings, Yalia being haunted.

Yalia hated what the shooting had done to her. She and her partner, Curt, had responded to a domestic violence call. A stepfather, a paranoid delusional, sat on a kitchen chair. In his lap was his six-year-old stepson, whom the father was calling Satan. At the six-year-old's temple was a gun. Held by dear old Daddy.

The boy's mother, a few paces from her husband and son, cried and pleaded, to no avail. Her face was bruised, and she refused police orders to leave the house. It happened like this , Yalia thought, as if she had not been there. The man swiveled the gun onto his wife, like the crack of a whip. Curt fired, hitting the man. Yalia fired a nanosecond later, nanosecond enough for the man to twist his six-year-old Satan stepson into the line of fire.

A shooting, a dead child. Was it any wonder Yalia did not want children anymore? Why was Helen sticking around, for Christ's sake? Helen needed to find someone more deserving of her than Yalia was. Helen, she was special. Very. She would be a wonderful mother.

"Woof! Woof! Woof!" Luigi, probably at the mail truck.

I love Helen. I do. And she's leaving me. Was she, Yalia Rose Yamaoto, going to let her wife leave without a fight? She could have children. She knew she could. She wanted to. Perhaps the time had come to stop punishing herself.

Yalia studied the card. Damn that card-balloon. This was the best she could do? She grabbed a piece of red construction paper. She would make her wife's card herself.

*****

Yalia finished the birthday card for Helen fifteen minutes later, but it did not feel complete. Yalia rummaged through her art scraps bag and found glitter. That will do.She added the glitter and let the dogs out. A light snow was falling, reminding Yalia of the glitter on the card.

Yalia loved watching the dogs. Could watch them all day. They were her best escape from reality. The four dogs had developed their little gang. Their little way of relating to one another. They went everywhere together. Slept together. They were all mutts but looked nothing alike. Mario, the eldest dog at nine years (chronologically, not in dog years) seemed to be mostly Labrador retriever but with some Dalmatian. Toad, eight years old, was ugly. No way around it. He was tiny, mostly hairless and was missing a few teeth. Yalia had gotten Toad last year from the SPCA. She had seen in his ugliness what she felt deep in her own soul. Toad was sweet, though. Extremely. Helen had said nothing about the new dog except to ask his name. She flinched, yes, because dang, Toad was ugly, but Helen said nothing.

Luigi was seven years old and had the best brown eyes Yalia had seen. Bowser, the sweetheart and the baby at five years old, was fat and cuddly.

Yalia loved them all. She would die for them. They were better therapy than the chirpy happy Bo Peep the police had made her see after Louis's death.

She checked the time on her cell. When would Helen be back? Why had her father summoned her, and so urgently? Josiah never had made a big deal of birthdays.Do I have time to run back out and get maybe a cake, ice cream? A present, not just a card?

Helen would like that. Would really like it. But it might send a signal Yalia was not sure she wanted to send. She did love Helen, and so maybe she should let Helen go. She should not fight for her wife. She had put Helen through enough.

Yalia realized something. She did not know Louis's birthday. Odd, wasn't it? She had shot him. She had ended his life. And she did not know his birthday. Google would probably tell her, so Yalia pulled up the search engine on her phone. She typed: Louis Louis Gambalta hostage killed by D.C. police birthday when?

Yalia had to click on a few links, but she had her answer at last: July 2.

*****

Helen found Josiah in his office. "What the hell? You invented a time machine and snatched Anne Boleyn?"

Josiah ran a hand through the remnants of his hair. "Essentially, yes. Aren't you happy?"

Helen let out a shriek. "Why would I be?"

"Anne Boleyn. Your life's work."

"That shows how much you know me. My primary focus is Edward VI, my secondary--"

"Anne Boleyn!" Josiah was gleeful.

"You don't screw around with the space-time continuum!" Benjamin. Benjamin was Benjamin Franklin, but he had lost weight. Gotten contacts. Made sense. He was an indirect ancestor of hers, a many times great-uncle or something. No wonder Benjamin had freedom. Josiah Franklin worshipped the man. Hell, good old Ben was probably in charge of the whole shebang. And I thought he was a simple security guard.

"We saved Anne's life," Josiah was saying. "We got her the morning of her execution."

"We? You and I? There's no we."

Her father grunted. "The organization."

"What's it called?"

"The name is rather boring, I'm afraid. The History Project."

"You didn't save her life. She still died."

"In one timeline, yes. Maybe in the only timeline."

Helen's head hurt. She knew more about time travel than most people did. She understood the grandfather paradox, understood mutable time lines, understood about the possibility of wormholes helping facilitate time travel. Still, this.

This!

Helen clenched her jaw shut but could do nothing about her ragged breathing. She refused to think about Anne any longer. If she stopped to dwell on her father's prisoner, she just might cry. With joy. Weep with the joy that she had actually conversed with Anne Boleyn, had seen in person the beautiful little sixth finger of the doomed queen of England . Helen yearned to return to the woman, to look deep into Anne's raven black eyes, take her hands into hers, and ask so many questions.

Did you love your husband?

Was it your intention all along to overthrow Cardinal Wolsey?

Did you enjoy holding your daughter? What did she feel like? What was your last time with her like?

Why did your marriage to the king spiral downward so fast? Some scholars said Anne was undersexed, and that was how she was able to resist Henry's advances for years. That after she finally let him into bed and they were married, and he saw how tame she was, it was too late for him. Anne was pregnant with the future Elizabeth I, Anne was Henry's wife, and the damage was done. Other scholars said the opposite, that Anne was oversexed, that her years at the French court of Francis I had rendered her a much better lover than Henry could ever be. The king was jealous, they said, when he bedded Anne and realized she was no virgin, that she was his better in the gymnastics of sex.

Helen's theory, or as she called it, her wishful thought, was that Anne was a lesbian trying to make her way in a ruthless, heterosexual world. Helen had shared this theory with no one except Yalia, long ago. She had no shred of proof to back up her theory. But one question Helen would never need to ask: Was Anne guilty of the charges the king brought against her?

"You're committing a human rights violation," Helen argued. "Anne Boleyn is a person. You're keeping her prisoner."

"What am I supposed to do? She tried to escape once. I can't trust her."

"Tell me what happened."

"We went into Starbucks, and she faded into nothing. Luckily, the place was not crowded, and she reappeared four minutes later in the exact same spot. She had on the same clothes, same everything, as before she faded. She said she'd lived those four minutes in her own time, in the same clothes she had then, with the same people. She was four minutes closer to her execution. She faded under her own will many times after that. It's some sort of superpower. She won't tell me how she does it." Josiah scrunched his face. "If she fades in a public, crowded place, she could run away when she reappears. We'd never see her again. Or another person would be standing in her spot, and Anne's reappearing would kill them both."

"She's not chattel."

Josiah heaved a weary sigh. "Save your breath, Helen Bear. In a few weeks, maybe days, you may do what you wish with Anne."

"You're leaving me Anne Boleyn when you die?"

"You'll take good care of her. Better care than I could. I made terrible mistakes with her. I advise you, however, to keep her here in this building. This is her home. Keep her secure."

Helen saved impossible thoughts for later-- I am going to inherit Anne Boleyn, what, how? "Is Anne going to die? In 1536, I mean."

Josiah gave an anxious cough. "Maybe there is but one timeline, and this always happened. Every time she fades, she gets closer to her execution. Every time Benjamin fades, he progresses in age, too. But Anne can control her fades. Benjamin can't. When he fades, he's gone longer. Last month, he was gone for a week our time. Five years his time. It's worrisome, but so far, history has not changed. Benjamin is working on a proportionality life force equation that may explain--" Josiah stopped and half-smiled. He studied Helen a long moment. "I have reason to believe that once Anne and Benjamin meet their deaths in their original times, they will stabilize here. Their power to fade will be gone."

"Why wouldn't they die in their original times and never return here?"

Josiah looked away. "There was another," he murmured. "Time Traveler Zero."

Oh, great. Helen had a vision of half of Earth's population being time travelers, unbeknownst to her.

"Time Traveler Zero died in her original time. But she lived here after she died in her original time."

"Who is she?"

"No one you know."

Helen let the matter drop. She had enough to worry about with her inheritance of TT2. "Anne Boleyn. You're leaving me Anne Boleyn as if she were a house."

Josiah grimaced. "Anne has not responded as we'd hoped. She has refused to discuss her life, her history. She refuses to substantially answer questions." Josiah's expression turned wistful. "We had high hopes for Anne. Such high hopes. Before we retrieved her, we outfitted elegant apartments for her in Tudor style, Tudor decorations. We devoted one of our workers to becoming a transition specialist to work with Anne, ease her transition, help her learn to write and speak modern English and so forth. When she arrived, we all wore Tudor clothes, and..." Josiah shrugged. "She was innocent. We saved her life. Would you rather we stood by and let her die?"

"She had windows in the tower. She doesn't here. She's in the basement!"

"We let her outside every day. Getting her was Benjamin's idea, by the way, after he read your book on her. He thought it would please you."

"And you do what Benjamin wants you to, is that it?"

Josiah did not reply.

"How long has Benjamin been here?"

"Ten years, but his fades did not start until after Anne's. The matter is quite perplexing."

"Why not Edward?"

"Edward?"

"Why did you not get Edward VI? Even as a baby or as a child?"

"Well, he..." Josiah's brows furrowed "Helen Bear, practically no one knows who he is. Sorry."

"What do you want from Anne?"

Josiah's expression went blank. Cooperation, that was what he wanted. Gushing thanks from Anne. Complete and total obedience. He wanted to break her, turn a wild, passionate, completely human queen into a servant. Josiah wanted to do what Henry VIII could not.

"Never mind," Helen muttered. "What happens to Benjamin?"

"Benjamin is taken care of."

"What does that mean?"

"He is going to continue our work here. Solve the problem of his fades and, Lord willing, get the time machines running again. They stopped working after Anne. If we are lucky, Benjamin and I will meet again after I die."

"Meet in the past?"

Josiah proffered a skeletal grin. "Precisely."

"Get the time machines working again? You haven't learned anything, have you? Your project is a mess, and you have no idea what you are doing. What the hell is wrong with you?"

A muscle twitched at Josiah's jaw.

Helen's thoughts were dull, disquieting, and all over the place. She was Helen Franklin, Helen Eliza Franklin, a perfectly ordinary woman with a failing marriage and four dogs, one of them freaking ugly. She was a regular Jane. She was not some freaking time traveler's caretaker.

Stay calm. Think. One fact about Anne jumped out and grabbed Helen. Anne Boleyn had lacked the capability to form true friendships with women, although with one apparent exception: Lady Lee. Anne clicked with men. Probably she had the ambition and mindset of a man and did not like to bother with society women's idle chatter. Could she, Helen, break through the barrier of--

What are you doing, Helen Eliza Franklin? You're not thinking about keeping your father's secret. You can't.

"How do you know I won't walk out and report you?" Helen asked.

Her father's eyes were sad. "Because you don't want to hurt Anne any more than I've hurt her. Being in the middle of a media storm would be even less of a life for her. How about it, Helen Bear? Want to see her file?"

*****

One thing about Josiah Franklin: he loved technology, but he loved paper, too. The file he directed Helen to was paper, and about five inches thick. "TT2" read the label at the top of the file. The first page was a table of contents with page numbers and headers reading:

Overview

Biographical Summary

Historical Portraits

Modern-Time Photos

Rationale

Retrieval

Adjustment (first week)

Adjustment (second, third, fourth weeks)

Adjustment (first year)

Adjustment (second year)

Adjustment (third year)

Time Fades

Historical Information from Time Fades

Medical Records (Dental, fertility, etc.)

*** For video of interviews, please see yellow chip.

*** For complete video surveillance, please see red chips for year one, blue chips for year two, green chips for year three.

Helen started with the overview.

The History Project (in the person of Josiah Paul Franklin, from 2008) retrieved Anne Boleyn, consort queen of England, on the morning of May 19, 1536, approximately two and a half hours (six-thirty a.m.) before her recorded death of about nine o' clock a.m. Ms. Boleyn came willingly, with a smile. After a fairly good first week, she has not adjusted according to expectations. As of this writing, she has been in modern times about three years and seven months. She alternates between embracing and hating modern technology. She has, however, learned to cook with a high degree of skill using modern equipment. She claims to enjoy the cooking and has picked up modern English well. She enjoys reading novels.

She refuses to give substantial interviews. Her gratitude to The History Project for saving her life quickly transformed into a suspicion that continues to this day. She believes, perhaps not surprisingly, given her background, that The History Project is a devil or a witch. Ms. Boleyn apparently maintains her belief in God.

In 2010 at a Starbucks, one year to the very date of her retrieval, Ms. Boleyn experienced a controlled time fade that lasted four minutes. She said it was her first fade, and we have no reason to believe it was not. She came back pale and shaken. However, to test her newfound power, she quickly performed several more fades in the Starbucks. She will not discuss how she is able to harness this power. Her fades seem to happen in real time, both in the modern world and in 1536. Ms. Boleyn says that each fade moves her closer to her execution. She further says that her life, such as it is, seems to be progressing normally in 1536, according to history. In a rare moment of cooperation with us, she admitted that she attempted to change recorded history by trying to escape her jailers, but her body would not cooperate. Her experiences, and these of the other time travelers, seem to indicate the presence of a single, unbroken time line. What happened, happened. Eventually, Anne Boleyn will most likely die in 1536. The question is: Where is Anne in her life here when she dies in 1536? The experience of Time Traveler Zero indicates the high possibility that if Anne were to allow herself to be executed, she would stabilize here in modern times. It is a big risk for her to take, though. We can only hope her death in 1536 is her choice, perhaps a choice she makes when she has lived a full life in this time and is ready to pass on. Perhaps when, or if, she dies her natural death in modern times, she has no choice but to live the rest of her life in 1536.

She is aging normally in modern times.

Chills broke out across Helen's arms. Josiah's God-play could only end in disaster. "Tell me who Time Traveler Zero is."

"It is irrelevant. Watch this video," Josiah suggested.

"Fine."

A clear, crisp image popped up on the television. Josiah, vibrant and outfitted in Tudor garb, complete with a purple doublet. He looked ridiculous, like the pretender he was. "I am here," he said, "on Monday, the nineteenth of May 2008 . With me is Anne Boleyn, consort queen of England from 1533 to 1536. Twelve hours have passed since her retrieval. This is our first videotaped interview." He spoke giddily, excitement running his words together.

The camera swiveled to reveal Anne. Her hair was shiny and flowed to mid-back. She had changed out of her execution outfit; she wore tan corduroy pants and a white T-shirt. Helen wanted to laugh. So the modern man was dressed like an old-time man, and the old-time woman was dressed in modern clothes.

Helen paused the video and flipped to the "Modern-Time Photos" section in the file. Her father had not disappointed. The first photo was aptly named: "First Photo, Taken Two Seconds After TT2's arrival in 2008."

Well. Well.

Most of the eyewitness descriptions had been correct after all, but Anne was not wearing the--Helen stopped herself. Anne was retrieved two and a half hours before her execution. Plenty of time to modify her final outfit. Helen flipped through the rest of the photos, noting the not-great state of Anne's teeth when she arrived and resisting the urge to linger on Anne's dark, mysterious, compelling eyes. She was violating Anne's privacy enough already.

Helen continued the video interview.

"Your Majesty," Josiah said, curtsying with his head and affecting a British accent.

Anne smiled back uncertainly. She did not show her teeth.

"Tell me who you are," Josiah continued.

Anne swallowed. "Anne Boleyn Tudor. Is that how you wanted me to state it?" Helen had to replay the words several times. Even with Helen's discriminating ear, Anne was hard to understand. Her modern English speaking skills had progressed immensely.

"Anne Boleyn Tudor is your name, so yes, as we discussed. If you do not understand me, stop me. Okay?" Josiah said.

"I will."

"I will stop you also, if I do not understand."

Anne nodded.

"What happened this morning, Your Majesty? In 1536?"

"I heard your voice. I perceived a light of the most glory and entered it with you."

Josiah grinned encouragingly. "Let's go back a bit. You are married, correct? To the king of England ."

"Yes."

"Do you love His Majesty?"

"His Majesty is a most goodly prince."

"Is that your true belief? You can speak your mind. We will not punish you."

"Am I a witch?" Anne whispered, her eyes large and round.

Josiah laughed. "No, my dear queen. You are no witch. Answer the question. Did you love your husband? Do you?"

Anne did not answer. Her expression was frozen, fear in her eyes. Yalia used to volunteer at shelters for battered women. Helen had gone with her once. That was enough. Too depressing. Helen preferred the comfort, the sameness, of old documents, of hard-to-read English. She hated the look in the battered women's eyes, the same look in Anne's eyes on the television. Anne Boleyn had not been battered in the traditional sense, but she had been abused, sure enough. Her father and uncle had practically put her out to hang, her husband had killed her brother and four of her friends, was going to kill her, and now this strange man with this strange voice who was probably a devil was claiming she would not be punished if--but she would be punished. Why would she not be?

"I love His Majesty," Anne said, her voice quavering. She was lying, and Helen stopped the video. Her father had approached Anne all wrong. Benjamin Franklin's retrieval had obviously gone smoothly and surpassed Josiah's wildest expectations. No doubt Benjamin had been thrilled to find himself in modern times and had waxed eloquent about his life.

However, Anne Boleyn was not Benjamin Franklin. Enough of this crap.

Chapter Five

When the knock sounded on the door, Anne, as usual, made a point to note the time (three fifty-five p.m.; Helen had been gone almost two hours) but did nothing else. She knew the knock had to be Helen's. The other knocks were different. Another knock came, soft and hesitant, and then a: "May I come in?"

"The doors do not have locks."

"I don't want to presume to...I don't know."

"They monitor me," Anne called. "On camera, everywhere. In the bathroom. They record what I say. They are recording our words right now. So whether you enter or not matters little."

The door opened. Helen was ashen, but Anne had no intention of making matters easier for her. She sent Helen a steady, impaling gaze. Anne had to admit, though, that she had liked chatting with Helen earlier. Until then, the only woman Anne had interacted with since her retrieval was Regina Franklin.

Helen wobbled to a stop in the middle of the room. She placed her right foot slightly behind her left, dipped her head, bent her knees and curtsied. "Your Majesty."

Anne kept her face still. How long had it been since someone curtsied to her? Called her "Your Majesty?" Her first week here, nay, her first month here, they had been rats scurrying about, curtsying, "Your Majesty"-ing rats. The worst was Benjamin Franklin. He curtsied with snide amusement in his eyes, in his voice. He undressed her with his eyes, too. No doubt the shine eventually would rub off for Helen Franklin, but for now, Anne liked having a subject again. Anne was a queen. She was a queen! A QUEEN! She deserved the corresponding respect. She wished she could whitewash her "date night" with Benjamin, which occurred about a month before her first fade. Benjamin had set up a fancy table and a fancy meal. After dinner, he had grabbed Anne and tried to kiss her. She pushed him away but not before she felt the degree of his arousal. Appalling.

Anne rose from the bed. "Lady Franklin."

Red smeared Helen's cheeks. "Lady? I'm not--"

"Please," Anne said. "Humor the old dead queen."

"Right. Yes, of course."

Awkward silence.

"How are you?" Helen asked.

"How am I?"

"Yes, how are you, Your Majesty?" The question, the concern, seemed sincere, but Anne saw adoration fill Helen's eyes, an adoration absent earlier. The same adoration they had displayed, at first. They, who had their prize, their queen, their TT2, their witch.

Shall I tell you what you are thinking, Lady Franklin? You are thinking: I cannot believe it. I am in the same room as living, breathing Anne Boleyn. How shall I get her to answer my questions? What is the best way to get into her good graces? Will she sign my books? Oh, this is unbearable, this secret! I have to tell someone. But whom?

"How am I? I am alive, and my daughter is four hundred nine years dead," Anne replied.

"The time machines are broken. They cannot get Elizabeth ."

"It matters not. I do not want this curse upon Elizabeth . It is right to let her stay where she is." The way Josiah had explained the situation to Anne was thus: Every time they tried to set the time machine to various dates and latitudes and longitudes to get Elizabeth , the machine simply would not work. They did not know why. It did not work at all, period, not anymore. No return trips. If they wanted to take Anne home, they could not. They built other time machines. These, too, failed. The only visitors from the past, it seemed, would be Benjamin Franklin, Anne Boleyn and Time Traveler Zero. Anne had a good suspicion who Time Traveler Zero was no confirmation. Yet.

"My father said you have been home a few times--many times--since you got here," Helen said.

For a moment, Anne saw the browns and grays of the crowd. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to disassociate from the emotion of the moment. She would not give Helen Franklin anything.

"Is the smell different?" Helen asked gently.

The question was unexpected. Very. "Yes," Anne said, giving Helen points for originality. "The smell. Being in this time has spoiled my nose." Modern people in this place called Arlington , Virginia , United States of America , smelled good. But sterile.

"Do you like the smells here?"

"Shall I eventually perish under the blade of the sword, do you think, Lady Franklin?" According to the books, Sir William Kingston, constable of the tower, had escorted Anne to the scaffold. So far, history was as it was. Some two thousand people had turned out to witness the spectacle of her death. Anne's last words had been exactly as she practiced in her mind that last morning in 1536 before the sun rose.

Helen's jaw tensed. "Is that what you want, to die?"

"It depends when you ask me."

"I am asking you now."

Anne gave a humorless laugh. "My execution was postponed two times. I was supposed to die May 18. The executioner from Calais was delayed. And then he still did not arrive, and my death was scheduled for the morning of May 19. Only, Lady Franklin, my heart beats nearly five hundred years later. Today you ask me what I want. Today I say I am glad for it, glad to be alive. Tomorrow I might not be so happy."

"You're alive. You go home. And you keep bringing yourself back here."

"Yes," Anne whispered. "I do." She saw on Helen's face that Helen understood. Anne, like Helen, loved and hated Josiah Franklin at the same time.

"May I sit?" Helen asked.

Anne nodded her assent, and they sat on the bed, across from each other. Helen asked Anne how she passed the time. "I read," Anne said. "I cook. I take long baths. I watch television. I walk outside. I paint. I play video games. I dance to a Zumba fitness program. I ride on the exercise bike and the elliptical trainer. I parktake in the conveniences of modern life. In other words, I drift. And you, Lady Franklin, how do you pass your days?"

Helen gave a little laugh. "I used to pass many days with Your Majesty. I traveled to places you have been and searched for documents you wrote. Your alleged birthplaces--do you realize that history knows not the year of your birth, or even the place of your birth? Were you born at Blickling Hall in 1505?"

"You surmised that in your book."

Helen smiled, a cute, impish smile. "Am I right?"

Anne found herself drawn to Helen's smile. Drawn in that way. Like she had been drawn to these women she wanted to kiss and make love to. This will not do."Lady Franklin, do you imagine I do not perceive your plan? I am no fool."

"What?"

"You are on their side, pretending to be my advocate."

"I'm not, Anne. I mean, Your Majesty. I promise you, I'm not. My father is dying. He won't live a month. After he's gone, you are my responsibility, and I don't know what to do. What do you want me to do? Tell me. I want to help you."

"For now, I should like to rest. Good afternoon, Lady Franklin."

Anne could tell her words stung, for something flared far back in Helen's eyes, some glimmer of hurt and pain. But no argument came. "Very well, Your Majesty. As you wish." Helen got to her feet.

Wait. Do not go.

Helen paused, as if Anne had spoken aloud. But she had not. She was sure of it.

"Your Majesty?" Helen asked. "Were you going to say something?"

For a second, so quick Anne was not sure at first it was happening, she dropped her gaze to Helen's breasts. Helen's nipples were visible points through her shirt. Anne wondered what color the nipples were: red, pink, brown? What did they taste like? Were they sensitive? All this Anne wondered in a second's spark, until she realized she was looking.

She brought her gaze back up to Helen's face. The look they exchanged took a mere heartbeat, but it was long enough for something to happen, long enough for Helen's expression to shift. Long enough for something primal to pass between them. Long enough for the area between Anne's legs to roar to life.

"I used to be queen of England . Now I am but a doll for some grubby American. A plaything."

"I am not my father."

"You are dismissed," Anne said icily, but God help her, she did not want to, she absolutely did not want to, but she dropped her gaze to Helen's breasts for another brief moment.

*****

After Helen left the Icarus building, she drove to the bar down the street. She was not much of a drinker. She had nothing against alcohol, per se. She just liked having her wits around her at all times.

Well, forget having her wits about her. She was Anne freaking Boleyn's caretaker. Caretaker-to-be, anyway. Helen ordered a shot of vodka, then another. She ordered a third. Might as well. No sense spending this birthday Saturday at home with a wife lost in her own demons. Helen certainly did not feel like having the moving-out talk today.

Her insides were a mess. Her wild theory about Anne Boleyn was right. Or maybe the look was wishful thinking on Helen's part. For an instant, Anne's eyes had been open, hopeful, and scared, very scared. Begging Helen to help her. To make her a woman again. I could go home and clean. Get the place ready for Anne to move in. Yeah, right. Anne could not move in with Yalia around. Was Helen crazy? Thinking about moving Anne Boleyn in with her? Well, where else would Anne go? Her life held more in store than being a prisoner of Icarus. Than being stuck in that damn building. But what would Helen do with her?

The situation was impossible. Helen was leaving Yalia and could get an apartment, a two-bedroom apartment. But... Ask Anne again what she wants.

"She's my father's problem," Helen whispered. "I won't let her become mine." She would do what Yalia had been doing: avoid the problem until it left her.

Helen wished the bar had a couch. What was the bar's name, anyway? K-something. Or C-something? Now, the couch at home was comfy. Oh, yes. Helen ordered a fourth shot, but with a glass of water as well. All Tudor historians would kill to be in her place. Helen did not want Anne Boleyn in the here and now, though. She wanted Anne a long-dead mystery, comfortably at a distance. Easy study, conjecture. History was supposed to be history for a reason.

Anne Boleyn is dead. She is not my problem. Period. My problem is my wife. My problem is what to do with this craptastic gooey blob that is our marriage.

"Hey," the bartender said. "You might wanna pace yourself, or I'll have to do it for you."

"Fuck off," Helen muttered under her breath.

*****

Yalia checked the time when she heard Helen come in. Ten oh seven p.m. Helen had been gone too long. Yalia had been tempted to call or text. She had not. Helen would have her reasons for staying away. It was not like Yalia had gotten cake and ice cream, anyway. Helen only had a dumbass construction-card paper to come home to.

Shuffle shuffle clank. Helen was walking like she was drunk. Is she? Come to think of it, Yalia had not heard Helen's car pull in. A cab must have dropped her off. That would have been pricey. Against her better judgment, Yalia got out of bed.

Helen was sprawled on the couch. Except sprawled was the wrong word. Helen's limbs were akimbo, unnaturally akimbo. She should be yelping in pain, but her eyes were closed. The alcohol smell hit Yalia as she approached. Yep. Helen was drunk. Something bad must have happened.

"Helen?" Yalia ventured.

No reply.

Yalia shook Helen.

"Wha...what?" Helen rubbed at her eyes.

"Where have you been?"

"Out."

"What did your father want?"

"What do you care?" Helen snapped.

"I..." Yalia wished the dogs were with her. One of them, at least. A dog she could pet, a dog she could distract herself with. But, no. The dogs were sound asleep in bed. Yalia was on her own. Would that be a good name for a band? Yalia on Her Own. Or maybe:

Yalia Childless.

Yalia Trying to Care.

Yalia Trying Really Hard.

Of course not. Sucky names.

"I do care," Yalia whispered. "I made you a birthday card."

"Thanks," Helen mumbled.

"What was she like, the woman you kissed?" There. Yalia would admit it, at least to herself. Jealousy had gnawed at her since Helen told her about the kiss.

Helen swallowed. "She was...she was..."

"Was she pretty? Butch? Femme?"

"In between. Tomboy."

"What's her name?"

" Devon ."

"Nice name."

Helen gave a little smile. "Not as nice as Yalia."

"Thank you."

Helen pressed her hands over her eyes. " I'm...shit."

"I love you. I always will. You should go. Be free. You can do better than me. I'm sorry I can't give you what you need."

Helen gulped hard, and then she was crying. Yalia moved to hug her, but Helen shoved her away. "Don't. I think I'm going to throw up."

"I don't care."

"I need you, Yalia. I really need you. Daddy needs me to do something for him, and I can't do it alone. And Daddy is dying."

"Dying? I'm sorry."

"Me too. I think." Helen's hands flew to her mouth, but too late. She puked, all over Yalia.

Chapter Six

Helen spent the next couple of weeks teaching her classes at Gallaudet and pondering ridulcata. Pondering how to fit a dead beheaded consort queen of England into her life. Some days, Helen searched for two-bedroom apartments. Once, she got as far as nearly filling out an application.

Yalia had asked Helen a few times what Josiah wanted her to do. Helen brushed the question off with something along the lines of: I'll tell you later. I need to think about it. If she had been sober, she never would have mentioned the matter to Yalia. How was Helen supposed to ask her wife: "Want to baby-sit Anne Boleyn while I'm at Gallaudet? Might as well, right? You work at home, and let's face it, you don't do shit." Yalia had a private investigator's license and did the odd case here and there, but she was basically a PI in name only. Yalia's way of continuing to run away from what she had done.

Yalia's I do care and her I love you. I always will weighed on Helen. These, and the birthday card. The birthday card had been odd, with its glitter, yellow smiley face and crayon message: To my lovely wife, happy birthday! At least Yalia had tried. Her eyes with the I do care had been begging Helen to understand just a while longer. To stay. To give her just a little more time.

Anne and the ridiculousness of her situation were easier to think about than Yalia. What am I going to do about Anne? Helen could leave Anne in Benjamin's care, but Anne's open, hopeful eyes haunted her, just as Yalia's pleading eyes had. Helen could not abandon Anne. Or Yalia.

Home to Helen used to be a one-bedroom DuPont Circle apartment. The place was three blocks from the metro, and Helen had loved living there. Sure, the place had been cramped sometimes, especially with the dogs. But the apartment was not where Helen lived now. The Front Royal farmhouse stood on fifty acres of land. Helen missed the city, but at least the house had extra bedrooms. Bedrooms without children. The first spare bedroom Helen already used for her office. The second bedroom contained a mishmash of junk and furniture, but it could be whipped into shape easily enough for Anne.

If need be.

"The bedroom with the junk," Helen said to Yalia on the fifteenth day after she met Anne. The time had come for Yalia to know. Yalia was good about keeping secrets. And, who knew, maybe having Anne would draw Yalia and Helen closer. Yalia would have someone else's troubles to think about, and therefore, less focus on her own.

Yalia raised an eyebrow. "What about the bedroom?" She had just finished bathing Bowser and was in a crouch to dry the dog off.

"I'd like to do something with it," Helen said.

Wriggle wriggle wriggle went Bowser in the towel, what Yalia called delight wriggles.

Yalia let Bowser go, and the pudgy dog took off with an excited bark. Yalia drew herself up to her full height, and her beauty struck Helen, so hard Helen was rendered breathless for a second. Yalia Rose Yamaoto was one damn lovely creature.

"Are you moving into the bedroom?" Yalia asked tentatively.

"Do you want me to?"

Yalia looked away. "No." She moved her gaze back to Helen. "Did you like your birthday card? You never said."

Helen jammed her hands into her jean pockets. "I loved it. Thank you."

"I wanted to get you cake and ice cream. I don't know why I didn't. Let me get you some now. We'll have a proper party."

"Maybe later. We need to talk about the bedroom."

"The bedroom. Okay."

Helen shook her head. "You know what? Let's go for a drive. And afterward, we can get cake and ice cream."

*****

An hour and a half later, Helen parked at the Icarus building where Anne lived. "This is one of my father's buildings," Helen said. She had no intention of going in, but she needed something concrete to associate with what she was about to tell her wife.

"I figured." Yalia's gaze flickered to the logo, a silhouette flying toward the sun, present on all the Icarus buildings. "Are we going in?"

"No. We're staying here."

"You're making a three-hour round trip to stay in the car?"

"Just listen to me, please. You remember Dad called me on my birthday."

"To tell you he was dying. And for something else."

Helen fiddled with her bracelet, which was made of chunky beads. The bracelet looked great but itched a lot. However, the bracelet had been Helen's last gift from her mother, so she tolerated the itching. What she was about to tell Yalia was preposterous. Maybe she ought to do what her father had done and let Yalia meet Anne first. Wait for Dad to die. Then take Yalia to meet her.

"What happened?" Yalia prompted.

To hell with it. Helen had learned she was not one to sneak around her wife's back, and the secret of Anne was a slow-moving poison. "Dad has unfinished business. Business he wants me to take care of after he dies. I wasn't sure I would do it. But I think I ought to. I really should."

"Something shady?"

"It's...you could say that. A woman in that building needs our help. I think she needs to live with us for a while until she can figure some things out for herself. She can't stay in that building. She deserves better."

"Okay," Yalia said cautiously. "Why? What things does she need to figure out?"

Here we go. "Her name is Anne," Helen said. "Anne Boleyn."

Yalia blinked. Then her lips curled upward in a half-smile. "Anne Boleyn as in the queen?"

"Yep. That Anne Boleyn." Helen allowed herself a laugh. "And I'm not kidding. Wish I was."

Yalia was silent. Then: "Maybe we do need counseling," she muttered.

Helen was not sure she heard right. "Counseling?"

"Counseling," Yalia repeated.

Helen wanted to laugh. Wow. Yalia really thinks I have gone crazy. Don't blame her. But Helen suddenly felt light. Buoyant. Yalia was going to try counseling. The love of her life was going to try. Helen gave Yalia a quick kiss on the cheek. Yalia flinched and drew back, as she had since the shooting. But that was okay. They would get past that. Helen slid her hand into Yalia's. "Counseling sounds great. But will you help me with Anne?"

Yalia gave Helen a look. "Anne Boleyn? It isn't possible."

"It is." Helen went on to tell Yalia the whole story, including the parts about Benjamin Franklin and the mysterious Time Traveler Zero, and when she was finished, Yalia looked no more persuaded. That would have to wait until she met Anne. And Benjamin.

*****

Benjamin called Helen two days later with the news Josiah had died in his sleep. The funeral service was a few days afterward, at the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception, the largest Roman Catholic church in the United States. Josiah was born a Catholic but did not practice. Neither did Helen. Anne Boleyn had been a practicing Catholic, though. Sure, she had gone along with the Reformation cause and Henry's efforts to disband from the Catholic Church, but at heart, Anne Boleyn died a Catholic.

Or had she even died?

Helen slid a sidelong glance at her wife. They were in the front pew, and Yalia wore a black mourning dress. Helen was in black too, but a pantsuit. The past few days had been strange for Yalia, no doubt. Disbelief had tinged, and still tinged, Yalia's expression, her gaze, her voice. She would have to meet Anne and converse with Anne to fully believe. Until then, she would think Helen had gone splat off her rocker. That the kids issue and the lack of kissing, cuddling and sex had sent Helen screeching off the rails of sanity.

The spare, junky bedroom remained untouched.

"Yalia," Helen said now, as the pastor droned on about Josiah Franklin's charitable contributions, "will you come with me to meet Anne today?"

Yalia's response was a tight-lipped smile. "I have no choice, do I?"

"You always have a choice."

Yalia dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. She was not crying, so the gesture was likely something to help her stall. Her fingernails were painted silver. Yalia looked lovely, as always. "Whoever this woman is, do you like her?"

"Like her?"

"Are you attracted to her?"

"Why do you ask that?"

"A look your eyes get. The way you..." Yalia laid the tissue on her lap. "Just answer the question."

Attracted to Anne? Am I? Yes. Yes, you are. The way Anne had looked at Helen's breasts had done it, sending an erotic thrill up Helen's spine. And then the beseeching in Anne's gaze afterward. "She needs my help," Helen said meekly. "Our help."

Another Yalia tissue dab. "This better be good, Helen. This damn well better be good."

*****

After the funeral, Helen made her excuses to other family members and mourners. Thirty minutes later, she and Yalia were walking into the Icarus building. Benjamin, his eyes red, greeted them.

Yalia's life is about to change. "Hi, Benjamin," Helen said. "This is Yalia, my wife. Yalia, this is Benjamin."

Yalia gave Benjamin a tentative smile.

Benjamin blubbered into a tissue for an uncomfortable moment. "I apologize," he said afterward. "I miss your father already, Dr. Franklin." He gave Yalia a nod. "Ms. Yamaoto. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Likewise, Mr., uh, Mr..."

" Franklin ," Benjamin said. "But you can call me Ben. Or Benjamin. Or Bennie. Ben-ben. I'm Dr. Franklin, too. I have two honorary doctorates." More blubbering.

A strained, horrid smile from Yalia. "Dr. Franklin," she murmured. "Dr. Benjamin Franklin."

"How is Anne?" Helen asked.

Benjamin tossed his tissues into a nearby trash can and wiped at his eyes. "Let us see what she is up to."

Helen and Yalia followed Benjamin to the Anne surveillance room, and Helen found Anne on one of the monitors. She pedaled furiously on an exercise bike. She wore a white wife beater shirt and dark blue shorts. She stopped her pedaling to mop sweat from her forehead and to swig from a water bottle.

"How many people are involved?" Helen asked. "How many people know what is going on here?"

"Six," Benjamin said. "Me. Jordan and Ted, the security guards. Anne. You. Another guy, Nathan, who lives off site. Your cousin Darlton Vanher knows just enough to leave us alone. And, uh, I guess you too, Ms. Yamaoto. So, seven."

Yalia stayed quiet.

"You're the only scientist involved?" Helen asked.

"No. The guards and Nathan are scientists. They're very helpful." Benjamin's eyes teared up, and he pulled a wad of tissues from his pocket. "Excuse me, Dr. Franklin." Benjamin went off to blow his nose, and when he returned, he said: "I didn't think it was possible to cry more than I did after your mother died. I miss her every day, too."

"My mother? You knew my mother?"

"I did. She was a brilliant woman."

"You met her?"

Benjamin grinned. "Many, many times. She helped retrieve me. Why do you look so surprised? She had two doctorates. She was a genius."

Helen's tongue and her mind were like molasses.

"To be blunt, your father and I are--were--nothing next to your mother."

"It's not true. My mother wouldn't have....she wouldn't have..." She wouldn't have what? What exactly happened? Regina Franklin had been a stay-at-home, late-in-life mom, seemingly all too happy to fling herself into the domestic cares of her child. Helen had nearly forgotten about her mother's Ph.Ds.

"Dr. Franklin," Yalia said. "Dr. Benjamin Franklin."

"Yes, Ms. Yamaoto?"

"Show us the time travel machine. Or machines. Whatever."

Benjamin inclined his head. "Follow me."

*****

The time machine was named Aries, and it fit snugly in Helen's palm. It consisted of a big, simple red button. Aries did not pull the heavy-duty work. A computer program did, and the red button on Aries was to push to return to the departure time--modern times, in other words. "We coded everything here." Benjamin patted the computer monitor. "Latitude, longitude, altitude, date. It was a lot easier if you could be standing where you wanted to appear. For instance, if I wanted to be in this exact spot ten years ago, I'd do anything possible to actually be standing in this exact spot. If I could not, however, not a big deal. Computer's accurate."

Helen felt sick. All this glib talk was not theory. It was...it was... "Guess it helps to be affiliated with a giant defense contractor," Helen said sarcastically.

Benjamin stroked Aries affectionately, and Yalia said: "Tell me how Helen's father got started."

More affectionate stroking. "Helen's parents and a group of their friends worked night and day for years on solving the riddle of time travel. One by one, the friends dropped out. They were tired of giving their lives over to an impossible dream. Finally, though, on May 1, 1998 , Helen's mother found the missing piece. They made a few trials with a doll, and each time, the doll came back unscathed." Benjamin turned his gaze onto Helen. "About a month later, your parents were ready to try with themselves. They had worked for years, never had a honeymoon. They figured, what better place than the past to have their honeymoon? They traveled to 1901, to Victorian England. London ."

Helen blinked furiously. My mother. My mother! Involved in this shit. "Who was Time Traveler Zero?"

"I am not at liberty to say."

Fury swirled inside Helen. "Excuse me. I must introduce Yalia to Anne. To Her Majesty."

"Dr. Franklin, I do not know your plans for Anne. However, I must tell you that your father and I disagreed on his idea to leave Anne in your hands. I advised him that you would take Anne from here, but he said perhaps it was for the best. He was wrong. It is not for the best. Even I don't dare go out in public. You will be playing Russian roulette, Dr. Franklin. Sooner or later, the bullet will get Anne. She can control her fades now, but for how long? She will lose control, I promise you. She will be riding in your car, fade, and reappear in someone else's car, maybe in someone! Or reappear in the middle of the road just as a bus smashes her. Or perhaps history is wrong and she dies earlier in her time than she thinks she will. She is unsafe out in the world. Keep her here. Keep her safe."

Helen stared into Benjamin's brown-gray eyes, impossibly calm eyes. "I will ask Anne what she wants. It is her life, not mine."

"Your parents and I worked hard to bring her here. It's not just about her, and I--"

"Take me to Anne, please. Now."

*****

Anne stepped out of the shower and dressed in her bedroom. Somewhere in this building at least one man, maybe several, and perhaps even Helen, were monitoring her. Observing her nakedness, her breasts, her buttocks, the trimmed patch of dark hair between her legs. She was a zoo animal. This time was no different from Tudor times. She had been a zoo animal then too, whose sole purpose was to breed a son. When she could not--well, off with her head.

Chop, chop.

Anne brushed her hair and blew it dry. She liked her hair better short. More manageable. Not as pretty as her long hair, though.

The knock came a few moments later.

"Lady Franklin," Anne said.

Helen curtsied. "Your Majesty." No smile. Her eyes were dark and haunted. She wore funeral clothes.

"Lady Franklin, please accept my condolences on the death of your father."

"Thank you." Helen paused a moment, and Anne had the thought Helen was going to ask why Anne had been looking at Helen's breasts a couple of weeks ago. Of course she will not ask that. But electricity was back in the air, sure enough. Anne felt it so keenly she could probably reach out and grab a particle. And then bring the particle to Helen's lips. Helen was charming-looking with her troubled expression and tousled hair.

And her black funeral shirt did accentuate her breasts.

A spurt of bravery found Anne, and she extended her right hand. "My condolences, again."

Helen took Anne's hand and kept their touch together for a good few moments. Helen's hand felt nice. No, better than nice. Divine. Since Anne's retrieval, no one had touched her. Not really. And now this beautiful woman and her divine hand were in contact with Anne. Anne felt her body, her womanhood, responding, as she had known they would. Delicious words of promise murmured between her legs.

Helen let go at last, and she ran her fingers through her hair. She proffered a tentative smile. "Your Majesty, I have brought my wife to meet you."

"Very well," Anne said. Another gawker. Lovely. Yalia would be a problem.

Helen waved Yalia in, and Anne had to fight not to gape. While Helen was beautiful, in what American books called a girl-next-door way, Yalia was what movies called drop-dead gorgeous. In Tudor times, and perhaps even now, Anne certainly would have developed feelings for Helen that went past friendship. She never could for Yalia, however. Realistic feelings, anyway. Yalia was too beautiful. Too exotic. She was, as one of Anne's favorite American sayings went, way out of Anne's league.

Yalia stared at Anne a long moment. More specifically, Yalia stared at parts of her. Anne's little sixth finger. Anne's eyes. Anne's mouth.

"Lady Yamaoto," Anne said at last. "Is your gawking complete?"

Yalia flushed. "I apologize."

"You are thinking: 'Is this really Anne Boleyn in front of me?' Am I not correct?"

"That's right."

"And what have you decided?"

"Nothing yet."

Anne nodded her approval. Yalia was wise to take her time. "Tell me, Lady Yamaoto," Anne said. "Do you know much about me?"

"I know enough about Anne Boleyn. I traveled with Helen to, ah, to England . I was an early reader for her Anne book. Her Edward book, too."

"Lady Yamaoto, do you think if I pass this test God has put upon me, will he spare my life at the scaffold?"

Yalia's eyes went wide. "Uh, er, I do not know."

"Your Majesty," Helen intervened. "Would you like to get out of here and go to Starbucks or a movie? Or something else, your choice?"

Anne floundered before the question. She had not been allowed past the confines of this building and its courtyard in two years and eight months.

"Just you, Yalia and me," Helen said. "A different place, new to you. No spy cameras. No spy microphones."

"I imagine as we speak, Benjamin has gremlins entering your vehicle and solving that issue. If he has not already."

Helen's expression darkened. "Perhaps."

"But we shall depart," Anne said. "A film sounds good."

*****

"Have you been to the movies before?" Yalia asked Anne as they and Helen settled into their seats, Anne in the middle. The movie theater was semi-dark and empty, save for the three of them. They each had Cokes, and Helen had a small tub of popcorn for them to share.

"No," Anne said. She placed her Coke into its holder and glanced up at the screen. A preview for a shoot-'em-up flick was playing. Boom, boom, boom. "Josiah eased me into outings. We started little by little. By the time I realized I had the power to return to my time, I had gone to the White House. I was your father-in-law's good little tourist. We and Benjamin went to art museums. Bookstores. The National Arboretum. I kayaked on the Potomac River with Jordan . That kind of thing. Later, your father-in-law wanted us to fly to England and show me where I was buried. Benjamin had gone to Philadelphia a few times and visited his own grave. Then Starbucks happened."

Yalia was thisclose to believing the impossible, that the woman next to her at an ordinary movie theater was Anne Boleyn, mother of Elizabeth I, the Virgin Queen, England 's greatest monarch. And that Yalia had, less than an hour ago, met one of America 's greatest statesmen. A man hundreds of years dead.

"Hmm," Yalia said. "Starbucks. How did you fade the first time? I mean, was it an accident or..."

Anne scooped a handful of popcorn, so Yalia did the same. The morsels were soft and buttery and melted in her mouth.

"Popcorn's good," Yalia said.

"Movie popcorn is the best," Helen agreed. Then she added: " Jordan is outside."

Anne grinned. "I know."

Yalia did not like the looks of Jordan . She knew his kind. These people followed orders, period. The world was black and white. Jordan had not been discreet about following them in an Icarus security car.

Anne twisted in her seat a bit to face Helen. "Why are you taking me out, Lady Franklin? It is not because I am Anne Boleyn. If anything, you do this in spite of the fact I am Anne Boleyn. You are much more comfortable studying me when I am dead, are you not? You do not like me alive."

Helen gave a choked, desperate laugh. "Watch the previews, all right? Wait. My mother. Did you know my mother?"

"I did, yes."

"Was my mother like my father and Benjamin?"

"Very much," Anne said. "A little better, however."

"I'm sorry."

When the previews ended, Yalia recalled her last time with Regina Franklin. Regina had been a great mother-in-law. A great mother. Yalia had a hard time imagining her helping abduct a woman, but then, you never really knew people. So, their last time together had been just her and Regina . Regina had stopped by while Helen was teaching a Saturday class at Gallaudet. Regina had brought a little gift, a dream catcher. Its feathers and web were purple. Regina had made it herself, and Yalia still had it above her bed. By now, probably a thousand nightmares had made their way through the dream catcher.

The movie began. It was set during the Civil War, and the opening scene showed a mixed-race child sleeping.

Yalia fought to keep herself still. Fought to keep herself from laughing. Anne Boleyn. I am eating popcorn with Anne Boleyn. And Benjamin Franklin looks so ordinary.

This can't be.

For whatever reason, something Yalia could not begin to fathom, Josiah Paul Franklin was playing a huge prank on his daughter. Maybe he was doing it because he thought Helen would appreciate it. Would enjoy it. History come to life, all that. Josiah was odd in that way. Time travel was simply impossible, no way around it. Yalia was munching popcorn in an ordinary movie theater with an extraordinarily skilled actress.

Yalia let the movie play on maybe an hour, an hour and fifteen minutes. The child was, no surprise, the offspring of a slave master and a slave. The child's name was Tom, and he was a plucky little lad navigating a confusing world in which he looked like Master Williams and in which Mistress Williams and his own mother disliked him. His only friend was Master Williams's grandfather, who had Alzheimer's. Of course, back then, these people did not know Alzheimer's was Alzheimer's. Under other circumstances, the movie would have been touching. White slave owner befriends his half-black great-grandson, right? There was no way Yalia could appreciate the film and its nuances, though.

"Actress, what is your real name?" Yalia asked at last.

Anne turned a piercing gaze onto Yalia. "So you have decided," Anne whispered.

Yalia shrugged. "Physics decided. Science decided. Time travel cannot be done."

Something glimmered in Anne's eyes. Glittered, really. With purpose? With malice? Josiah had done an excellent job casting. He must have cast the woman with the darkest eyes he could find.

"May I touch you, Lady Yamaoto?" Anne asked.

Yalia blinked. "Touch me?"

"Yes, Lady Yamaoto. May I touch you? For instance, hold your hand?"

"Why?"

"You are not enjoying the film. You find it dull."

"So touching me is going to make the movie better?"

"Hardly."

"Something in your voice tells me I should not let you touch me."

"Would you like to go back with me, Lady Yamaoto? To observe a real movie? History come to life? And you, Lady Franklin, would you like to come as well? You might find something good for another book." Something snide, something chiding, lay in Anne's tones.

"Do you mean--is that possible?" Yalia could hear the surprise in Helen's voice.

"Let us observe if it is. I believe it is possible, because sometimes I held a bug when I faded. I could feel the bug with me. If this works not, I will vanish in the middle of the air. Either way, your skeptical wife will be persuaded."

Yalia felt Anne take her hand, and Yalia fought to get free, but then Yalia was standing. Walking. The stink of unwashed masses swept over her, and she fought an upswing of nausea. Yalia almost tripped over her feet, no, not her feet, Anne's feet, but Sir Kingston steadied her. She knew he was Sir Kingston because--because-- she just did. Yalia wanted to scream, but she was in Anne's mind. She had no control over this body.

And then they were back in the theater, on the floor. "You came with me," Anne said. Half in admiration, half in horror. "Both of you came with me."

"Don't do that again! Don't fucking do that again!" Helen was furious.

Yalia's own heart was a quivering lump, her brain a whirlpool, her breaths gasps and heaves. I was in 1536. Dear God, I was in 1536. I was Anne Boleyn. I smelled Tudor stink. The constable of the Tower of London touched me.

Yalia was furious, too. No, not furious. Furious did not come halfway close to describing her rage. Another part of Yalia, however, was exhilarated. The experience had been intense. So goddamn intense. Like an orgasm, and at the same time, not. And she had been in Anne's body, she had felt Anne, and Helen too, the three of them in that body. I am feeling sexual desire. Horniness. The three of them in that body...

Life stirred between Yalia's legs.

"Did you see the men?" Anne asked.

Yalia had, for a flash of a second. Men on the scaffold. The scaffold was wooden and covered with black cloth and straw. From what Helen told her two days ago, Anne was getting close to the end of her Tudor days. She had perhaps five to ten minutes' worth of life left in 1536.

"One of these men is the executioner," Anne said. She looked at Helen. "Your book said Henry performed a last-minute act of kindness and asked them to dress similarly so I would not see my death coming. The next time I return, I shall search each man's eyes and try to find which one has the sword."

"Why do you go back?" Helen asked. More like whimpered.

Anne hauled herself up and sat. She stared straight ahead, and the movie projected shadows on her face. "I do not know. Perhaps because it is the only thing I can control. There, the king controls me. Here, Josiah--" Anne stopped. Remembrance played across her features. "Here, you control me, Lady Franklin."

"I don't. I have no wish to."

"I know what you want," Anne said.

"You don't know what I want. And I'm not my father. Your life here is yours to live."

"Helen and I will help you," Yalia found herself saying. "We'll help you set something up."

Anne looked at her a moment. A quick moment. Something hooded, something dark was in her gaze. "Let us return," the dead queen said.

"To 1536? Now?"

"Now. For a moment. I want to ascertain which man will end my life. I am suddenly impatient to know."

Yalia hesitated. Hesitated some more. Anne did not want to face her death alone. That was understandable. Quite. But… "We're coming back here, right?" Coming back alive? You'll take us back before the execution?"

"Of course," Anne said with a gentle smile.

Yalia had to admit, she wanted, she desired, she yearned, to feel it again. The intensity of the three of them in one body. The three of them together. And she bet Anne saw it in her eyes. "For a few seconds," Yalia whispered. "You up for it, Helen?"

Helen was pale, evident even in the dimness of the room. But she said: "All right." Her voice shook.

*****

Yalia offered her hand willingly, eagerly. Helen's hand came more reluctantly. But came regardless. Anne closed her eyes, concentrated, and willed herself to 1536. Simple as that. Her first year here, in 2008, how many times had she tried and failed to will herself back? Too many to count. She must somehow have had to build the power up.

Kingston helped Anne up the steps, and panic licked at her throat. She fought to maintain her composure. She was at a height for the first time, and she looked around her, before her. She was astonished at the sheer number of people who turned out. So this was what a crowd of two thousand looked like. Books had recorded what she would say next. Should she follow the books or try again to…

Anne sensed Helen inside her, Helen's terror, Helen's panic. Helen trying her best to be studious and scholarly and to remember the scenes for later books.

Helen failing miserably.

Anne sensed Yalia, too. Yalia's panic was different from Helen's, perhaps because Yalia had stared death in the face, because Yalia had lived with it the past three years. This, to Yalia, was a type of punishment. And a type of reward.

In any case, if Anne Boleyn lost control of her bladder and bowels, it would be Helen Franklin's fault. Nevertheless, Anne liked having Helen with her. Yalia, too. Anne liked not having to face death alone.

Anne--and Helen and Yalia--tried to run, but their shared feet would not move. What happened, happened. Nothing would change it.

Shh, Helen. A few more seconds, and we will return. Anne searched each man's eyes but found no telltale signals as to which one would end her life. She turned to Kingston . "I beg leave to speak to the people. I shall not speak a word that is not good."

Kingston squinted.

She pleaded again: "I beg leave of you, sir, please do not hasten the signal for my death until I have spoken that which I have a mind to say."

She concentrated to will herself and her companions to 2012.

*****

No Anne. Yalia, yes.

Oh, shit.

"Anne! Your Majesty!" Helen ran her hands over the empty space where Anne had sat. Just as quickly, Helen jerked her hands back, lest Anne reappear and leave Helen without arms.

"Where is she?" Yalia asked, her eyes wide.

"I don't know!" Shit. Shit. What do I do? What if she's dead and not coming back?

Anne reappeared a few seconds later, slumped on the floor between Helen and Yalia.

"Anne? You okay?"

Anne pressed her hand over her face. "That never happened before. The delay."

Ice spread in Helen's stomach, and she felt an acute sense of loss. "Anne. Anne."

Anne's breaths came in great heaves, deep, dry sobs racking her insides. Lights came on in the auditorium. The End. Helen stayed on the floor but made no move to touch Anne, hoping that her presence was comfort enough.

Yalia was the one to take Anne in her arms, at first slowly, gingerly, as if Anne was made of sand. Helen supposed she ought to feel jealous, and perhaps a grain of her was jealous. Yalia was being more physical with Anne than she had been with Helen in a good while. But at least Yalia was doing something to help.

"Everything all right?" An attendant appeared behind Anne. He was a lanky young man, a beanpole.

Anne dropped her hand from her face, and her gaze met Helen's for an agonizing eternity. Tears trembled in Anne's eyes. "Do you promise?" Anne asked. "You promise my life is my life?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, Lady Franklin. I shall never return to that place."

Chapter Seven

Yalia rested against the headrest as Helen drove her and Anne to a nearby Days Inn. Helen was not ready just yet to bring Anne home, and the bedroom was not finished anyway. Anne could stay at the motel overnight or a few days if need be.

They checked in, getting two rooms. Once they were in Anne's room, Helen said: "I got you a phone. Prepaid." She drew the phone out of her purse. "I've put my number and Yalia's number in there. Do you know how to use the phone? To text?"

"No," Anne said, so Helen spent a few moments instructing Anne. Anne sent Helen a practice text. Anne laughed. More than once. Anne was like a different person when she laughed. Her stiffness and caution vanished, and Yalia could pick up on the girl Anne must have been.

Yalia watched her wife and Anne together, Anne, dark-haired like herself, and Helen, light and, for now, in charge. Helen and Anne looked good together. Yalia was more sure than ever that Helen was attracted to Anne. And Anne to Helen. Oh, Helen was doing a good job acting fairly casual. No touches, no long lingering looks. But Helen's smile, the light in her eyes, when Anne laughed--yep.

Yalia replayed the feel of Anne's body. Yalia was not sure why she had moved to gather Anne into her arms at the theater. But she had. Anne was small. Bony. But solid. Safe. She felt good. Different from Helen. Not good different or bad different, just different. Yalia felt like part of Anne had come back with her after the fades. That a miniature part of Anne remained inside her.

Bizarre, really.

"I gotta hit the potty. Too much Sprite," Helen said after another practice text and a practice call.

Once Helen was in the bathroom, Anne said: "You and your wife have not made love in some time."

Yalia's defenses bubbled to the surface, and she was sure her gaze was angry. "You could tell that when we were in your body?" What else do you know? Were you only trying to plumb our minds' recesses for information?

"Do you miss Helen?"

"Do--do I what?"

Anne's gaze was somber. "Do you miss Helen?"

"Don't know," Yalia mumbled. I miss me. ME. ME. I miss being able to feel. I miss wanting to fuck my wife silly. "Did you see it? The shooting?" Yalia had to ask.

"No. I saw nothing. I only made an informed conclusion from my observations when I said you and your wife had not made love in some time."

"Ah."

They stayed where they were, Anne on the bed, Yalia in a chair a few feet away. Yalia felt like they were two bulls circling each other, and the moment caused Yalia to play Thesaurus. Nervous. Edgy. Tense. Uneasy.

"I think we are alike, Lady Yamaoto," Anne said.

"We are?"

"Yes. But perhaps in different ways."

"Alike in different ways. Okay. Whatever that means."

"You liked being with me in 1536."

"I didn't like it," Yalia said cautiously. "But..."

"Yes," Anne replied. "But."

Anxious. Worried. Jumpy.

"We are not like Helen," Anne said.

"Not like Helen." Yalia let the phrase rattle in her mouth. The phrase certainly was not buttery and melty like the movie popcorn had been. The phrase was sharp. Flat. Soft, too. Oddly. Not like Helen. Not like Helen. At any rate, a better name for a band than Yalia Trying to Care .

"How are we not like Helen?" Yalia ventured.

A flush came from the bathroom. Water running.

Anne offered up an enigmatic smile. "We may talk more later."

"Sure. Okay." Yalia kept her reply nonchalant, but she felt a desperate need, an intense need, to continue their conversation. Now.

Something shifted in Anne's expression. "Lady Yamaoto, I ask you this not to be forward but in case my days are nearly complete. What is kissing a woman like? What is making love to a woman like?"

Yalia blinked. "Uh, well."

"Is it different from kissing a man?"

"For me, it is."

"Is it better?"

"Yes, much better. It is right."

"Hmm." Anne's expression was thoughtful. Her lips were thoughtful.

Yalia almost said: I will show you. She did not, though, and Helen came out of the bathroom. Yalia swallowed, and the image of her wife, her Helen, kissing faceless Devon , and then Anne, entered her mind. The desire that had reared between Yalia's legs during the fades ignited again, and Yalia was ashamed. Not deeply. Only slightly.

Helen with another woman. Helen with Anne. Helen tearing Anne's clothes off, Helen on top of Anne. Helen's tongue meeting Anne's tongue.

Threesomes were not alien to Yalia. She and Helen had engaged in two, the first about a year before their wedding, the second about two years after. For the first threesome, she, Helen, and the other woman, an acquaintance named Tiffany, had taken turns kissing and fucking. The second woman was named Gina, and Yalia had mostly been a watcher, not a participant. She had watched her wife and Gina. Helen bucking atop Gina. Helen's primitive scream as she reached orgasm. Yalia had been jealous. Very. She knew then she could not do another threesome, and she said no when Helen asked for another. However, Yalia had a feeling that stuff with Anne would be different. Yalia could tell Anne how to kiss Helen. How to touch Helen. How to love Helen, how to be a mother to their child, because right now, Yalia was incapable. And then when Yalia was ready, she could touch and love Helen and their child herself, too.

Stop. You're being absurd. You and Helen are finished. There will never be a child.

Yalia let her gaze fall to the expanse of Anne's neck. A neck severed hundreds of years ago. Anne Boleyn is dead. But Helen would enjoy kissing her neck.

And so would I, Yalia realized.

Perhaps one way she and Anne were alike: they had stared themselves in the mirror and not liked what they saw. Yalia had seen the face of a careless cop, a child killer, and she hated herself.

Helen sat with Anne on the bed. "Hey, want to practice calling Yalia?"

"Anne is wondering what kissing a woman is like," Yalia said. "Also what making love with a woman is like."

"Oh," Helen said slowly, and something indefinable appeared in her eyes. "I see."

"Perhaps you will kiss her. After all, you kissed another woman not too long ago."

Helen gave a weak laugh. She looked at Yalia. At Anne. Back to Yalia. "That's funny."

"All she wants is a kiss," Yalia whispered. "A little kiss. She does not ask for the Holy Grail."

Helen narrowed her eyes, as if to say: All I have wanted from you is a kiss too. I do not ask for the Holy Grail either. What came from her lips, however, was: "Fine. How about it, Your Majesty? A kiss?"

The dead queen appeared flustered. Unsure. "I did not mean one of you should kiss me. I only meant you to describe what kissing a woman is like. However, I admit hands-on experience has no substitute."

*****

Part of Helen wished she had stayed in the bathroom. Yalia wanted her, Helen, to kiss Anne. Wanted it more than anything. Helen could see it in Yalia's gaze. Yalianeeded this. And if Helen was being honest, the prospect of kissing Anne was appealing. She had been drawn physically to Anne from the beginning. However, it was best to keep Anne Boleyn as a woman of mystery. Anne was no witch. She would likely turn out to be a perfectly ordinary, perhaps dull kisser. Helen hoped for that, because if Anne was good, if Anne was good...

This kiss was Yalia's way of trying to...trying to something. Whatever. To make amends. To get back on track with Helen, perhaps. But Yalia did not realize that Helen was attracted to Anne, did she? Or the extent of her attraction, anyway. Henry. How quickly, how completely, how crazily he fell head over heels in love with Anne. What if it happens with me? Be careful. This is how Anne did it. This is how she seduced Henry, how she played with him for seven-so years. Anne is playing with me and Yalia.

Helen dialed her thoughts down and met Anne's gaze. "I won't bite," Helen said.

"Very well," Anne murmured. "I thank you. You may proceed."

Helen brought her mouth to Anne's for a whisper of a kiss, a quick whisper. Like a dream. Helen deepened the kiss, tasting Anne's tongue, and Anne shivered. Her mouth was soft and tasted like movie popcorn butter.

Time to call it done.

But Helen kept her lips and her tongue where they were. Anne was different from Devon , and Helen wanted Anne to be more eager and responding. Anne was not. She drew back. Nothing more would happen. The kiss was over, and Helen hoped her face did not reflect her disappointment. At last, she understood how Henry felt. He had had the taste of Anne, she had perhaps played with him, and he could not let her go. In her own way, Anne certainly was a witch. She must be, because for the first time since the shooting, Yalia had a ghost of a smile on her lips. Yalia was turned on.

"You are correct, Lady Yamaoto," Anne said. "Much better than a man's kiss."

*****

Anne turned over in bed and watched the Days Inn clock. Its numbers were green-blue, not red. The green-blue numbers slid from 11:59 to midnight . Anne did not like being alone, although technically, perhaps she was not. Yalia and Helen were staying in the room that connected to Anne's. It did not matter. A connecting room would not stop Jordan from sneaking in and seizing her. Anne wished to be back at Icarus, where her world was known.

The fade delay bothered her, more than she had let on. Having two people with her, and twice, must have caused a lag in getting her back to modern times. That lag was only a few seconds, but it was a lag. It had brought her perilously closer to her execution. In a few minutes, her ladies would be summoned to blindfold her. Anne did not want to feel the smooth, warm cloth of the blindfold. She did not want her eyes covered. What if she had doomed herself with her rash decision to bring Helen and Yalia with her? What if their presences in the time stream meant she would lose control of her fades?

What if I become like Benjamin? Then I will die for sure. Anne felt tears well up, and she wiped them away. Every person dies.

She reallocated her thoughts to more pleasant matters: namely, the kiss. Helen's lips were soft and welcoming. Wonderful. Perfect. Her mouth and her skin bore no hint of a man's roughness or stubble. Anne had not enjoyed kissing Henry for several reasons, two being his lack of skill and the coarse hairs on his face. But kiss Henry she must, as part of her father's scheme to make her queen.

Anne had wanted to kiss Helen further, more thoroughly, but paralysis seized her. Paralysis because the kiss felt right. Because Helen felt right. Because Helen's wife was watching. And because Anne was an amateur in the art of a kiss. She did not want to humiliate herself. She was a queen after all, and should never put herself in situations that might result in reproach and mortification.

Anne wished Yalia had kissed her as well. Yalia had wanted to. Perhaps later Yalia shall.

Anne slipped her right hand between her legs. She was no longer at Icarus, but she still felt the eyes, the watchful, hungry, ravenous, technological camera devil eyes on her. No bother. She knew how to touch herself and remain still. She imagined Helen and Yalia kissing her, not only on the lips, but on her breasts and down there.

After her orgasm, she thought about what the day ahead held. Perhaps a trip back to Icarus for packing and moving. Perhaps she would paint over Elizabeth 's family tree. Then she would go to Helen and Yalia's house. Helen would have to leave about three p.m. for a three-hour class she taught Monday nights. Anne did not mind, especially if Helen's absence meant getting to know Yalia better.

Helen was a tenured professor at Gallaudet University . The back flaps of her books said so, and Regina had talked about the school a little. It was the only liberal arts university in the world for deaf and hard of hearing students. Helen had a deaf friend when she was little, Regina Franklin explained. Helen had signed all her life.

Hello students, Anne imagined Helen signing, her hands flying through the air. Remember our lesson on Anne Boleyn?

Sure, Dr. Franklin.

Great. Well, tear it up. You all pass the quiz. She's alive! Let's go to a Days Inn for show and tell.

Anne allowed herself a chuckle. She imagined Yalia at work. She had quit the police force and become a private investigator. Yalia did not dare go in the streets again. She wanted to never fire a gun again. Regina had leaned in and whispered: "Yalia's miserable being a PI. I don't know what will become of her. Her and Helen. I really don't. Poor Yalia. That poor little boy." Anne had wanted to ask Regina what kind of griever Yalia was: a continual sobber, or withdrawn and aloof. Or both.

Anne replayed how Helen--and Yalia--looked at her. They likely had no idea how communicative their eyes were. They both had looked at Anne like Henry had. Before he found out she could not bear a son.

Helen Eliza Franklin. Yalia Rose Yamaoto. Anne wanted to know more about them. She perceived that they saw through her, through the surface of Anne Boleyn, and saw her as a person. For she was not Anne Boleyn anymore, she was a woman being held prisoner in a so-called enlightened time. She was the victim of an abduction, the victim of a greedy man whose thirst for knowledge knew no bounds. Power corrupted. It corrupted Henry VIII--and Josiah Franklin. It had corrupted Anne too; just ask Bloody Mary. Would power eventually corrupt Helen? And Yalia? Anne wondered, as she had countless times, why she simply had not told Josiah and Benjamin what they wanted to hear. Why she did not cooperate and divulge the secrets of her history and the secrets of Henry VIII. If she did, she might have gained some measure of freedom. Lured them in with so-called trust.

She was stubborn, that was what she was. Stubborn and prideful, and her own life, her own secrets, were all she had to hold onto.

Anne replayed Helen's tongue on hers, and she shivered. Maybe someday Helen would also show her what making love with a woman was like. Or maybe Yalia would. Maybe they both would. Now that was a thought. A fantastic thought, a dream. It would never happen. Anne had picked up on a sort of desperation with Helen and Yalia together. They loved each other, that was obvious. But they were having problems. After all, Yalia had encouraged her wife to kiss another woman.

Helen. Yalia. Anne slipped her hand between her legs again.

*****

About one a.m. , Yalia heard Helen zip up her backpack. She had gone to get it from the car a couple of hours earlier. Her lesson planning must be over, at least for now. Helen went to the bathroom and then got into bed with Yalia. Good. Yalia was glad Helen was not using the other bed.

"You asleep?" Helen whispered.

"No," Yalia whispered back. Helen had left a lamp on, and Yalia positioned herself so she was facing her wife. Helen was naked like her, because they had had nothing but their funeral clothes. Helen was lovely and fragile, and Yalia's heart hurt.

"The bedroom's not ready," Helen said with a sigh. "You sure you're okay with Anne moving in tomorrow? I don't like the idea of her at Icarus or being on her own here."

"The three of us can get the bedroom ready tomorrow," Yalia said.

Helen smiled. "I hope Anne likes dogs and isn't allergic."

"Me too." Yalia felt odd not having the dogs with her. She had called their closest neighbor and asked him to look in on the critters. "I'm sorry," Yalia said. "You have no idea. I want to...I really...I've wanted to touch you and kiss you a long time."

"Won't you let me touch you and kiss you, then?"

"I...I...you can try." Helen touching her after such a long time would be odd, and Yalia braced herself. She was aware she was stiff, too stiff.

Helen brushed her fingertips against Yalia's cheek. Don't flinch. Don't draw away.

"I wish you could talk to me about the shooting," Helen murmured.

"I wish they'd fired me."

"But they didn't. For good reason."

"He had on, uh, a T-shirt with a yellow smiley face."

"Louis? Is that why you drew a yellow smiley face on my card?"

"Huh. I hadn't realized...yeah. I guess so."

"You have to stop punishing yourself. What happened was not your fault."

Yalia allowed herself a little smile, a smile she did not feel. "We've been through this before."

Helen sighed. "Fine. You're right. No point going through this conversation again."

"We were in 1536," Yalia said.

"1536," Helen repeated, awe in her voice. "It feels like a dream. A nightmare."

"Feels real to me. Nothing like a dream." The touch of Sir Kingston steadying her--Anne--burned into Yalia's back. Kingston 's handprint was a forever scar. Yalia's chest squeezed every time she replayed looking into the masked men's faces. And Yalia still felt like a little part of Anne had come back with her.

"Did you like kissing Anne?" Yalia asked.

Helen's brows flickered. "Yeah. Sure I did. You liked it too."

"I did," Yalia admitted. "I think she's different."

"What do you mean?"

"She's different from Tiffany and Gina. Not that I mean we're going to do a threesome. That'd probably be the worst thing in the world. But Anne's different. She just is."

Helen, her green-blue eyes intense, leaned into Yalia. Slowly, sweetly, she kissed Yalia. No tongue. But a perfect kiss, except it should have been Anne's kiss. "I love you," Helen said.

"I love you too."

A wide smile. "Good."

"You can kiss Anne more if you want."

Helen rolled her eyes. "Yalia. Don't."

"What? I'm just saying."

"You're pushing me away."

"I'm not. I don't mean to."

"Well, you are."

Shit. "Hey, Helen. Do you feel like...this sounds stupid, maybe, but do you feel like a little part of Anne came back with you after the fades?"

Helen frowned. "A little part? What do you mean?"

Yalia shook her head. "Never mind." If Helen had to ask, she obviously was not experiencing the phenomenon.

"Tell me. Please."

Yalia's thoughts stumbled, tripping like her four dogs' ungainly strides. "It's like I said. I feel like part of her came back with me. Just a little part. I'm mostly me. I'm ninety percent me. No, ninety-nine percent me. But that one percent of me feels her. It feels Anne." Yalia groaned and lay back in bed. "Ugh. What am I saying? This really is stupid."

"Do you mean one percent of you has Anne's memories and feels what she's feeling right now?"

Shit. Yalia was doing a terrible job explaining. "No. Not at all. I'll tell you what it is. It's none of this mumbo jumbo crap. It's me being an idiot."

Helen frowned again. "What is it?"

"I don't know. Just me being an idiot."

"Hey," Helen said carefully. "I bet this is what it is. You identify with Anne. Very strongly. You were in her body. You were her for a good few seconds. We both were. We felt her fear and her panic. We more than felt it. We were it. And you can't let go of that. You feel it still. It's understandable. Totally."

"Yes," Yalia agreed. "That's a better way of putting it." She thought about the sex toys lurking in a chest under their bed at home. What if Helen died tomorrow without Yalia telling her everything she needed to say? That she loved Helen very much, Helen was definitely the love of her life, all that jazz, and that Yalia had been an idiot to get sidetracked? "I wish I were Anne," Yalia whispered.

"Why?"

Because Anne is not me. "Touching you would be easier. It just would be."

Helen licked her lips, and her eyebrows slanted downward. Yalia knew that expression. Helen's thinking. Helen's hammering out a solution.

"Okay," Helen said. Her lips twisted into a mischievous smile. "Let's play the game. You're Anne. You're Anne Boleyn. What would you like to do to me? Or what would you like me to do to you?"

Ah. The game. Yalia and Helen had played it maybe five, six times. It was a sort of role-playing game in which one of them pretended to be someone else. Yalia's throat squeezed. Her chest squeezed. Her heart pounded in her ears. "Is this the best idea? Considering we're...whatever we are."

"Fuck good ideas and bad ideas. Let's do it."

"Okay." Wow. Yalia and Helen were about to have sex, for the first time in too long. "Helen," Yalia said.

"Mmm?"

"Let's have a child. What do you say? I wish we could make one right now."

Helen blinked, and Yalia did too. I said that? I said: "Let's have a child"? That had been the worst thing to do.

Helen grinned, a wide, genuine grin that made Yalia fall in love with her all over again. "Are you serious?"

Hell, no. "Um...yes. I'm serious." Why not?

"What changed?" Helen asked.

"Nothing," Yalia said. "I never actually stopped wanting kids. I guess I just felt like I didn't deserve them after what happened with Louis. Losing you and...I can be a good mom. I can love a child. Our child. I want to. I want to be with you. And our child. There's no reason for us to split up."

"Are you saying you want a child only so that I won't leave you?"

"No. When you kissed Anne, I knew, I knew something. Hard to explain. But I knew I belong with you. I've been a fool to close myself off." Yalia cupped her hand over Helen's breast. "I'd like you to-- Anne would like you to order her to put on a dildo and strap. And then Anne would like you to ride her like a horse. But we don't have a dildo. So ride Anne's leg."

Helen's eyes gleamed, and the wolfish hunger in them caused the room to tilt around Yalia. Lord, Yalia needed this. She needed this badly.

Helen kissed the base of Yalia's throat and then clambered atop Yalia. Helen had lovely, full tits. Yalia had missed them, very much. "Like what you see?" Helen waggled her tits.

"Very much." You're okay, Yalia. You will be okay. You both will be. Yalia would make herself a better person. Someone Helen deserved to be with. And she would treat Helen right, exactly right. Yalia would be a good mother.

Helen brought a breast to Yalia's mouth, and Yalia traced the aureole with her tongue. Light pink. Suck. Suck. They would be fast, Yalia already knew that. This would be a quickie. But it was a start. Getting back on track.

Helen moaned.

"You should be quiet," Yalia said. "So Anne doesn't hear."

"Right, yeah."

For the next few minutes, Yalia lost herself in her wife, Helen's sounds, her movements. She was in heaven again, touching Helen, having Helen touch her.

Life, suddenly, was good.

Chapter Eight

"So," Yalia said. "Wow. Just, wow." She was in Anne's library at Icarus, and Anne's paintings took her breath away.

Anne smiled modestly. "You like them?"

"This is my favorite, I think." Yalia indicated the painting in front of her. It showed a woman clawing out of her grave. Creepy. Creepy as shit. Yalia loved it. "I bet you could sell the paintings for millions. We'll transport them gently."

"No. I do not want them coming with me."

Yalia could not believe Anne's words. "You're leaving them here?"

"Maybe. Or I might destroy them."

"But why?"

Anne shrugged. "I am not this... this woman." She pointed to herself. "Do you understand?"

"I think so."

"That woman." Anne indicated the painting. "Who do you think she is?"

"You mean she's someone from your other life?"

"Yes. Who do you think?"

Yalia whirred through possibilities: Anne's mother, one of Henry's wives, or maybe Anne's sister, who had an affair with Henry before Anne did and possibly had bore him a son. "Katherine?" Yalia guessed. "The first Katherine."

"No. But close. She's Mary. My stepdaughter."

Yalia studied the painting again. The woman was exquisite, and her Spanish blood was evident despite her porcelain skin. "Do you feel guilty about how you treated her?" Yalia asked.

"I do. I wonder often about her last moments."

"She died of some sort of tumor, right?"

"Yes, according to your wife. It was Mary's second so-called pregnancy. The first one was wishful thinking causing her belly to swell as if she was pregnant."

" Ps eudocyesis." Yalia imagined Mary's desperation to have a child. The powers of the mind were astonishing. Women with pseudocyesis gained weight, had no periods, or irregular periods, and exhibited symptoms of pregnancy. However, Mary's second false pregnancy, the one that Helen posited killed her, definitely had a medical cause. The growth could have been a cyst, or cancer, or many other ors. The cause of the first false pregnancy was up in the air, but many people tended toward pseudocyesis.

Anne indicated the black suitcase at her side. "All I wish to bring is in here. I can create new artwork."

"As you wish."

"I am ready to go as soon as Helen finishes talking with Benjamin."

Yalia wanted to ask more about Mary, but now was not the time. "Let's find them. I'll take that for you." Yalia reached for the suitcase, and her hand brushed Anne's.

Electricity. Pussy tingle. Helen bucking atop Yalia. What is kissing a woman like? What is making love to a woman like?

"You held a bug for some fades," Yalia said.

"Yes."

"What kind of bug?"

"A caterpillar. It was fat and soft and hairy. I liked it."

"The same caterpillar each time?"

"No, different ones."

Yalia flashed back to her youth, to softball. Several times, she had arrived for practice to find many caterpillars on the field. She loved these things. "After the fade, did you feel the caterpillar with you?"

"With me?"

"You said you could feel it with you during the fade. But what about after?"

"No," Anne said. "Why do you ask, Lady Yamaoto?"

"Just wondering," Yalia said gruffly. "Come on, let's go."

Anne touched Yalia. Touched her on the wrist, lightly, with purpose. More electricity. "I know what you mean, Lady Yamaoto."

"You do?"

Anne nodded. "I said we are alike."

*****

Anne finished putting up her few possessions and surveyed her bedroom. Not her bedroom, per se. But her new--and temporary--bedroom. She liked it. For one thing, it had two windows. It was not a dungeon. The view was nice, and-- oh, no. A chill enveloped Anne. She recognized the blue car parking in the distance.Jordan . Icarus. And Anne was in the bedroom that faced the street, also the bedroom closest to the front door. I am unsafe. I will always be.

Anne took a deep breath. Calm yourself. She glanced down, and four pairs of canine eyes looked back up at her. The dogs had followed her every move in the bedroom, and their goofy grins soothed Anne's unease. She pulled the blinds down and fastened the curtains. She would not make Jordan 's job easy.

She listened. Nothing. Yalia was cooking dinner, so Anne should be safe. She sat on the floor, and the dogs crowded in on her.

"Doggies," Anne said, and she remembered her daughter. Anne would like to see Elizabeth play with dogs. And four of them! These four dogs had bad breath, but that did not bother Anne. She reviewed the short list in her mind: Mario, the mostly yellow dog, Toad, the ugly one, Luigi, big brown eyes, Bowser, the fat one.

Mario chuffed at Anne, and the three other dogs followed suit. Then they were knocking her over, walking over her, licking, grinning, just being happy, and then Anne felt her. Yalia. Her presence.

Anne straightened, embarrassed to be caught on the floor in a state that involved dishevelment, red cheeks and dog drool. "Lady Yamaoto," Anne said primly.

"Anne," Yalia said, and she wore an amused smile. Unlike Helen, Yalia did not call her "Your Majesty." This did not bother Anne.

Yalia held up a can of peas. "Would you like peas to go with the chicken and baked potato? Have you had peas?"

"Yes. And that would be fine."

Yalia smiled again, and the smile crinkled her eyes. "I'm glad the dogs like you. And that you like them."

"Very well."

Another smile. "Okay, then. I'll let you guys be."

Anne remembered Jordan outside, lurking. She did not want Yalia to leave. "I think Elizabeth would like the dogs."

Yalia hazarded a cautious step forward. "What was your daughter like?"

Anne patted her hair and decided not to bother. Getting it back in order after the dogs' trampling required more than patting. "She did not live with me."

"Right. She had her own household."

"I did not see her much. She was a stranger to me. But a lovely stranger with a most charming laugh."

"You picked out her clothes."

"The material and colors, yes," Anne said. "She probably never remembered me." Elizabeth was not yet three years old when Anne was executed. The day of the execution likely was just another day for the little girl.

"I'm sorry," Yalia said.

Anne got to her feet and found her hairbrush. "Do you and Helen plan children?"

"We're, uh...we're going to have a child. I'm not sure when, but probably soon. She's forty, and I'm thirty-nine."

"Why did you wait?"

"I...I couldn't stomach the thought of having a child after I killed one. Helen really wanted kids. I hated telling her I didn't want them anymore. She was actually going to leave me, but..." Yalia chuckled.

"But she stayed with you."

Yalia smiled faintly. "I think I can do it. Have a child. I don't want to lose Helen." Yalia set the can of peas on the dresser.

"Who did Helen kiss? The other woman?"

"Someone named Devon . I don't know her."

"You did not watch them kiss?"

Yalia chuckled self-consciously. "I did not."

"Why?"

"I was not with them."

"I believe you enjoyed the kiss between me and Helen."

"As did you."

Anne inclined her head in affirmation. Her affinity for Yalia grew. The two of them could have a forthright, reasonably honest conversation without devolving into jealous tears or a clawing, shouting match. They understood each other.

"Were you surprised when you saw me?" Anne asked. "At my plainness? This is the woman Henry VIII tossed England over for?"

"You're not plain."

Anne laughed. "I am plain. I am nothing to boast about." It was her confidence, her apparent confidence anyway, her training in seduction, her playfulness, that gave Anne her beauty. How she used her body, her sexuality. Her dark eyes, too.

"Okay," Yalia said, and her amused smile was back. "Fine. You're plain. So, Helen's a good kisser, huh?"

Anne tried to keep her expression non-reactive. "She was serviceable."

"Serviceable."

"Thank you for allowing me a kiss. If I fade into nothingness, at least I will know what a woman's kiss is like."

"That's good," Yalia said.

Anne let her gaze fall to her hands. I still desire to know what making love with a woman is like. She had been careful to keep her hands groomed. Her fingernails, like Benjamin's, had no imperfections. Anne felt Yalia's gaze on her, a gaze strong, steady, wanting, and Anne's heartbeat skittered. Her insides and that area between her legs stirred. She had not had sex in four years. Never had sex with a woman. Never had good sex. However, at Francis's court, she had witnessed a few female-female encounters, and not always in groupings of two.

Yalia retrieved the peas. "Dinner calls." She flashed a smile and then was gone.

But Yalia was back a few minutes later, not with a can of peas, but a light-pink box. "This is a vibrator," Yalia said. "I got it last year, and I haven't opened it. So, if you want to try it..." She held the box out.

Surprise jerked inside Anne. "Very well," she said, covering up that she was startled. She had read about vibrators in several books and magazines. She had listened to references about vibrators on television. They were supposed to give wonderful orgasms. Never-felt-before sensations.

"Let me open this for you." Yalia tussled with the plastic on the box. "Finally. There you go."

Anne took the box. It was not heavy. THE LUV TOY, it read in dark pink letters.

"It's battery operated," Yalia said. "I used to have an electric vibrator. It was great, but I had a hard time coming during sex because the vibrator spoiled me. It desensitized my clit some."

Anne wondered why Yalia was doing this. Was this Yalia's way of trying to assert control in a strange situation after the kiss yesterday? Did the kiss frighten Yalia? She must not be as fine with the situation as Anne had believed. Or was Yalia coming on to her? Or scared and coming on to her?

Anne held up THE LUV TOY box. "Is this between us? Is your wife not to know?"

Yalia shook her head, almost violently. "Helen can know. I didn't mean it like that. It's nothing to hide or feel embarrassed about."

*****

"DINNER WAS GOOD," Anne's text read. "CHICKEN, BAKED POTATO, PEAS. YOU WILL HAVE GOOD LEFTOVERS. I HOPE YOUR CLASS IS GOING WELL. JORDAN AND HIS CAR SULK IN THE DISTANCE."

Helen's finger twitched, and she forced herself to take a bite from her turkey sandwich. Damn Jordan , but as long as he was careful enough to stay off her private property, she could do little. Besides, calling the police or getting a restraining order would necessitate telling the world Anne Boleyn existed today.

Helen was on a twenty-minute dinner break from class, and she would tell Anne later that all capital letters were the equivalent of screaming. "OK," Helen thumbed back. "That's great about dinner. See you in a few hours. I will talk with Jordan tomorrow or something, promise."

Christ. Jesus effing Christ.

Yesterday had been crazy. Helen had traveled to 1536 twice, and then her wife encouraged her to kiss Anne Boleyn. And Helen had. And then Yalia said she wanted a child and let Helen have a fuck. Miracles all around.

At Icarus earlier that day, Benjamin had given Helen a wad of cash totaling three thousand dollars. "For Anne," Benjamin explained. "For her upkeep. For now, anyway."

Helen had not wanted to take the money. But taken it she had. The cash would come in useful. She and Yalia were not broke, or living paycheck to paycheck, but having a third person to take care of was expensive. Helen had refused all of her father's money over the years, and if he had left her some of his billions or property in his will, she was not sure what she would do. She would cross that bridge if it popped up. In the big picture, three thousand dollars was cockroach-sized.

*****

Helen liked to jam her hands in her pockets a lot, Anne noticed. Like about right now, as Helen stood in the doorway of Anne's bedroom. Helen's expression was troubled, and she looked more kissable than ever. Her hair was a mess, and Anne loved that Helen had no idea. Helen had gotten home about five minutes ago, at eleven p.m. A light, but unexpected, snow and subsequent wrecks on Interstate 66 had delayed Helen by an hour.

"Have a good time while I was away?" Helen asked.

"Yes. Would you like to come in?"

"I could use some wine after that hellish drive. Join me and Yalia in the living room for a glass?"

"Very well."

A few moments later, Helen and Yalia were settled on the couch. Anne sat in the oversized chair across them. "The Icarus car was still here when I got home," Helen said darkly. " Jordan wasn't in it. Someone I didn't recognize was. I guess that rules out Jordan being a robot who doesn't need food and sleep."

Yalia smiled, but Anne could not taste the wine. Not as fully as she was capable of, anyway. She mostly tasted Icarus's presence and Josiah's presence: ominous, everywhere.

"I'll talk to him tomorrow," Helen said. "Jordan or whomever is in the car. I'll see what he wants."

"Thank you," Anne said. "How was your class?"

Helen grimaced. "Slow. I wanted to be here with you guys."

"That would have been nice."

"Really?"

"Yes, Lady Franklin ," Anne said, and she felt Helen's tongue with hers again. Anne had been too scared to kiss back, and she regretted it now. Who knew when she might get another kiss? Or if she would?

"I should not have left my paintings at Icarus," Anne decided.

"Why?"

Anne inclined her head toward Yalia. "You said they would have made money. Upon reflection, I agree, and I need a way to support myself."

"I'll get them tomorrow. Not a problem. We'll figure something out with money. Yalia has a friend who owns an art gallery. He probably could set a show up. You're good. Really good."

"I haven't talked to him a while," Yalia said.

"Call him, then. Get back in touch."

"Okay," Yalia mumbled.

"Did you learn painting in your other time?" Helen asked Anne.

"Not much. Your mother taught me."

Helen nodded. "I thought she might have. Your styles are similar." A chuckle. "Can't say your subject matters are similar, though."

Anne pointed to a painting of the Capitol on the far wall, only the capitol was orange. "She did that. I see the dot." Regina always had a purple dot in the lower left corner of her paintings. She signed her name near it.

Helen sipped from her wine. "Someday, you're going to tell me all you know about my mother. But not now."

"She was a good painter."

Helen's lips were tight. "Moving on. I'm also going to ask Benjamin to, ah, to draw up false papers for you. A fake driver's license, all that."

"Hmm."

"Do you know how to drive?"

"I do not."

"We'll teach you. What name would you like to use on your papers?"

The first name that occurred to Anne was George. George, dear brother. "My name could be Anne George."

"Anne George. I like that. Want a middle name?"

" Elizabeth . I can become Anne Elizabeth George."

Helen's lips tugged up. "Perfect. Happy birthday, Anne Elizabeth George." Helen finished her wine in a long sip, and she yawned widely. "I'm more tired than I thought. Better be off to bed."

Anne did not want Helen to go, especially since Yalia would probably follow her. The unknown Icarus man lurked outside, waiting. Watching. "You may ask me something, Lady Franklin," Anne said. Three. Three is a good number. "Three questions. You have permission to ask me three questions about my past."

"I don't, I really don't..." Helen fiddled with her wineglass. "I don't mind studying you from a distance. I'm not like my father. I won't poke and prod you."

"Three questions," Anne said firmly. "Now." This was not a request, but an order.

"What if I don't want to?"

"Ask me three questions. If I am still here tomorrow, you can ask three more questions. And three questions every day after that until I am gone. You publish a new book with my answers after I am gone. Will people believe you? Will people believe this ludicrous story?"

"You are not going to die," Helen said with quiet emphasis.

"Question one."

Helen shifted uncomfortably. "I really..."

"I'll ask," Yalia said, her voice strong and steady. "If you want me to."

Helen shot her wife a grateful smile. "Fine with me."

"Why does learning about me frighten you, Lady Franklin?"

"It doesn't," Helen said cautiously. "It's just that I feel like I, and many others, violated you. Your privacy. I do not want to intrude further is all."

"Like I said, I grant permission."

"Do I get to record this or write notes as you speak?"

"No." Anne gave Yalia a look. "Question one."

Yalia thought a second. "Why did you finally give in and have sex with Henry?" she asked. "What was the trigger?"

"The time had come," Anne said simply.

"But why?" Helen asked. "Why was it time?"

"Like your book said, I had reached more prominence during the French visit. The nobility was more tolerant of me. Henry was getting too frustrated that the pope was not granting his divorce."

"Did your father have a say in when you would bed Henry?" Helen asked. "Or was the decision wholly yours?"

"Of course he had a say in the matter," Anne retorted. "A tremendous say. I was a puppet. My father knew the lusts of men, and he knew how long Henry was willing to wait. You know as well as I do, Lady Franklin, that being a woman in Tudor times was no better and no more powerful than being a dog. Question two, please."

Helen looked to Yalia, and Yalia asked: "When you were pregnant with Elizabeth , were you afraid she would be a girl?"

"Yes. Oh, yes. I kept up a brave front. The baby would be a boy, the future king of England , and that was that. Inside, I was unsure. Henry was probably as nervous as I was, but from the way he puffed and thumped his chest, you would imagine he was capable of peeking inside me and seeing our baby's penis. A girl..." Anne's voice trailed off. "When Elizabeth was born, when I found out she was a girl, I refused to think anything except: 'The next baby will be a boy.' I was afraid for Henry to come see me. To come see us. But he did. He had to. He was the father of my child."

"What was that meeting like?" Yalia asked.

"Henry stood in the doorway a long time. Only Elizabeth and I were in the room. Henry was a shadow. I was exhausted from the labor. I wanted to weep. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to weep more. I held the baby, and at last he approached. He looked at her. He looked at me. His face was still. His face was contained. He had big fingers, Henry did. Thick. He touched one of his fingers to her nose. ' Elizabeth ,' he said, and his voice was angry and sad and sweet and desperate. I knew for certain I was dead if I did not produce a boy soon. Then my husband left."

"Did you love him?" Helen asked. "At any point?"

"No," Anne said defiantly.

"Was he good in bed?"

Anne gave a mirthless laugh. "The things people want to know."

"Your Majesty--"

"I will answer tomorrow, if you ask the question again. We are finished today. I believe you and Lady Yamaoto asked more than three questions."

"Very well," Helen said. Unconsciously imitating Anne's way of speaking?

Anne's throat tightened. What had she been thinking, ending the conversation? She did not want Helen and Yalia to leave. "I suppose he was serviceable," Anne said.

Yalia grinned. "You like that word, don't you?"

Yalia's grin prompted gratitude and bravery from Anne. "He was not serviceable. He was quick and selfish."

"I know what you mean," Yalia said.

"In France , I saw, I had seen women who, they were together sexually. They took their time. They enjoyed each other. I did not enjoy Henry. I wanted to be one ofthem ."

"It's okay," Helen said, a gentle softness in her voice.

Anne pressed her lips together. "God says it is not. But in many ways, the God of 1536 is not the same God as today."

"Yes," Helen agreed. "You are correct. God is changing. Society is changing."

Anne wrapped her arms around herself. She felt stupid. And alone, very alone. She wanted to be in the movies again, with Yalia's arms around her. Or for Helen to put her arms around her. She did not want to be in a bleak bed by herself. When she was a child, she sometimes climbed into bed with her brother or her sister. Once in a while, the three of them slept together.

Helen yawned again, and Anne knew her new friend was lost for the time being. "Good night," Anne said. I hope Icarus does not have equipment that can see through walls.

"I am sorry you are in this position, Your Majesty," Helen said.

"I am sorry also. I shall stay awake as long as I can. I feel unsafe."

Helen shifted her gaze to the living room windows, as if she could see through the blinds to the Icarus man. Her expression was angry, and she shook her head. "Forget tomorrow. I will talk to him now."

"No, Lady Franklin. The dark is dangerous. I shall be fine."

Helen got to her feet. "Well, I won't be fine. You shouldn't be alone."

"I shall be fine. Truly."

"Helen's right," Yalia said. "You shouldn't be alone, especially since your room faces the street."

"So there we have it," Helen said with finality. "Our bed is big enough. It's a king size, so it can fit one queen and two regular ladies." Helen chuckled. "Want to sleep with Yalia and me tonight? Or if that makes you uncomfortable, I will stay in your bedroom with you. I will bring a chair or something."

Anne's breath caught in her throat. In bed with Helen and Yalia? Her body jumped. Her nerves jumped. Impossible.

Anne smiled, hoping the smile was noncommittal. "Is that not odd for you?"

Helen shrugged. She grinned. She had a way of grinning that put Anne at ease, that made Anne want to know everything about her. "This whole thing is weird. What's one more odd thing?"

"Three is not a bad number," Yalia put in. "It has power."

Anne stood. "Thank you, Lady Franklin, Lady Yamaoto. You are most kind." One of her crying spells threatened to engulf her. Not now, please. Later. She wiped at her eyes, but some moistness escaped. Halt. Go away.

"Hey." Helen's tones were concerned. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Anne said. "What you are doing is extremely kind, that is all. I am a burden to you. You do not want me. You are most kind to befriend me and take me into your home." And into your bed, even if only for one night.

Helen squeezed Anne's hand. "No feeling sorry for yourself, okay? Yalia and I are glad to have you. Come on. Leave your glass. Let's go to bed."

Chapter Nine

Anne awoke in a pool of sunshine. She scrambled to orient herself and to find the clock.

9:43.

Goodness. She must have fallen asleep right away. She remembered holding Helen's hand and enjoying her touch as they walked down the hallway. She remembered Helen breaking away and Anne getting into bed--in the middle, between Helen and Yalia--and then nothing.

I feel rested. I feel refreshed. I feel alive.

Yalia walked into the room. "You're up! Good morning."

Anne patted her hair. "Good morning, Lady Yamaoto. I apologize for intruding in your bed last night. I hope you were not terribly inconvenienced."

Yalia waved off the comment. "Anytime. I was out like a light. I think you were too."

"Yes. Thank you."

Over a breakfast of Lucky Charms, Yalia said: "Helen left for Gallaudet not long before you woke up. She said to tell you she'll stop at Icarus after her classes and get your paintings. She'll be home about three. I don't have any cases going on right now, so the day is wide open. Anything you want to do? Get new clothes?"

Anne dipped her spoon into a section that had mostly marshmallows. "Perhaps later I shall purchase additional clothing. You own much land, I believe. It has been ever long since I walked for some time and felt the air, the cold and the wind on my cheeks."

"That sounds good."

"The dogs should come. And you also, Lady Yamaoto, if you wish."

Yalia smiled. "I'd like to. Sure. It's really cold out, so bundle up." Anne saw a message in Yalia's expression, in her tight, taut mouth: Safer to not go alone, anyway.Β  No one can sneak up on you and seize you.

*****

The dogs went crazy with barks as Yalia zipped up her coat, and the doorbell rang a few moments later. Yalia frowned. If the visitor was from Icarus, she was not sure how to proceed. Yalia looked through the peephole. "Shit." She turned to Anne. "It's my parents. They live in Harrisonburg, which is about an hour away, but sometimes they'll pop in without calling."

Another insistent doorbell ring and then Yalia's mother called: "Yoo-hoo! I see you!"

"Shall I go to my bedroom?" Anne asked.

"No, no, not unless you want to. I'll get rid of them as quickly as I can." Yalia undid the deadbolt and opened the door. You always had great timing. She forced a smile. "Dad. Mom."

Β Michelle Yamaoto shot Yalia a Cheshire cat grin. Then she tore off her winter cap. Her hair was pink. Pink!

Yalia's jaw fell. "Wow."

"Like my hair?" Michelle asked.

"It's striking. Uh, come on in. Get out of the cold." Yalia indicated Anne. "We were about to take the dogs on a walk. This is my friend, Anne George. Anne, this woman with the Pepto-Bismol hair is my mother, Michelle. And this is my father, Andy."

Anne smiled good-naturedly, and her aura was different. She was no longer a slightly distant, slightly haughty queen. She was softer. More approachable. She held out her hand; she had gloves on. "Pleasure to meet you both."

"You too," Michelle replied with a beam and handshake. She shifted her attention back to Yalia. "You left so suddenly after the funeral. Daddy and I wanted to check on you and Helen."

"We're fine. Helen needed to get out of there. She was overwhelmed. Too many people."

Michelle pursed her lips, believing not one word. "Anne, where are you from? Your accent..."

"Anne is British," Yalia supplied. "Anyway, I wish you would've called. Like I said, we were about to go on a walk."

Michelle responded with a bright smile. "Daddy and I will go with you."

Great. Wonderful. Awesome. Not.

"You sound a bit more like you're French," Michelle said.

"I spent much of my childhood in France," Anne explained.

"Ah," Michelle said, and Yalia could tell her mother knew something was askew about this Anne George woman.

*****

"This land truly is beautiful," Anne murmured for what must have been the third time. She loved the stinging cold on her cheeks. She loved seeing the dogs yip and run and be free.

"Does it remind you of home?" Andy Yamaoto asked.

Anne gave Yalia's father a smile. "In some ways, yes." Anne liked Yalia's parents. They were friendly and warm. They obviously loved their daughter, and Anne got the impression Helen was not the only person Yalia had shut out after the shooting. Yalia had cut out everyone, maintaining only superficial ties.

About an hour after they left on the walk, the foursome headed back to the house. "We passed a parked Icarus car on our way in," Michelle said. "A man was in it. Why?"

Anne slowed her steps, her chest constricting. Icarus, Icarus, Icarus.

"I don't know," Yalia said, but the guilty shift of her eyes, of her gaze, gave the lie away. Fortunately, her parents let the matter drop.

In the house, Yalia fixed hot chocolate and s'mores, and then her parents left about one o'clock.

"Well," Yalia said, exchanging a smile with Anne. "Just us again. Sorry about them."

"You have nothing to apologize for," Anne said. "Your parents are lovely. I enjoyed seeing you with them."

Yalia raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Okay."

"You are a very nice person, Lady Yamaoto."

A small, tentative smile was Yalia's response. "You are nice, too. I've been thinking about what you said last night. You being a burden. You're not, though."

"I am."

"Maybe in some ways. But in general, no. You're not a burden. You will be good for Helen. For me. For us. And I hope Helen and I can help you as well."

"Why have you and Helen not made love in some time?"

"I..." Yalia licked her lips and smiled, but her smile was without humor or joy. "I can't, I'm not...right now, I can't be the wife Helen deserves. We've separated. We separated about two and a half weeks ago, actually."

"Then why do you live together?"

"One of us was going to move out, but Helen did not think she could take care of you alone."

"I do not need taking caring of," Anne replied haughtily, although she knew her statement was incorrect. For instance, she knew not how to operate a vehicle. She had no income. No credit card.

"You don't need taking care of," Yalia agreed. "You're right."

"I am regretful about you and your wife."

"Me too. And thank you."

"Forgive me, but it did not seem at the Days Inn, from your exertions in bed, as if you and Lady Franklin were separated."

Yalia's cheeks flushed. "You heard that? We tried to be quiet."

"Perhaps your attempts failed somewhat."

Yalia's lips puckered. "I'm sorry. I know how to be quiet. Helen's loud."

"Why are you and Lady Franklin separated? You love her. She loves you."

Yalia reached down to pet a dog, the ugly one. Toad, Anne remembered.

"The kids issue. And I have not been myself since the shooting," Yalia said. "Helen deserves someone better. I feel little desire. Sexual desire. We've been together a long time, and I guess we just grew apart. The shooting brought matters to the forefront, maybe."

"Helen's mother worried about you. The both of you."

"She told you about us?"

"It is how I know about the shooting," Anne said.

"Ah."

"Lady Franklin, and I mean Lady Regina, thought tremendously of you."

"She was a good woman. Other than what she did to you, I guess. I never had mother-in-law problems."

Anne held out her hand. "Shall we be friends, Lady Yamaoto?"

Yalia brought the hand to her lips and kissed it. "We shall be friends."

*****

Benjamin had the paintings wrapped and ready to go when Helen arrived at Icarus. They talked about drawing up a fake license and fake papers for Anne. Then Benjamin helped Helen carry the paintings to Helen's truck: fifty-two paintings in all.

"You and I need to talk about stopping the surveillance," Helen said after they finished.

Benjamin narrowed his eyes but offered a smile. "Come with me."

Helen followed him to the monitoring room. The screens were black, but Helen wondered if Benjamin had used a remote control to turn them off moments ago. She hated the thought of her house being bugged, of secret microphones and cameras in her private space. But, they probably were there, and so high-tech they would be impossible for Helen and Yalia, a private investigator, to find.

Helen sat. "Call off the car."

"Not possible. An emergency may arise."

"The car is freaking Anne out," Helen said calmly. "She is jittery. Call the car off. This is not negotiable."

Benjamin crossed his arms. "You do not appreciate the gravity of the situation. We are dealing with many, many unknowns. You are correct the car issue is not negotiable. The car stays. You have my word, however, the car is only there to help if an emergency arises."

"Give an example of an emergency."

"Anne fades and comes back bleeding or hurt in some way. Or she fades and does not come back."

Helen played with her bracelet. She hated to admit it, but Benjamin's argument was more persuasive than hers.

"Has Anne faded since she left Icarus?" Benjamin asked.

The question caught Helen off guard. "That is not for me to answer," she replied a few seconds later.

Benjamin picked up on the delay. "She did fade." His voice was angry. "We need to know this. We have to document everything. Where, when, and for how long? Did anything aberrant happen?"

Aberrant, yes. She took Yalia and me with her. She returned late.

"It is not my place to tell you," Helen said.

Benjamin jumped to his feet. He scribbled something on a business card. "This is my phone number. Have her call me immediately. If there is a problem, we need to know. We absolutely need to know. Okay? Understand?"

"I will give her your number."

"If I am not here--if I have faded--Anne should talk to whomever is doing the surveillance."

"Benjamin?"

"What?"

"Do you ever get scared?"

Benjamin's eyes turned soft and understanding. "Of course I do, Dr. Franklin. 'Course I do. But I would not trade this for the world."

Helen got up to leave. I would not trade this for the world. The sentence stayed with her through her drive home. I would not trade this for the world. I would not trade this for the world.

"Jesus," Helen muttered. "I have Anne Boleyn at home." Exhilaration rushed through her. The situation no longer seemed ridiculous or impossible. Just miraculous. That was how Helen needed to look at it. Her father and her mother had messed up, but Helen was taking over the case. She would give Anne Boleyn a second life. Anne Boleyn was no doomed queen, but a damned miracle. She was a damned survivor.

http://web.archive.org/web/20120130061237/http:/www.academyofbards.org/fanfic/q/qkelly_third4.html - ref_TOC

Chapter Ten

Anne could tell Helen was in a fantastic mood. She arrived home, put her arms around Yalia, kissed her a good few seconds. Then she hugged Anne. "I come bearing paintings."

While the three of them lugged in the paintings, Helen explained her meeting with Benjamin. "The car's here to stay, for better or for worse."

Anne was not surprised. She might actually have been a little disappointed if Icarus, or Benjamin, gave in that quickly.

"Let's go out and do something," Helen said. "How about bowling? Or skating? Skating's a bit closer. And I'm better at skating."

Yalia groaned, but in a good-natured way. Anne turned a questioning look onto Yalia. "Wait until you see Helen. She's a showoff," was all Yalia said.

"Have you been skating?" Helen asked.

"I have been to a rink, but I did not skate. Benjamin wanted to try, so we went with Jordan and your mother. This was about two weeks before Starbucks."

Some of Helen's good cheer evaporated, quite visibly. "Your mother was not that bad," Anne was compelled to say. And it was true, partially. Anne could not deny that Regina Franklin had a softer, warmer touch than Josiah and Benjamin. Anne could also not deny that Regina had loved to confide in her, if confiding was the right word with all the cameras and microphones. Regina had talked in such a way that made Anne think she was doing it just so she could continually tell herself: "Look at me! My confidante is Anne Boleyn. Aren't I special?" Regina had never been shy about asking Anne questions about her life and showing her exasperation when Anne refused to answer. Regina had agreed with Josiah that Anne must live at the Icarus building.

However, of the three, Josiah, Benjamin and Regina, Anne would take Regina Franklin.

"Let's not talk about my mother," Helen said. "Why didn't you skate?"

Anne stifled a snort. She, the queen of England, fumbling and falling over herself? She would not be the picture of dignity. She could not remember one time in her adult life where she had just let go and laughed, been free and not worried about what people thought. "I did not care to skate," Anne said.

"You want to go?"

"I will watch you and Lady Yamaoto. If the rink has arcade games, I may partake in them."

Helen grinned. "Cool. And maybe we'll coax you onto the rink. Did Benjamin skate?"

"He did," Anne said. "He made a spectacle of himself." And he loved it. Benjamin and Jordan had laughed the whole time. Laughed and skated. Sometimes, Anne wished she could be more like Benjamin, enjoy life more. But he was a man. He had it easier; he was in charge of his own destiny.

*****

So here they were. Helen had her own inline skates, a sleek red and yellow pair with four wheels. "I haven't skated in forever," Helen said. "This will be fun."

Yalia rented her own skates and got a pair for Anne as well. "In case you change your mind."

I will not. "Thank you."

Helen latched up and was on the floor first. The place, about twenty minutes from the farmhouse, was not too busy. Maybe fifteen people glided--or staggered--across the floor. Many were children. Helen moved quickly, powerfully, with grace. She showed no signs of rust.

She was sexuality personified. Sexiness personified.

Out of the corner of her eye, Anne watched Yalia watch her wife. Yalia's lips were slightly parted.

"Wish I could move like that," Yalia said.

"Are you good?"

"Average. I can get the job done."

Helen waved with a broad smile, and Yalia waved back.

"Your wife is quite skilled."

Yalia's expression was suddenly sad. "I messed up. I distanced myself from Helen when I should have..." She sighed. She shook her head. "Gonna put on my skates. Come with me. With us. Please."

"Perhaps later I shall, Lady Yamaoto."

"Would you like to call me Yalia sometime, perhaps?"

The question gave Anne pause. She was not sure she liked the idea of letting Yalia and Helen invade more of her personal space. Anne could not deny she was drawn to both of them, and so maintaining some distance was imperative.

"Never mind," Yalia said. "It's cool."

"Cool," Anne repeated.

Yalia laughed. "Rad. Groovy."

"Sick. Awesome. Prime."

"Hey, you know your slang."

"I do."

"I'll be back soon." Yalia frowned. "Something on your shirt."

Anne looked down. "I do not--"

Yalia flicked Anne on the chin. "Got you. Made you look."

Anne found herself smiling, found herself drawn to Yalia's playfulness, her dancing eyes. She wanted to kiss Yalia. She wanted Helen to kiss her again.

Yalia brought Anne's hand to her lips, as she had earlier. Her mouth was gentle. "Bye for now, Anne. Be back soon." Yalia skated off.

Anne found a pinball game and inserted a quarter. She made her way through several games, sneaking peeks at Yalia and Helen all the while. They looked good together. They fit. They skated fluidly, hand in hand sometimes, their heads together, laughing. Whatever their problems, they would be fine. They loved each other very much.

Anne thought about her languishing rented pair of skates. She could be out there too, her hands most likely in Helen's and Yalia's. She could be laughing with them. She was not Anne Boleyn anymore; she was no queen anymore. She was Anne George, commoner, and she would have to adapt if she were to survive and be happy. If she were to be independent.

She would have to trust Helen and Yalia.

*****

They got a pizza from the rink's restaurant. "How did you two meet?" Anne asked over a gooey slice of pepperoni and bacon.

Both Helen and Yalia grinned. "I'll tell her," Yalia said. "Okay, so Helen and I met in high school. 'Met' is probably the wrong word. I moved to the school district, and I saw Helen around at school. She was a cheerleader, a perfect blonde. I was a misfit. I was a Goth. I told myself I hated the cheerleader types, but inside, I didn't. From the first time I saw Helen, I was in love with her. I couldn't help it. The way she moved, the way she talked, just her aura. But I never dared talk with her. So, fast forward to when we're twenty-five. I'm a cop. I'm called to an environmental protest that is getting out of hand. The police chief wants us to arrest protesters. Lo and behold, who do I see but Helen Franklin. She's one of the calmer protesters. The calmest one, actually. Bonehead me gets it into my head that arresting her would be a good icebreaker. Of course, I didn't intend to go through with the arrest. I'd let her get off with a warning. Point is, I'd get to talk to Helen Franklin, finally. So, fine. I tell her she's under arrest."

Anne leaned forward, caught up in Yalia's story.

" 'Yalia Yamaoto?' Helen asked. 'Oh my gosh. Is that you?' I was shocked. Helen knew my name! I stuttered out some sort of 'Yes' reply, and Helen's eyes shone. She seemed genuinely excited to see me. Turns out she'd had a crush on me too. She'd been in love with me too."

"Wow."

Yalia laughed. "I'm glad Helen spoke up when she did. If she hadn't...I don't know."

"I thank you both again for accepting me into your home."

"No more thanks needed, okay?" Helen said. "Skate with us after we eat?"

I will not. Anne would fall. Lots. Helen and Yalia would have to help her up, they would have their arms around Anne, body against body, breasts against breasts, hand in hand. "That is most kind of you to ask, Lady Franklin. But I decline."

*****

"Anne likes us," Helen said as she and Yalia skated to a slow song.

"Well, good. I like her too."

"No," Helen said, injecting a purposeful angle into her voice, "she likes us. Likes likes us."

Yalia slowed and gave Helen a grudging nod. "I know."

Β "What do we do about it?"

"I have no idea," Yalia whispered. "No idea."

"We probably shouldn't invite her to sleep with us tonight. Unless she really needs it. Or maybe we should? No, probably not."

"Suppose so." Yalia wanted to tell Helen: "Screw the consequences. Let's invite her," but Yalia kept quiet. She was scared what would happen if she got to kiss Anne.

*****

THE LUV TOY was an oblong, light-pink vibrator with a purple base. Its colors reminded Anne of Elizabeth's family tree mural, which she had decided not to paint over. At least somewhere in the world, she would have left her mark again. Anne checked if the vibrator had a battery inside. It did. Anne twisted the vibrator's base, and THE LUV TOY hummed on. Strong movements, for sure. Not loud, though. Yalia and Helen would not hear. Good. Anne turned off the vibrator and her bedroom lights. She got into bed. She pulled down her sweat pants and underwear halfway.

What now? Anne had been looking forward to this moment since Yalia handed her the box yesterday afternoon, more than twenty-four hours ago. Now that the time had come, however, Anne wished for more waiting, more longing, and she did not understand it.

Then she did. She did not want to be in bed, alone, with a plastic, battery-operated sex aid masquerading as a lover. She wanted to be across the hallway, in Helen's and Yalia's bed, even if they did nothing but sleep. Even if there was no touching.

Anne sighed. Deal with it. Get over it. She liked these blunt, flippant American sayings. She twisted the vibrator on and pressed it against her clit.

WHOA!

Anne's body jumped. She pulled the vibrator back. The sensation was jolting, literally. Intense. She took a moment to recover and then pulled her underwear up for insulation. She lowered the vibrator again.

Wow.

Wow.

She sank into sensations.

Oh goodness.

This was...

Anne twisted. She writhed. Oh, Lord. This felt so damn good, so sinfully good! She would come soon, so soon, too soon, and she wanted to come, and at the same time, she did not. She wanted to savor her first vibrator orgasm. Too late. There it was, her orgasm, with precious little build-up. Anne checked the time. Less than a minute. She flopped against the pillows. She would need more time to recover from her orgasm than she had spent getting it. No wonder women loved their vibrators. Easy, quick, no-muss orgasms, and different, too.

About five minutes later, Anne kissed the toy. The scent of her juices was faint, but definitely there. "I suppose it is up to you to keep me company, Luv Toy," she said. "You are not too bad. You will do."

She brought her new friend down for another whirl.

*****

The next two nights, Anne slept alone. She got to know her new vibrator friend intimately. She also had nosebleeds from her right nostril, and at exactly the same time: 2:31 a.m. Both nosebleeds were so bad she jerked awake with a start. Something was in her throat, choking her. Her gag reflexes kicked in, and she spit out blood. The nosebleed blood, because she was lying down, had traveled back into her throat. Both times, the nosebleeds stopped at 2:33 a.m.

The nosebleeds scared Anne. She had never had nosebleeds.

Never, never, never.

Anne did not tell Helen and Yalia. She kept her clean-up activities as quiet as possible. She stuffed her tissues far down the outside trash can. She washed her clothes herself. She also studied the business card Helen had given her with Benjamin's number. "It's up to you whether to call him," Helen had said. Anne hated Benjamin. No, she more than hated him. She loathed him, like she loathed Henry and Josiah. She would not be telephoning Mr. Benjamin Franklin anytime. Period.

On the third day, Anne did not dare sleep. She lay in the dark and let the stars comfort her. She loved them. They were one of her favorite things about her new residence. She and Yalia had gone to Wal-Mart two days ago to buy Anne clothes and other odds and ends. Yalia had happened to see a package of these stars. "I loved this when I was a kid," Yalia enthused. "I bet they're better now. You have to try this. Hell, I'm getting a box for my room."

Anne had liked Yalia's grin, the light in Yalia's eyes. That was all the persuading Anne needed to agree to the stars.

Anne glanced at the clock. Only a few more minutes. She would be awake and prepared at 2:31 a.m. At 2:29, Anne turned the lamp on, to its lowest setting. She stuffed tissues into her right nostril. She waited. The time for the bleeding came, and no bleeding occurred. At 2:40, Anne allowed herself a relieved breath and yanked the tissue out. Maybe she had been ill, so to speak, from her time stream fluctuation, but she was recovered. Maybe, maybe. Please let it be so.

A knock sounded on the door. "Anne?" came Helen's voice.

What is this? Anne crumpled the tissues and slipped them into her wastebasket. She padded to the door and opened it a crack. "Yes?"

"Did it happen?" Helen asked, and Anne made out Yalia behind her.

Anne was anxious to shut the door on her companions. She evidently had not been quiet the past two nights like she thought. However, Helen had said it. She had been vague. "I know not what you mean."

Helen glanced over Anne's shoulder. "You didn't get out of bed earlier. So it didn't come? That's good. I've been worried."

"Can we talk to you for a minute?" Yalia asked.

"Very well." Anne waved them in.

"I've heard you get up the past two nights at the same time and go into the bathroom and do a few other things," Yalia said. "What's happened?"

Anne picked up on the earnestness in Yalia's voice. She was only trying to help. "Very well," Anne said, and she went on to tell Yalia and Helen about the nosebleeds.

"Wow," Helen said after Anne was finished. "You should've told me. Us."

"I did not want to worry you unnecessarily. And you see why. No bleeds tonight."

"But you're going to be up at 2:30 tomorrow anyway," Helen said.

"Yes," Anne had to admit. "You are correct."

"Does Benjamin have nosebleeds?"

"I do not know."

"I can't imagine how scared you are," Yalia said softly. "You handle it so well."

"One could say the same about you. We internalize."

Yalia sighed. She sat on the bed and glanced at Helen. "I'll tell you two something. I see Louis."

Helen blinked. "You see Louis?" She sat close to Yalia. Not so close their legs touched, but close. "How so?"

"He appears to me sometimes."

"As a ghost? Like Dexter and his dad?"

"No." Yalia chuckled. She glanced up at Anne. "Do you know the show Dexter?"

"I am unfamiliar with it."

"It's good. I have it on DVD if you want to watch it. Dexter is a serial killer who kills serial killers, but I hate the parts where he talks with his dad, who is there in person. Dexter is the only one who sees him. So, anyway, no, Louis doesn't appear as a ghost. What I mean is he appears in my mind once in a while. He talks to me. He asks me things. He tells me things."

"But you said you see him," Anne pointed out.

"I hear him, I mean."

Anne wished she could reach out and touch Yalia to comfort her. Squeeze her shoulder. She owed Yalia that much, after what Yalia had done to help her at the movie theater. But Helen was the one on the bed with Yalia. She did not have to be the only one, though. Anne sat on Yalia's other side and slipped her foot forward a bit. Then a bit more, until her foot brushed Yalia's. "What does Louis say and ask?"

"Nothing important. He appears at silly times. Yesterday, he asked if I had a good day."

"What did you tell him?"

"I usually don't reply to his questions."

"What happens when you do?"

"He wants to have a conversation. He gets chatty. He asks too many questions."

Take her hand. Hold her hand. Anne closed her hand over Yalia's, slowly, tentatively, and Yalia did not attempt to draw away. "I cannot blame him. I would like to ask you many questions," Anne said. "You too, Lady Franklin."

This elicited smiles from Yalia and Helen.

"Will you let Helen and me wait with you tomorrow to see if you get a nosebleed?"

"I will," Anne said.

"Good. Well, uh, we better get back to bed."

I wish you could stay. Or that you would invite me to sleep with you and Helen. Or that I had the courage to ask. "Good night," Anne said. Feeling brave, but not brave enough to ask to share a bed, Anne kissed Yalia. Not on the mouth, but close, just outside the corner of her lips. Yalia kissed Anne back, same place, corner of her lips.

Anne did the same with Helen, but Helen was more daring with her responding kiss, opting for a quick, but full, brush of mouth against mouth.

Β "Good night, Anne," Yalia said. "Helen and I will be with you tomorrow. You don't have to go through any of this alone."

A moment later, Yalia and Helen were back in their bedroom, and Anne clutched her pillow over her face. Her body burned. Her heart burned. She wanted to cry.

Time for me! THE LUV TOY called from the drawer, and Anne got the thing out. She kissed it, several times. Pretended Yalia was the one she was kissing. Anne pretended she was kissing Helen, as well.

I am going crazy. I am kissing a vibrator and wishing it was my friends. "You are ridiculous," Anne said. "I barely know them. We just met."

Come on, THE LUV TOY said, and Anne gave the toy, and herself, what they wanted.

*****

Helen got into bed without saying anything. Yalia, too. Helen kept waiting for Yalia to say: "So you kissed her again on the mouth. What's up with that?"

I didn't mean to, Helen would reply. It just happened. I'm sorry.

But Yalia said nothing.

"Sorry," Helen said when it became evident Yalia would not talk. "I didn't mean to kiss her on the mouth."

"It's fine," Yalia replied. "Not a problem." She took Helen into her arms. "Let's try to get some sleep."

******

Yalia woke up about nine o'clock. She studied her wife for a while. Her morning pee could wait. She drank in the curve of Helen's body, her messy hair, her lips. She replayed the flicker of Helen kissing Anne last night. She also replayed Anne kissing her, her kissing Anne back.

Yalia brought her lips to Helen's cheek. "Love you," Yalia said.

"Mmpf." Helen was nowhere near awake, and Yalia sighed. She lay back in bed. Maybe they needed a threesome to get rid of the sexual tension. Anne lived with them, however. What if the threesome backfired? The situation was awkward. Impossible.

Fine, then. No threesome. Friends. Friends only. They had just met Anne. Why was Yalia even contemplating this? It was crazy. Anne was from 1536. She had been through many traumatic experiences. She was probably the least suitable candidate sexual intrigue with Yalia and Helen.

Yalia got up to pee. She would be careful to keep her distance from Anne. Otherwise, her feelings were at a real risk to develop, to cross a line. How could they not? Anne was intelligent, beautiful, vulnerable, and both Helen and Yalia felt an affinity with her.

*****

It snowed that morning, and schools, including Gallaudet, canceled classes. The snow fell and fell, with forecasts calling for at least two feet by nighttime. When Helen peeked through the windows at noon, Jordan and the Icarus car were leaving. "He just drove away," Helen said. "Jordan did."

"Oh." Anne was sitting in the living room chair and did not seem happy Jordan was gone. Yalia did not seem happy, either. Helen certainly was not. For once, she had been glad to have Jordan or whomever the other guard was nearby. These damn nosebleeds. The country roads would be impassable with snow.

"Maybe you should call Benjamin," Helen suggested. "We, uh..." She could not believe what she was about to say. "Maybe Jordan or someone should stay in the house with us until the weather gets better."

Anne's eyes went wide, and passion reddened her cheeks. She leaped from the chair, truly leaped. "I will not call Benjamin!" She jabbed her pointer finger in the air. "He drugs me, do you know that? He drugs me to put me to sleep and inserts me in all sorts of machines for tests. No one from Icarus stays with us."

"Even if it puts your health at risk? And your life?"

Anne sat back in the chair. "I am fine," she insisted.

"The nosebleeds have you scared to death." Bad choice of words, scared to death.

"I am fine."

Helen inclined her head in a show of respect. "You had two nosebleeds at the exact same times. Something is wrong. Now, if something happens to you and I can't do anything about it because of the weather, I do not want, I repeat, I do not want your blood on my hands."

"Icarus can do nothing except creep around. They are bumblers. They fumble in the dark. They know nothing."

"They probably know more than they let on."

More fury smeared Anne's cheeks. "What say you, Lady Yamaoto?"

Yalia opened her mouth. Closed her mouth. "Anne," she said at last, "I get where you're coming from. These people did shitty things to you. I wouldn't want them here either. Thing is, I already have someone's blood on my hands. I don't want you haunting me, either. I would appreciate you calling. For me."

Anne's mouth thinned with displeasure, and Helen knew Yalia had won. "Very well," Anne said. "I will call."

"Thank you. I owe you one."

*****

Helen flopped onto the couch with Yalia. "So what should we do while we wait?" It had turned out that before Anne could call, Benjamin called Helen. He wanted to send someone to stay in the house with them, and Helen had tussled with him a bit to put up a show. At least she had not had to tell Benjamin about the nosebleeds, so Anne got a bit of her way too. Benjamin probably knew, though, thanks to spy devices.

Bottom line: Jordan would be at the front door in about an hour. He would be driving an Icarus snow removal truck.

Earlier, Helen had rummaged through the board games to find something she could play with Yalia and Anne. So many board and card games, so little use. Monopoly, Yahtzee, Skip Bo, Phase 10, Sequence, Uno, Hollywood Squares, Upwords, Monopoly, Clue, Racko and Loaded Questions.

Helen wanted no part of board and card games. She kept playing Yalia's ghost of a smile at the Days Inn after Helen kissed Anne. She kept remembering her tongue with Anne's. A good fuck was what she wanted. A good fuck was what the three of them needed, and this snowy day was a perfect occasion. But none of them had the guts to announce they wanted fucking.

Plus, there was Jordan, as effective a damper as any.

"We could start Dexter," Anne said. "If you two do not mind watching it again."

"I don't mind," Yalia said.

While episode one played, Helen curled up with Yalia and thought about Tiffany. Helen and Yalia, while they were dating, had gone to a lesbian bar a few times. Tiffany had been a mainstay. She went every night, apparently. One night, the three of them had a bit too much to drink. They'd returned to Yalia's place together. The three of them had taken turns with one another, and once in a while, two of them would work on the third. Helen had loved the threesome. Absolutely loved it. Yalia, not so much, but then she had never cared for Tiffany. In the morning, Tiffany took a cab to wherever she lived, and Helen and Yalia never went to the bar again.

The threesome with Gina was a bit different. Helen had wanted another threesome after Tiffany, but seeing as how Yalia did not enjoy the experience as she had, Helen waited a few years to ask. Yalia had agreed and said she'd prefer to watch. They found Gina online. Yalia had participated a bit, but watched mostly. She hated it. No more threesomes, Yalia had said.

Now this situation with Anne. A situation in which Yalia seemed willing. Agreeable. Too willing. Too agreeable. Apprehension tickled Helen's throat, her spine, her toes. Was this how Yalia had felt about Helen after the threesomes? Was Anne someone Yalia could fall in love with and leave Helen for?

I feel like a little part of Anne came back with me, Yalia had said. Or something like that, anyway. Anne and Yalia were home together many days and likely would continue to be. Threesome today, twosomes later. Risky, dicey situation. Best to not risk a threesome. Now that Helen had Yalia back, she sure as hell was not letting her wife go. Helen had been stupid to kiss Anne last night. To kiss her the first time. She only hoped it was not too late to avert a disaster.

*****

Jordan wore a heavy gray coat, blue jeans and a sweater. He brought a briefcase and a traveling bag. "Ma'am," he said to Anne. "Dr. Franklin. Ms. Yamaoto."

Anne mustered a tight smile. This was her first time seeing Jordan in anything but the Icarus uniform, but the lack of uniform did not soothe Anne. Wolf in sheep's clothing.

Jordan shrugged out of his coat. "Looks like a bad one, huh?"

"Let me get that." Helen hung Jordan's coat in the coat closet.

"I'll get out of your way," Jordan said. "I brought a bunch of novels, a bunch of other stuff to keep me busy. I have an iPad. Just tell me where to set up."

Jordan was downright chatty. Was he nervous, maybe? Anne wanted the stone-faced, stoic Jordan back.

"You can use my office. It has a comfortable chair." Helen showed Jordan to her office and brought him a Coke can and some cookies.

"Well," Helen said when she returned to the living room. "So far, not bad."

"If they have not planted bugs or cameras yet, he will," Anne pointed out.

Helen frowned. "Well. Ah."

"You did not realize that?"

Helen tugged at her hair, and the beginnings of a smile tipped her lips. "I'm a dumb blonde sometimes."

"Helen?" Yalia jumped from the couch. "Your nose."

Anne saw it--a nosebleed, and Yalia grabbed tissues for Helen. A couple of minutes later, the bleeding stopped. "It's okay," Helen said. "I get nosebleeds from time to time, especially in winter. Doesn't mean anything."

Helen's expression said something different. She was scared, and so was Anne. Anne felt like an imbecile. She had been worrying about her own health, her own safety, the past few days. She had not considered that Helen and Yalia could be in danger as well. And if Helen was who Anne suspected she was, then Anne really had no business taking her to 1536. Yes, she had made a grave, rash miscalculation in the movie theater.

"I am sorry," Anne said, aware she could do or say nothing to make amends. "I am so sorry. I apologize deeply. I took you both to 1536 without thinking through possible consequences." She had been so determined to prove Yalia wrong and to show Yalia up.

Helen shook off the apology. "It's a regular nosebleed, that's all." But her eyes were wary, fearful. The nosebleed could be a regular one.

Or something worse.

*****

At several points during the afternoon, Helen was tempted to call Benjamin and ask if he'd had nosebleeds. Or if her parents had. After all, they had traveled to 1901 Victorian London.

"Do you know about my parents' honeymoon in London?" Helen asked Anne during dinner. Jordan was eating on his own in the office.

Anne shifted her gaze to the left, just a bit. "Your mother told me about it."

"What did she say?"

"She was vague. I do not remember."

"Did she mention if she or my dad got nosebleeds?"

Anne looked truly miserable, reminding Helen of Yalia after the shooting. "I do not know, Lady Franklin."

"How long was she in London?"

"Half a day."

Something tickled at Helen, something, or rather, someone, she had put aside: Time Traveler Zero. Did TT0 get nosebleeds? "Do you know about Time Traveler Zero?"

Anne ate some corn. "Your mother told me about her."

"Who was she?"

"Your mother did not say, so I do not know."

Anne's lying. Her gaze was guilty, same as Josiah's had been. Anne could not meet Helen's eyes.

"Did Time Traveler Zero have nosebleeds?"

"She had no health issues, from what your mother told me. Her tests came away clean. Of course, my scans and Benjamin's looked normal as well."

Anne was concealing something. Why? "My father said he thought that even if you and Benjamin die in your natural times, you will stabilize here, because of what happened with Time Traveler Zero."

"He may be right," Anne said. "The unknown continues to scare, me however."

"I'm sure it does." Time Traveler Zero. Was she someone Helen knew? My mother. Was my mother Time Traveler Zero? It would make sense. Helen had never known her mother's parents or any of her mother's family. Her mother had joked sometimes she sprung out of nowhere, which now took on an ominous tone. Benjamin could have been lying about how and when the time travel machine was invented.

"Was my mother Time Traveler Zero?" Helen asked in a whisper.

Not even a flicker of eyelash from Anne, and she ate more corn. "It is possible."

"What's the big mystery? You're keeping something from me."

"I have suspicions, Lady Franklin, only suspicions. I wish not to spread what may be idle falsities and to unnecessarily worry people. My suspicions are based on nothing, simply what you call a gut feeling."

"What is your gut feeling?"

"I will not say. I may be disastrously wrong. May we discuss another topic?"

"No."

Anne finished her corn. "The snow is pretty, is it not, Lady Yamaoto?"

"Mmm, it is," Yalia replied.

"You're going to tell me tomorrow," Helen said. "Tomorrow. Okay?"

Anne said nothing, only gazed outside. "Beautiful," she murmured. "Simply beautiful."

Chapter Eleven

The alarm went off at two-fifteen a.m. "You go on," Helen said.

"You're not coming?" Yalia asked.

"Maybe in a bit."

"All right." Yalia gave Helen a quick kiss and got out of bed. She padded into the hallway. Light spilled from under Anne's door, and Yalia glanced to her side. The living room was dark, and Yalia heard faint snores from Jordan on the couch.

The door opened before Yalia could knock. Anne wore blue sweat pants and a white T-shirt. Yalia wanted to say: "Do you know how adorable, how hot you are in these pajamas?"

Yalia said nothing, only smiled.

"Come in." Anne let Yalia in.

"Helen will probably be here soon," Yalia said.

"She is angry with me."

"No. Maybe frustrated. Disappointed." This Time Traveler Zero business disturbed Yalia, too. Was Helen the person Anne suspected of being Time Traveler Zero? It sure would explain Anne's reticence to share. Yalia surveyed the bedroom. Anne was prepared. Tissues and cleaning supplies were smartly arranged on the dresser. Anne was a neat person, at least so far. Her room was spartan and tidy, and Yalia wondered if Anne would be the same way if she lived alone.

"Maybe not the best shirt," Yalia said.

"Hmm?" Anne looked down, and Yalia was tempted to flick her chin again. "Oh. White. Yes. Excellent point." Anne reached into a drawer and drew out a black shirt. Yalia averted her eyes so Anne could change. She bet Anne had nice breasts. Kissable, supple breasts, breasts to--Stop.

"I am finished," Anne said.

Yalia moved her gaze to Anne. "I still love that shirt. Looks great on you." Anne's shirt read: I keep it REAL. They had bought it for five dollars at Wal-Mart the other day.

"My favorite is the zombie shirt," Anne said.

"Can't beat zombies." Yalia sat on the bed. "Have you been to sleep yet?"

"No. I have been thinking."

"About Time Traveler Zero?"

Anne nodded. "And the nosebleeds. I never thought..." She stopped. Started again. "I never meant to put you and Lady Franklin in danger."

"You probably didn't. She gets nosebleeds once or twice a week in the winter. It probably is nothing except bad timing. A coincidence."

Anne's expression was uncertain. "I performed a rash act, and I am very sorry for it."

"Iβ™ve never gotten a nosebleed, so if I get one, we'll fret. Until then, letβ™s try not to kill ourselves worrying over it."

"Very well."

Yalia's heart went out to Anne. If anyone knew about mistakes and regret, Yalia did. Yalia reached out and caught Anne's hand in hers. Mistake. Touching Anne was torture, particularly if nothing would come of it. "Anne? You're not going to get a nosebleed. You will be fine. After we're done here, would you like to stay with Helen and me tonight?"

Anne dropped her gaze. Lifted it, and Yalia saw the Yes, I would like to in Anne's eyes, and she had never wanted to kiss Anne more. "I perhaps should not," Anne said.

"Why?"

"Your wife is upset with me."

Yalia nodded. She kept Anne's hand in hers. Your wife is upset with me. Good excuse. Utilitarian excuse. It would do. Bunk excuse, though. "She'll get over it. She'll be fine with you staying with us."

"Jordan is here. He would think it odd and unseemly if I were to sleep with a married couple."

"Who cares what Jordan thinks? I don't think you do. He wouldn't know what we're doing in bed. Or not doing in bed." Yalia had the thought of Benjamin Franklin watching from his monitoring room. Ack.

Anne licked her lips. "I never thanked you."

"For what?"

"What you did at the movie theater. Hugging me."

"Anytime you need a hug, holler. Have you tried the toy I gave you?"

Anne blushed, and her responding smile was endearing. "Yes, I have. It is enjoyable. Thank you for that, also."

"You're very welcome."

After a few minutes, Anne said: "I do not think your wife is coming."

"You're probably right."

2:28. 2:29. 2:30. Anne got a tissue and stuffed it up her nostril. She tucked a paper towel into her shirt. The sight was comical, and Yalia was tempted to laugh. She did not.

2:31. 2:32. 2:33.

No nosebleed.

Anne smiled, a little smile that grew bigger as the clock hit 2:34. She kept the tissue and towel where they were. At 2:40, nothing had happened, and Anne removed the objects.

"Whew," Anne said. She mopped pretend sweat from her forehead and grinned widely. The whew and the theatrical gesture were peculiar coming from her usually formal face, her formal voice. But they were cute as hell.

"Whew, indeed," Yalia responded. "Okay, then. Guess I'm off to bed. Don't think I'll be able to sleep, though."

"Me neither."

"I'm asking again. Do you want to stay with us tonight? That way I can keep tabs on both you and Helen."

"I will be fine."

"All right," Yalia said, but she did not want to go. Rather, she did not want to go without Anne. "All right, then."

"Thank you for waiting with me."

"Anytime. You're welcome. Iβ™ll do it tomorrow if youβ™re staying up." Yalia got to her feet. She bent down and kissed Anne outside the corner of her mouth. "Good night."

"Good night."

Yalia went to the door but could not twist the knob. She turned back to Anne. "We all make mistakes."

"You are most kind to say so."

Yalia felt like a million needle-thoughts lived inside her, jabbing at her, crying to be freed. "I would like very much to kiss you like Helen did."

Anne's gaze clung to hers. "You are most kind to say so. I should like to kiss you also."

"Okay," Yalia said. "Okay, then." Get out. Now. " But one more thing nagged at Yalia. She had an important, serious, sensitive question, and the possibility of ayes answer scared her.

"Do you think Helen is Time Traveler Zero?"

"Go to bed."

"Wow," Yalia whispered. "Really? You think so? Why?"

"Go to bed. Please."

The room was suffocating, the air a thick, stifling blanket. "Shit," Yalia muttered. "So you think they had time travel in the 1970s?"

"You should go to bed."

Yalia could not reply. She was drained, exhausted. She was suddenly frightened, very frightened for her wife's life. Helen's nosebleed seemed ordinary, like her other nosebleeds. Butbutbut...what if?

Anneβ™s gaze clung to Yaliaβ™s still, as if to convey: Are you so easy with your forgiveness now? You see what I may have done. If she is Time Traveler Zero, I fear the repercussions, to both her and me, from our trips to 1536.

Yalia made her way back to bed and snuggled up with Helen.

"Nosebleed?" Helen asked.

"Nope. All good."

"You kissed her," Helen said.

"No. But what if I did? What would you do?"

Helen sat up and brought Yalia's hand to her lips. "Your hand is cold."

"Is it?"

"Anne's here," Helen said. "She's with us, for better or for worse. Probably for a good while. We need to deal with this..." She gestured vaguely. "This attraction thing. We need to deal with it."

"I'm not an animal. I can control myself."

Helen laughed. "I can, too. I can. But, uh...well, it's like you said. Anne's different. You couldn't explain it then, and I can't explain it now."

Yalia regarded Helen a moment. She wanted to cry out: The attraction thing is the least of your problems, or at least I think so. Youβ™re a fucking time traveler! "What are you saying?" Yalia asked. "You want to try a polyamory thing?"

"No, no. I don't know what I'm saying. I just don't want us to have secrets. We have to be honest about our feelings for each other. And our feelings for Anne. I'm just clearing the air."

"Huh," Yalia said.

"Think you could do it? Polyamory?"

"I don't know," Yalia muttered. "Don't know enough about it. I'd have to look into it. Could you do it?"

"Dunno. Doesn't matter. Polyamory isn't what I meant. I just wanted to have a conversation to clear the air."

"Gotcha." Yalia pretended to sleep, but she could not. She held onto Helen extra-tight. The conversation with Helen had resolved nothing, and the specter of Time Traveler Zero lurked. Yalia felt like she had stepped into one of the science-fiction novels her dad loved. And it was no fun, no fun at all.

*****

In the morning, Jordan got busy with the Icarus snowplow truck, and Helen on and off researched polyamory on her iPhone. She did it because she was bored. Nothing else to do. At least, that was her excuse to herself. A "just in case" was the real reason. She did like Anne. No use denying she didn't. Yalia liked Anne, too. They both connected with Anne. Plus, what was the harm in researching? Polyamory was a fascinating subject. On one website, someone had written an advice columnist with a question along the lines of: I'm afraid if my partner and I open ourselves up to another person, my partner will love the other person more.The columnist's reply was that feelings ebb and flow over the course of relationships and to not let jealousy take over. Keeping the lines of communication open was of paramount importance to staving off jealousy.

The World Polyamory Association website stated: "Multiple lovers can help you feel happy, whole and complete. You grow spiritually as they know, accept and love you for more than just your social facades. And your poly partners grow too as you know, accept and love them. You and they know who's there to love. You listen to their feedback on how your authenticity affects them. And from their feedback you and they grow and have more to offer the world."

Helen liked the sound of that. All good and nice on the tiny phone screen. But in real life...

The back door closed. Probably Anne or Yalia letting the dogs back in. Helen hoped whoever it was had sense enough to towel off the animals. Helen had kept her distance from Anne after the Time Traveler Zero conversation last night, but she would not let the secret linger much longer. She had thought about it further and concluded her mother probably was not TT0. How could a time machine have been in effect eighty-six years ago? Eighty-six. So long. Regina Franklinβ™s pregnancy had been amazing; how many forty-six-year old women get pregnant?

The front door opened, and Jordan stepped in. He removed his boots and placed them on a mat. "Looks good. I got the streets all around done. Iβ™ll be going. Thank you for your generosity and hospitality, Dr. Franklin."

"Whatβ™s the other guardβ™s name?"

"Ted, maβ™am. Heβ™ll be parking over there soon."

Helen glanced around. No Anne, no Yalia. She inched toward Jordan. "Who is Time Traveler Zero?"

"Thatβ™s classified information. Iβ™ll get my things." He walked down the hall.

A flash of loneliness stabbed Helen, and the turmoil of the past few weeks hit her. She needed headache medicine. And she needed to speak up. After all, keeping quiet would result in no good. Like the advice columnist had said, honest communication was a must. That was true no matter the subject, polyamory or TT0 orΒ  otherwise.

Jordan left a few minutes later.

"That was nice," Yalia said, coming up behind Helen and wrapping her arms around Helenβ™s waist. "We didnβ™t have to shovel an inch."

"Mmm. Sure was nice."

*****

Anne prepared a lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for the three of them. They ate in silence, and Helen did not eat much. "Are you upset with me?" Anne asked when Helen declared she was finished.

"I'm not upset."

"You have acted different today. You are frustrated about my reluctance to share my suspicions about Time Traveler Zero."

Helen pictured her mother, her lovely, beautiful mother, a woman who joked she sprung from nowhere. Helen stirred cooling soup. She no longer was in a hurry to find out who Time Traveler Zero was. So what if her mother was TT0? What did it change? Nothing, except that perhaps Regina Franklin had been famous in her previous time. Okay, so that was not a nothing. It was a honking city-bus something. My mother had a whole other life I did not know about. Who had Regina Franklin been? She had short, silver hair, blue eyes and a ready, friendly smile. Her teeth were genuine, as far as Helen knew. In good shape, too. Her accent fit where she said she was from, New York state. Helen brought the soup to her mouth. A conversation about Time Traveler Zero could wait another day or two. Helen was not prepared yet to deal with further discoveries about her mother.

"Here's the thing," Helen said. "I'm nervous."

"I apologize for making you nervous."

"I overstepped when I kissed you two nights ago," Helen said.

"I see."

"I get a vibe that..." Helen sighed. "I feel stupid, okay? This is stupid. We haven't known each other long. Why are we kissing each other? Why are we kissing one another?"

Anne kept her face still, but her eyes darkened. "Let us not tiptoe around the matter. I have no wish to play games. I have no wish to get between a woman and her wife, especially when I like them both quite a bit. I shall find an apartment and move out as soon as the snow recedes."

Helen pushed her soup bowl to the side. "I don't want you to leave. I like you, but I don't know what's going on in my head. I really don't."

Anne turned her gaze onto Yalia. "At the Days Inn, I asked Lady Yamaoto what kissing a woman was like and what making love with a woman was like. I asked because I am a virgin in these matters. Truly, I am. I cannot have sex with you. Either of you. I do not know how to. I would not dare mortify myself in that way, and I apologize for making both of you uncomfortable."

"It's not the sex thing per se. Just, you and Yalia are home alone a lot."

"Like I said, I shall move out. I hope this disallays your fears."

"Allays," Yalia mumbled. "No prefix -dis."

"Ah," Anne said. "Allays, then. Allays."

Helen felt like the cold from outside had seeped into her pores. Snowwoman Helen. She had told Anne all wrong. Her words had not come out the way she wanted them to. Had they? No. She could not let Anne leave. "I didn't mean you had to move out," Helen protested. "I just thought we should have a conversation about what's going on. Or what might be going on. Maybe I'm wrong about what I think I'm picking up on."

Anne managed a smile, but for a tiny second, she looked like a woman who had been smacked in the face. "I will move out. Good afternoon." Anne headed down the hall.

"Shit," Helen said. "Shit, shit. I fucked that up."

Yalia's expression was grim. "I wouldn't do that to you, you know. I wouldn't carry on an affair with Anne."

"I just...God. God. I hate how she makes me feel."

"Why do you hate it? Because you're married?Β  Because you don't want to hurt me?"

"I guess."

"Anne saved us. You know that. We'd be living apart by now if not for her. Maybe it's a good thing, not a bad thing. Our feelings."

"Yes, perhaps." Helen gathered the dishes and went to the sink.

Yalia got up. "Put that aside for a minute." She put her arms around Helen, and Helen let herself sink into the embrace. Yalia smelled good, as always. She had used coconut shampoo for her morning shower. Yalia nibbled Helen's earlobe, and she had magic lips. Helen felt her pussy rear its head. A familiar throbbing and a familiar wetness began. "Let's take it day by day," Yalia said. "This is one of these times where maybe looking at the big picture does more harm than good. The three of us are mature enough, I hope, to uh...you know. Whatever. To stop something if we need to."

Helen pressed her body, her need, into Yalia. She did not feel particularly mature at that moment. She felt anything but mature when she contemplated the past three years with her wife, but she would go along with Yalia's take. "Okay, love. Will you talk to Anne?"

*****

Yalia knocked on Anne's door. The Puritanical part of Yalia was horrified, as it had been with Tiffany and Gina. However, more of her, much more of her, felt delicious. Her nerves were atingle, as they had not been in many years. It was the special kind of atingle that only accompanies falling in love. Having Anne would do wonders for her and Helen. For Yalia as a person, too. Here goes nothing. Or not.

Anne answered a moment later, her head held up, her expression haughty. She was every bit a queen, and her jeans and zombie BRAAAAAINS! T-shirt did not dilute the effect. "Yes, Lady Yamaoto?"

"May I come in for a moment?"

"Very well."

Yalia stepped in, leaving the door half open. She was unsure where to position herself. Sitting on the bed might seem overly familiar. So, fine, she would stay put near the dresser drawers. Thing was, words suddenly escaped her. She had no idea what to do. What to say.

Anne rescued her from having to talk. "I did a terrible thing. I know it. I played with a married man for years. I seduced him at last and got pregnant with his child. I caused irreparable grief to Katherine's heart. But you must understand I did not want to. My father made me. I hate reading the books and watching the movies and the television shows. They portray me to be a harlot and a schemer. I am not." Anne bit her lip. "That is not entirely true. I got caught up in my father's plots. How could I not? I had to survive somehow. I had to make my days mean something."

"Helen isn't accusing you of anything." Yalia made sure to keep her tones soothing.

"If I was the Anne Boleyn the media makes me out to be, I would have seduced Benjamin and Josiah."

"The media gets a shit ton wrong. Look, Anne. Helen's scared, that's all. Her words maybe did not come out as she intended."

"She will see she has no need to be scared. I will not involve myself with you."

Yalia felt as if she were teetering precariously on the edge of a cliff. "Helen has feelings for you. So do I. That's what scares us, especially since we have not known you long."

"All the more reason for me to move out."

Yalia could not argue with Anne's logic. She did have a point, a thick, black point. Yalia's argument that they were three mature adults receded into a puny twig of a point. Anne was, obviously, nowhere near emotionally ready for what Helen wanted.

"Perhaps I will look for an apartment near Galludet," Anne said. "I should experience living alone. I have been dependent on others all my life. No more. I look forward to obtaining a new residence and being independent."

"Do you really?"

"I do."

*****

In the evening, Anne took a shower. She rubbed Oil of Olay anti-aging cream onto her face. Her hands came away bloody. The nosebleeds were back.

Shit.

Chapter Twelve

"How are you feeling?" Yalia asked Helen in bed that night. "Feeling okay?"

I feel like shit. "Do you think Anne will really move out?"

"I think she will. She's stubborn. She's determined. She's like you."

Helen ran her tongue across her teeth. "I should've kept my fucking mouth shut. Communication is overrated."

Knock knock.

Helen's heart leaped. Anne's decided to stay with us tonight. "Come in. Door's unlocked."

Anne stepped in, timidly. "I cannot sleep."

Helen grinned. "Come here, then. Stay with us tonight."

"This call is not for pleasure. I must inform you of something."

"What's wrong?" Yalia asked.

Anne's hand went to her nose. "I am scared. I had a nosebleed in the shower a few hours ago. I have debated since whether to tell you."

Damn. Helen got out of bed and took Anne by the shoulders. "Was it a bad nosebleed?"

"I do not think so. I think it was the same as the other two."

"We have to call Benjamin."

"I should like to wait a few more days to see if the problem worsens."

"Or maybe you should call in the morning."

"I prefer to wait."

Damn. Damn. Fucking nosebleeds.

"Have you had any further bleeds?" Anne asked.

"Nope. Thank goodness." Helen mentally crossed herself. No jinx.

"I am glad, Lady Franklin."

Time Traveler Zero. Helen had perhaps postponed the matter too long, and this was as good a time as any to broach it. She wanted to know which famous person her mother had been. "WhoΒ  was my mother in her other time?"

After a second's delay, Anne looked at Helen with surprise. And dismay. "Helen," was all Anne said, pathetically.

Whoa. "You called me Helen."

"I suppose I did."

"Good. I'm glad."

"Anne," Yalia said. "Do you think Helen is Time Traveler Zero?"

Helen was not sure she heard right. She laughed. "Don't be silly. Of course I'm not Time Traveler Zero."

"You don't know that."

"I'd know if I was a time traveler," Helen shot back.

Anne did not laugh. Or smile. Nothing. She said: "Very well, I shall say it. My suspicion is that you, Helen, are Time Traveler Zero."

Helen was stunned into silence.

"How?" Yalia whispered.

"Benjamin would have to explain. I do not know."

"What makes you think she is?"

"Something Helen's mother said when she showed me pictures of Helen. 'Look at her nose. She does not look like either of us, does she?' It was how she said it and how her expression was sad. Also, how many forty-six-year-old women get pregnant naturally? Some do. But not many."

"Is Helen a famous person?"

"I suspect her parents got her while they were in Victorian London. Who she is, I do not know. She may be famous. Or not. She may simply be Helen Franklin. I may be wrong. My assumption is she probably is not famous. She was perhaps an experiment. If she were famous, her parents would keep her like a zoo animal also, do you not think?"

"I'm here, you know," Helen mustered at last. "I'm fucking here."

*****

Helen retreated to her office for space and privacy. She got on the phone with Benjamin, damn the fact it was one-whatever a.m. "Are you not at liberty to do me the courtesy of letting me know I'm a fucking time traveler because my father thought I could not handle the news?"

Benjamin sighed, a long, drawn-out sigh. "Dr. Franklin."

"Cut the crap. Tell me who I am."

"You should have known, but your mother and your father said...well. Anyway, let us not dwell on it. Now that you know, how about a quick examination first thing in the morning? I will tell you this; I have been wrestling within myself for many days about informing you because I would very much like to examine you."

Helen ignored the fact that her heart had frozen over. She barked a bitter laugh. "I can't be Time Traveler Zero. That's preposterous."

"If you're up for a thorough exam, great, but quick is fine. I'd like a head scan, a body chromatography analysis, and--"

"My mother wouldn't have...she was my mother. She was my mother."

"Yes. She was your mother. Come in and see your file."

"I can't be Time Traveler Zero. I've never faded."

"You were retrieved when you were a newborn. Maybe that is why you don't seem to have experienced any fades, because you were taken so young. Or maybe it's because you were almost dead and are dead in your original time. Or maybe because you were taken in a more recent time than me and Anne. I've gone over your examinations from when you were a child. Nothing there, but maybe now there will be. Also, we cannot know for certain you never faded. It is possible you did, when your mother had her back to you or something of that sort."

Helen blinked furiously. "What time? What recent time?"

"Your parents' honeymoon," Benjamin said gently. "They stayed only twelve hours, because in the Whitechapel area, they came upon a pool of blood, and a woman and a newborn in an alley. The mother was dead, and at first they thought the baby was too. However, your mother detected a faint pulse. 'We have to take her back now,' she said. Your father said no, that was tempting history, tempting fate. Taking a person back was not part of their plan. But your mother insisted that she couldn't leave a baby to die. Your parents returned home, with you. Your mother nursed you back to health, and quite frankly, your father never forgave her for taking you."

It made perfect sense. It explained why Josiah Franklin had never quite treated Helen like his child. But she could not accept what Benjamin was saying, not yet. "It's not true."

"You're Time Traveler Zero," Benjamin repeated. "It's true. You were born in 1901. Your parents monitored you carefully for years. Gradually they began to feel that they had not violated any laws of the universe. They talked again about traveling. Your mother understood that your father would always be angry at her for taking you. So she proposed an idea he would never be able to refuse. An idea that would make them even."

"Getting you?"

"You do not sound well. Shall I send Ted in? I will retrieve your file and send it to Ted electronically so that you may--"

Helen ended the conversation with a click. Benjamin was lying. Had to be. No way Icarus, or anyone, had time travel in 1972. She was Helen Franklin, Helen Eliza Franklin, born in 1972, forty years old. No one else. Helen Franklin! Not TT0, not Time Traveler Zero.

*****

"You asleep?" Yalia asked Anne.

"No."

Yalia tapped the lamp on. She and Anne were together in bed. Helen had said she wanted to be alone and so was spending the night in Anne's room. Helen had been furious at everyone: her parents, Benjamin, and Anne.

"I should have told her earlier," Anne said.

"You weren't sure. Why worry her, especially if Benjamin had refused to confirm?"

"I still should have told her earlier."

"Me too," Yalia said. "Don't take it personally, though. When Helen gets red-hot mad, she isolates herself. It works for her. It calms her."

Anne inched forward. Kiss me, please. "You going to call me Yalia now, too?"

A shy smile. "I can."

"Don't move out," Yalia said. "Please."

"I must."

"Helen and I won't hurt you."

"I know you will not."

Yalia put her head on Anne's chest. Yalia's eyelids were heavy, and then she heard Louis, heard the smile in his voice. "How have you been, Yalia?"

Go away.

"I'm hanging around for a bit."

Go away. Please.

"You got to go back in time. That's cool. I don't have any more time. I'm dead. You killed me."

I know. Fuck, I know. Leave me alone!

"You're mean." Louis started to cry.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, don't cry...

"Bye," Louis said with a sniffle. He left.

*****

Helen listened and Benjamin frowned as Anne explained about the two group trips to 1536, Anne's delayed return on the second trip, and the nosebleeds. "That is not good news," Benjamin said.

"I imagined it was not," Anne replied.

Benjamin sighed. He leaned back in his chair and made a steeple with his hands. "I get them, too. Each time I return here after a fade, I get a nosebleed within five days." He gave Anne a meaningful look. "Your fades from now on may be uncontrolled, like mine."

"How lovely."

Benjamin chuckled. "I am fond of your wit."

The hairs on Helen's neck bristled. How dare Benjamin treat this moment as deserving of humor?

Benjamin talked quickly, dizzyingly, giving a rundown of the tests he was going to perform on her and Anne. Yalia, because she had been to 1536 twice, had the dubious honor of having to do the tests, too. Anne, at Helen's side, listened gravely. These tests were probably old hat for her. Yalia's expression was somber as well. Helen was not at the point of feeling somber. She was still angry, indescribably angry. Josiah and Regina Franklin were not her parents; a woman who died in 1901, and who probably was a prostitute, was her mother. Goodness knew who her father was.

Helen interrupted Benjamin's testing rundown: "If you get the time machines going again, can we see where I was...can we see my abduction?"

"We may be able to."

"I want to know my mother. And my father." Helen had a vision of herself tracking her mother down to when her mother was a child and getting to know her that way. That might be nice. Might not be. Shit. Stop. This was worse than playing with fire. This was the freaking space-time continuum.

"Let's discuss that later. We need to get the tests finished."

Helen crossed her arms. "Fine."

The next few hours were a blur to her. Most of the time, she was vaguely aware she was in alien machines and that various gee-gaws were doing things to her. Needles drew blood from her. Other fluid samples were taken. Helen did not care; she was merely going through the motions. I was born in 1901, and I am dead.

I am dead.

I am dead.

I am dead.

I died as a newborn.

Testing finished around lunchtime, and Benjamin urged Anne to stay at the building because of the risk of uncontrolled fades. She declined.

Anne, Helen and Yalia went to a TGI Friday's for lunch.

"What did you two do in my bed last night, huh?" Helen asked. "Y'all fuck?"

Twin flinches from Anne and Yalia. "No," Yalia said.

"Huh. Huh." Jealousy and irritation flared through Helen. She had been suffering last night, but her wife and Anne had probably been happy go lucky, kissing their fucking brains out. Helen tore into her chicken fingers and French fries with gutso. Anything to avoid having to look at Anne. Anne who had lied to her, Anne who was probably fucking her wife. This polyamory thing was not going to work. This baby-sitting Anne Boleyn shtick was not going to work. Yes, Anne definitely had to move out. Helen had enough shit to worry about already. Do not say anything out of anger. Do not say anything you will regret later.

"You will enjoy living alone," Helen said.

Anne cast her gaze downward. "I suspect so."

"It's liberating. Everyone should try it. We'll look for apartments this afternoon."

"Very well," Anne whispered.

Yalia stabbed her fork into her baked potato.

Helen felt a terrible tenseness in her body. Well, shit. You went and did it. She cleared her throat. "Anne, I didn't mean..." Shit, shit. "I was angry, more so at other people than at you. You don't need to move out."

Anne shook her head. "I did wrong, not you. I crossed a line, and I am happy to move out." She rallied for a smile. "I look forward to the experience."

*****

Hoppity, skippity, jumpity, Anne thought one week later. She liked the phrase, which she had invented. Hoppity, skippity, jumpity, hoppity, skippity, jumpity, hoppity, skippity, jumpity. She had found a jump rope at Helen and Yalia's house and had skipped in their driveway. She was actually pretty good.

Anne got out of bed. She rummaged through her largest suitcase for the jump rope, which she had sneaked in with her. It was unlikely Helen and Yalia would miss it. She brought it back to bed with her. Hoppity, skippity, jumpity. Amazing how fast she had moved out. She had taken the first apartment they looked at. It would do, and she was not in the mood to be selective. She wanted to get matters over with.

So, a week after that dreadful TGI Friday's lunch, here Anne was for her first night in her very own Eastern Market studio apartment. It was in a converted townhouse about five minutes' drive from Gallaudet. Jordan, of course, lurked outside the apartment building. Anne wondered if someone else was keeping an eye on Helen and Yalia. Probably. The tests on all three of them had come back with no information. Normal results. Benjamin did not think Helen's nosebleeds had anything to do with her being in 1536. They were normal nosebleeds. He had Anne documenting all of her nosebleeds, the times, durations and flow. She had about one a day, at varying times, still lasting about two minutes, with no noticeable increase or decrease in flow. Helen had had one nosebleed since the other one, but again, that could be attributed to her normal winter changes.

Who knew what was going on? Certainly not Anne. She wrapped the jump rope around her arms and tried not to cry. She would not feel sorry for herself. Helen was right. Anne needed to learn to live on her own. Getting entangled and dependent on Helen and Yalia would only cause problems in the long term. Their relationship would be unhealthy. At least Anne would get to see Helen tomorrow, when she met Helen at a nearby Starbucks after Helen's classes. The past week had been busy. Anne had packed again and met several times with Greg Hernandez, the friend of Yalia's who owned an art gallery. He had loved her work and would shoehorn her in an art show next week.

Life is good, Anne thought. Life is good, life is good.

Life S-U-C-K-S. She liked being a potty mouth if the occasion called for it.

*beeeeep*

Anne checked her phone for the text. It was from Yalia. "Good night from me and Helen," Yalia had typed. Matters among the three of them had been strained the past week. No kissing, no touching, no sleeping together.

Anne did not reply, because what she wanted to say was: "Come get me. I do not like being alone. I think I am in love with you both." Anne tucked the phone under her bed and pictured Yalia, Yalia's smile. "Good night," Anne said. "I am sorry we are over before we began."

*****

"Feels weird without Anne," Helen said.

"Yep," Yalia agreed. Anne had been at the house such a short time, but Yalia keenly felt her absence.

"She'll be fine. We'll be fine. This was needed, really. She wants to be independent."

"Yep." Yalia picked up on the dubiousness in Helen's comment, and she knew that if Helen could take back the conversation at TGIF, she would.

Helen ran a hand down Yalia's stomach and onto her pussy. "That feels nice," Yalia said, and it did. Would feel nicer if Anne was here, though.

"Do you think you love her?" Helen asked.

"Anne?"

"Yes."

Yalia raised an eyebrow. "No, of course not. Love takes time to develop. The genuine, thick, solid kind." Yes. I love her. I lust her very much, anyway.

Wow, Louis said. No kidding.

Shut up, shut up. "Do you love Anne?"

"I..." Helen sighed. She stole a look at Yalia. "I saw how you looked at her last night. It was just for a couple of seconds, right when she won Monopoly. You had a look in your eyes."

"Answer my question. Do you love her?"

"Why are we talking about Anne? She's gone. She's out of here."

"Okay," Yalia said. "Never mind."

Chapter Thirteen

The morning of May 19, 1536

Benjamin Franklin glanced around him and shivered despite the relatively warm morning. Maybe he should not have come. The queen was lovely, more so than when she was around him. She carried herself with regality, but there was no mistaking the terror in her gaze. Never mind that in the past two and a half hours, she had been living an entirely separate life.

"Good Christian people," Anne, consort queen of England from 1533 to 1536, said, "I am come hither to die, according to the law, for by the law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against it. But I pray God save the king and send him long to reign over you. For a gentler nor a more merciful prince was there never, and to me he was ever a good, a gentle and sovereign lord. And if any person will meddle me of my cause I require them to judge the best. And thus I take my leave of the world and of you all, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me."

Benjamin squirmed. Lop her head off already. He glanced around him again. Guilt made him paranoid. No need to tell Helen, Yalia and Anne--or anyone, for that matter--that he and Josiah had been fibbing about the time machines being broken. They had invented a better time machine, and Benjamin had figured the pattern to his fades. He was safe for now. His next fade was in two months.

One of the ladies took off Anne's hood, and Anne scanned the crowd, grabbing what last sights she could. She reminded Benjamin of a bird smashing, smashing, smashing against a window, trying to get out. In any case, Benjamin was safe. He had smeared dirt onto his face, and Anne would not recognize him in different clothes. What are you thinking, Anne? Are your new friends Helen and Yalia dead? Did you have a long, happy life with them?

She noticed him.

Anne's eyes went wide, and their gazes met for an agonizing second. Her lips parted. "Benjamin?" she mouthed. Clearly. She might have voiced the word, but if she did, Benjamin did not hear.

None of the history books had mentioned her mouthing the name "Benjamin." It's okay. Probably no one had noticed her mouthing the name. Or maybe Benjamin Franklin had just messed with history. Shit, shit. Benjamin wanted to look away, but he was spiked to her witch eyes. Shit. Anne would know. Wherever she was in modern times when she was beheaded, be it in 2012 or in 2037, she would know he was using the time machines again. She would return to modern times and be furious at him. He was fairly certain she would stabilize in modern times after her death in 1536; after all, Helen had.

Yes, Anne would be furious with him.

The ladies blindfolded her. Anne kneeled. "To Jesus Christ I commend my soul. Lord Jesu, receive my soul." Her voice was strong. Was she expecting him to save her? He could not. Well, maybe he could, but no. History was as it should be. He would not mess with it further.

Anne again: "To Jesus Christ I commend my soul. Lord Jesu, receive my soul." Hysteria tinged her voice.

Benjamin had been to the executions of Marie Antoinette, Katherine Howard and Mary, Queen of Scots. Something addictive about women being executed.

The executioner lifted his sword. Finally. Put the woman out of her misery.

WHOOSH

Anne's head came off clean, blood spurted, and Anne's ladies rushed to scoop the head up. A thrill ran up Benjamin's spine. Anne's body twitched and twitched and then was still. That poor woman , Benjamin thought. He felt bad about taking pleasure, even a tiny bit, at witnessing Anne's execution. Maybe he ought to snatch little Elizabeth and reunite the child with her mother. Something to think about, at any rate.

Sure, Anne said to keep Elizabeth where she was. But what if a reason existed for Elizabeth 's success? What if she had won all these battles because she had the prior knowledge of how to run them? That did not explain the clown paint that killed her, however. When Elizabeth was thirty, she got smallpox. The disease ruined her looks, and she used white lead paint to cover the smallpox scars on her face. Many ladies back then used the lead for vanity. They had no idea the lead was bad for them and that it would dig into their faces. The scars were beautiful in comparison. Poor Elizabeth could not be around a mirror because of what the lead paint did to her face. So, Benjamin mused, if Elizabeth knew from modern times that the lead paint was bad, why would she use it?

You know why. Benjamin had tried many times to change the past. For example, to not sail for London on a certain date. He ended up sailing, anyway, compelled by some force he had no power over. How devastating it would be for Elizabeth I to witness her own hands, or her ladies' hands, covering her face with lead and being able to do nothing about it.

BOOM. BOOM. Cannons were announcing the queen's death, mostly for Henry's benefit.

Benjamin wished he had never read books about himself. He missed the excitement of not knowing what the future held for him. At least he could still have that excitement in 2012.

Benjamin took a tentative step, then another, toward Anne's ladies. They had wrapped the body in a white cloth, and several men had brought an arrow chest. Benjamin wanted to ask if he could help, but his voice would draw unwelcome attention.

So he watched. He waited. The men hauled up the chest and carried the dead queen away. Time to go home. Home sweet 2012. "Goodbye, Anne," Benjamin said. "Hope your nosebleeds stop, wherever you are. Whenever you are."

Chapter Fourteen

Anne ordered a grande mocha frappuccino, nonfat milk, no whipped cream, please add chocolate drizzle. She got her treat and sat by the window. She was about an hour early for her meeting with Helen. Why not? Nothing better to do, and she could read here. If she could tune out the music, anyway. Having a Starbucks so close by might be dangerous for her wallet.

Wallet.

Talk about independence. Anne had not gotten the apartment on her own merits. She had not even tried. "Don't bother," Helen had said. "I'll take care of it." Probably Icarus was bankrolling the place; Anne did not have the heart to ask. She could not wait for the art show. Maybe she would sell a few paintings. If she did not, she wanted to make herself useful somehow. Make money somehow. She had all her false papers and fake driver's license, so nothing was stopping her.

Anne's gaze strayed to Jordan across the street. He sat on a park bench and read a newspaper. Go away. Anne brought her gaze to the barista who made her frappuccino. The woman looked like Helen, especially if you discounted the barista's perfectly symmetrical nose and subtracted, say, ten or fifteen years. Maybe Helen was the barista's many-times indirect ancestor.

The Starbucks was not busy. No line. Anne returned to the front counter. "Excuse me," she said to the barista. "Do you know if this place is hiring?"

She grinned. "You interested?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"No, no," she said with another grin. "Rosemary, okay? I'm Rosemary Wells. I'm the shift supervisor, and you're in luck. We're hiring for several open positions. Let's talk."

*****

Anne took an immediate liking to Rosemary, particularly when Rosemary did not get a look on her face when Anne said she had no practical job experience. "I was married," Anne explained. "My husband did not wish me to work. We have divorced, and I am hoping to find employment. I work hard. Very hard. I will do the best job I can." Anne meant every word. Starbucks employees likely had to scrub toilets, clean dishes and deal with uncouth customers. Anne thought she could do all that and more. She was Anne George, commoner, and she would adapt. She would find happiness. Eventually.

"When can you start?"

"Anytime."

"Great," Rosemary said. "We don't do drug testing, so don't worry about that. Can you work on your feet for a long period of time?"

"Yes." I hope so.

Rosemary asked several more questions pertaining to Starbucks and concluded with: "Where do you see yourself in about three years?"

Anne's thoughts floundered, and she wished she had read an interview book or two before doing this. "I hope to perhaps be in the position you are. Shift supervisor. I hope to be helping make Starbucks as excellent as it can be."

Rosemary laughed. "Okay, but seriously? You can tell me. I'm curious. I'm not a tight-ass boss."

"Three years from now," Anne thought out loud. "I hope to be here, to still be alive."

Rosemary gave a little cough. "Are you, like, dying? You have a disease?"

"No," Anne said. "I just....never mind." I blew the interview. "Blew" was another American saying she liked.

"Are you afraid your ex-husband's gonna hurt you or kill you?"

This actually was something Anne had wondered about. She could easily imagine Icarus, once the time machines were up again, going back and bringing Henry to the present. Anne would prefer to kill herself, seriously, yes, literally kill herself, than have Henry in modern times with her and controlling her life again. "Perhaps," Anne said. "A little afraid."

"He live around here?"

"No. He lives in England ." And in 1536.

" England , wow. Cool. So you don't think he'd make a scene here? Scenes aren't cool."

"I am highly doubtful."

"Ya have kids?"

Anne swallowed. "One. A girl. She lives in England also."

"It wasn't your choice," Rosemary said.

"You are correct."

"The job's yours if you want it. You can start next week. Wednesday?"

"Really?"

"Yep, really." Rosemary got to her feet and held out her hand. "Welcome aboard, Anne." She slid over the job application. "Just fill this out and give it to me when you're done. It's a formality."

"Thank you, Rosemary." Anne's insides were giddy, and she wanted to hug the woman. She remembered her art show and told Rosemary about it. "Come if you would like to. Bring someone. There will be free food and drinks."

"Awesome, thanks. I'll try my best to make it."

Anne watched Rosemary go. I think I have made a friend, all on my own. Anne George has a friend.

*****

Helen was not sure why she felt consternation at Anne's news. Anne was excited, obviously so. Her eyes shone, and she could not stop smiling. She had a job. A job! Better yet, she started next week.

"I'm happy for you," Helen said. Smile, bitch. "You deserve it." So, Anne was not pining. Helen was, and she hated herself for it. Every time she kissed Yalia, when she touched Yalia, she yearned for Anne to be there as well. Helen could tell Yalia felt the same way.

"How were your classes?" Anne asked.

"Fine, fine." Helen fiddled with the lid of her cup. She had ordered hot chocolate.

"Is your drink good?"

"It's great," Helen said. She tried to relax. "You're welcome anytime. Welcome back, I mean. Anytime. At the house. The dogs miss you."

"I miss them also."

Helen looked out the windows. A city bus passed, belching smoke. Cars passed. Damn their electric chemistry. It had been there soon after she and Anne met, and had not gone away. Intensified, if anything. Anne had to feel it. She had to.

"What are you and Yalia doing tonight?" Anne asked.

"No idea. What about you?"

"I am not sure yet."

Helen rubbed her forehead. Shit. Dipshit. She was irritable and unhappy with herself. She wanted to reach across the table and kiss Anne, long and hard. "Want to walk around?"

Outside, Helen linked arms with Anne. The temperature was not too bad, somewhere in the high forties. Melting snow was packed against the roads, and the sidewalks were relatively clear. They wandered the few blocks to Anne's place.

"Would you like to come in?" Anne asked.

Yes. Helen knew she should not, however. She would kiss Anne, kiss her again and again and all over, take their clothes off, and and and and...

"I would love to, but I should get going."

*****

Anne had not expected this many people to come to her corner of the gallery--and to stay. Or to leave and return with more people. For one thing, her corner was dark. And in the back. Yalia's friend, Greg Hernandez, had said he wished he could give Anne a more prominent space. And he would for the next showing, he vowed. But to squeeze her into this one, she would be relegated to the back.

Helen squeezed Anne's hand, and Anne noticed Helen kept the touch for a second or so longer than necessary. "You're a hit," Helen said.

"I cannot believe it."

"Oh, I can."

All this buzz! This chatter. People wanted to know about this artist Anne George and how she could create such warped, yet dazzling and heartrending, paintings. So far, Anne had been lurking among them and not declaring herself. She would probably have to soon if Greg Hernandez pushed her, but she preferred to remain under a cloak of anonymity.

Yalia, a fresh glass of wine in her hand, joined Helen and Anne. "It's amazing. People are talking about you, only you."

Anne could not help but smile. They should be talking about you. Yalia wore a short, skin-hugging red dress that showed off long legs. Helen and Anne were dressed much more sedately, Helen in corduroys and a sweater, Anne in a business suit a bit too large.

"So what did Jordan say?" Helen asked.

Yalia rolled her eyes. "He might buy a painting."

"I invited my new boss. I wonder if she will appear."

"You nervous about your first day?" Yalia said.

"Yes. I am excited, also."

"This is good wine. Try it." Yalia extended her glass, and Anne clasped her hand over Yalia's hand. Anne drank. "Very good, yes." The wine was smooth, and Anne did not want to let go of Yalia's hand. She liked being with Helen and Yalia again, the three of them together. Perhaps Anne had been an idiot to flee, to move out. Why had Anne scurried like a rat? If she was going to be happy one day, she would have to open her heart to someone.

Or someones.

Being with a married couple was, of course, not appealing. Not after what happened with Henry and Katherine. Helen and Yalia were not Henry and Katherine, however, and Anne Boleyn was not Anne.

She was Anne George.

Anne drank two more glassfuls of wine to give her courage. At last, she asked: "If we did something, what would it be?"

Yalia's eyes widened, and Helen's face flushed. "Do you mean..." Yalia said.

"Yes."

Anne could practically see Yalia sifting through possibilities, trying to find one that would adequately include the three of them and not overwhelm Anne. "Helen's body is very responsive," Yalia said at last. "More than my body. So, I could guide you as you please her. My hand on your hand, something like that. That's one idea. Or you could just relax, enjoy yourself, let Helen and me take care of you."

Anne was sure her neck and her cheeks must be pink. Arousal had turned her clit hard. "Very well," Anne said. This might work. This just might work, especially with Anne not living at the house anymore. In that moment, Anne felt like her husband, like an animal guided by lust. By genitals. An animal in unbearable distress, an animal that could not control its urges. She was so turned on, so horny, the sensation veered on painful. She did not want to wait, especially if waiting meant the long drive to Helen's and Yalia's house.

"Can we do it here? Get it over with?" Anne asked.

More eye-widening from Yalia. An exchanged gaze between Yalia and Helen. "Uh," Yalia said. "Do, uh, you don't...uh. Okay. You mean your apartment?"

"No. Yes. Okay. My apartment." Anne preferred to do it here, at the gallery, where chances of emotional entanglement would be less. But the apartment would do. "We should be quick. You need to get home to the dogs."

*****

At the apartment, Yalia kissed the side of Anne's neck. Once. Twice. Enough for Anne to get more quivery and wet. But Anne kept her senses about her, quite aware of the dynamics of a sex or love situation with three people. She ventured a look at Helen and saw no jealousy or anger in Helen's expression, only desire. Burning desire, and Helen gave her a reassuring smile.

Then Helen kissed her, where Yalia had kissed her. Anne did not remember being horny like this. Ever. She wanted to mount Helen and have her way with Helen. And then Yalia.

Anne pinched one of Helen's nipples lightly, through Helen's shirt.

"Oh, yes," from Helen. More of a moan than a murmur.

Anne giggled. She could not help it. She did not want to. But she giggled, once, twice, three times.

Helen took off her sweater and bra. Anne had witnessed plenty of breasts: perky, flaccid, drooping, old, young, apple breasts, lovely breasts, ugly breasts. Helen Franklin's breasts were prime. The best. They were full and round. Womanly. They would feed a baby well.

Yalia gave Anne a wolfish, lustful grin. "They're nice, huh?"

"Yes." Anne's voice was strangled, but she did not care. She wanted to touch them .

Yalia, a smile in her eyes, said to Helen: "You're beautiful."

"So are you. You both."

I do belong with them. The feeling was invigorating, bracing and frightening. Damn frightening.

"You smell good, Yalia," Anne said.

Helen chuckled. "It's her coconut shampoo. Can we use your bed?"

"Yes. But we still need to be quick for the dogs." Anne wanted to tell Helen and Yalia many, many things. Later.

Helen undressed fully and got into bed. She parted her legs, and Yalia lowered her head to Helen's need. But not for long. "Come here," Yalia said. "Taste her."

Anne did, and Helen tasted much like Anne's own juices did. Sweet, salty, sex, sex.

Anne kept going, and Helen shuddered. Helen moaned. And then Yalia was tugging Anne up, was taking Anne into her arms, Yalia was pressing her lips to Anne's mouth. Yalia was masterful with her tongue, and Anne lost herself in Yalia, Yalia's hunger, Yalia's greed , her raw act of possession, the crush of her breasts against Anne's.

Yalia tugged at Anne's pants. Anne could not help her reaction. She arched her hips, and Yalia undid the pants. She slid Anne's pants and underwear down. Anne closed her eyes. She could think no longer, could control the heaving of her chest no longer. Yalia knew what to do, and heat rushed through Anne, infiltrated her, ate her up. She would not be able to stand much longer. She would need the bed. Anne opened her eyes, and Helen was watching her, Helen with her lovely tousled blond hair. Helen smiled, and Anne smiled back at this woman whose wife was giving her such pleasure. At this woman who was taking such pleasure in it.

Helen watching her, Yalia touching her. Anne suddenly was happy, indescribably happy, joy flooding her body and her heart. She wanted to cry forever and ever.

Chapter Fifteen

After about five minutes of mortification, Anne's crying downgraded to a sniffling, and then she was finally able to stop it altogether. Anne threw away her tissues. She went into the bathroom and splashed water onto her face. She studied herself in the mirror. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her brain was fuzzy.

Anne had mumbled through most of her tears: "Sorry, so sorry, I do not know why I am crying."

"It's okay," Yalia had said. "It just means you're happy. Some people cry after they have an orgasm."

"I did not have an orgasm."

"It's still okay to cry."

Helen had added soothing noises, soothing words.

Anne felt like a fool. Crying? At this? What for? She was no weakling. But she had to admit, her heart was full. Overfull, like it would burst. This was what belonging felt like. What true family was, what falling in love felt like. If only her imbecile body had not compelled her to express herself through tears.

Anne splashed more water onto her face and returned to Yalia and Helen. "I apologize again."

Helen rolled her eyes. "It's no problem." She patted the spot next to her. "Get in here."

"You should go."

"Will you come with us?"

"After my outburst, I thought it best if I did not."

Helen tumbled out of bed. She brought her lips to Anne's mouth for a quick, sweet kiss. "Please."

Anne kept herself stiff. She was afraid to say yes, because if she did, she would open herself up, open her heart up. The prospect was terrifying. This was not supposed to happen so quickly.

"I better stay," Anne said.

"Okay." Helen sounded hurt, but she managed a smile. "Okay. Sure." She went off to put her clothes on.

"Hey." Yalia ran her thumb across Anne's cheek. "You okay?"

I am not. Here with you and Helen, I am the happiest I have been in my life. That cannot be good. Yalia really had no idea. She thought Anne could snap her fingers and forget about her history? Not likely. "I do not deserve you both," Anne said. "Your generosity."

Helen returned, and something happened between Helen and Yalia that was amazing. Anne could not come close to describing it. It was a sort of look, something unspoken passing between them, something filled with love and sadness both. "Well," Helen said. "We better go." She gave Anne a quick kiss. "Bye, love. Take care."

Bye, love. Bye, love. Bye, love. Anne would be crying again that night.

*****

In bed that night, Anne thought about Henry Percy, the first man she was engaged to. That dreadful Cardinal Wolsey had interfered, tattled to Henry Percy's father, and both men had forbidden the couple to marry.

And why?

Because Anne was not prestigious enough. Because her family was not prestigious enough.

Anne's hatred for Cardinal Wolsey would never go away. It might ebb and flow sometimes, like ocean waves, but that corrupt man represented everything wrong about the Catholic church. Many history books acknowledged his flaws, but at the same time, they painted him as a great man who tried to bring peace to Europe and end wars, as a man who did the best he could serving the greedy, egoistical, Henry VIII.

Anne did not care. Cardinal Wolsey had poked his hypocritical nose in matters that did not concern him. After they were forced to break up, Percy returned home, a deeply broken man. He married someone he did not want to.

Henry Percy had loved Anne deeply. She had loved him deeply too, but more like a sister loves a brother. However, had they married, Anne would have been happy. Very happy. Henry Percy was a good man, and she would have been proud to be his wife. Henry, the good Henry, had stayed loyal to the very end, but if he had not, perhaps Anne would never have been beheaded.

According to the history books, Henry VIII, when he was sniffing out annulment options from Anne, had wanted Percy to testify that her marriage to the king was void because of a pre-contract between Percy and Anne. Percy had refused. He had said they never were engaged. Anne was glad Helen and Yalia had not asked her yet about Henry Percy. When, or if, they did, she would tell them the truth: Henry Percy was a good man, one of many good people undone by the meddling of Wolsey and Henry VIII.

Anne clutched one of her pillows to her chest. Her body had scared her, had terrified her, only a few hours ago. She lusted so badly, so deeply, for Helen and Yalia.Not just lust. Anne's feelings ran more profoundly than lust, and that was why she had to remember to remain cautious. People had meddled in her affairs all her life, and who was to stop Helen and Yalia if they got a mind to intrude? If one day they rubbed the sand from their eyes and realized: Holy freaking cow, we have Anne Boleyn. Holy freaking cow! Why were Helen and Yalia treating her like a normal person?

Nosebleed. She was bleeding again.

*****

Slowly and comfortably, and with sadness mixed in, Yalia and Helen made love that night. Helen put on a dildo, Yalia mounted her, and they moved together. Yalia took her time, enjoying the feel of the dildo inside her, savoring the journey instead of the result--a fleeting orgasm.

Afterward, Helen laid her head on Yalia's chest. They had not talked about Anne all night, and Yalia doubted they would. Too much to process. Too many feelings floating about. "I don't want to get pregnant," Helen said. "What if the baby has fades? Are you willing to get pregnant? If we're going to adopt, we need to start soon." Helen chuckled. "Well, for pregnancy, we do too."

Old fears and uncertainties ran rampant in Yalia's head. This was likely not the best time to have a child, with this Anne situation, but then the time would probably never be right. Excuses were convenient bogeymen. Yalia forged ahead. "I'll get pregnant."

Wow, Louis said. You'll be a great mom.

Shut up.

"Should we tell Anne?" Helen asked.

"That we're going to have a baby? Trying to, I mean."

"Should we?"

Yalia surveyed the glow-in-the-dark stars. Anne's mouth had formed an 'o' at Wal-Mart when Yalia explained the stars to her. "Yeah," Yalia said. "We should tell her. How soon do, uh...you want this soon? Should we wait a bit for stuff to calm down?"

Helen sighed. "I'm scared if we wait too long, it'll never happen."

Yalia ran her fingers through Helen's hair. She would never tire of her wife's blond silk. "It will happen," Yalia said. "I love you, and I'll call the doctor tomorrow."

"We should tell her like we're asking for her advice."

Yalia grinned. "Sounds good."

*****

The place was loud. And jumpy. Anne had not been able to sleep after her nosebleed, so she had walked to Phase One, a lesbian club near her new apartment. She kind of wished she had not. The blaring music hurt her ears, but she pressed on. She got water from the bar and found a place to stand. She surveyed the women: all types. Short, tall, fat, thin, all colors. Just like people everywhere, and Anne saw some women signing.

This is not my type of place. Anne was too old to change her ways. She sipped from her water and searched for a woman she could perhaps spend the night with, either at the woman's place, or invite to her apartment for something quick, something physical.

Something simple.

No three-way. No three times the chance of getting hurt. No married couple. No one who could break her heart. Anne's brain told her she ought to be grateful for her crying spell. She would never be equal with Helen and Yalia in a three-way relationship. Helen and Yalia were an established couple with education, the works. Anne had fades. She was not yet well-equipped for this world. She was not assertive enough. Yet.

What she needed was to be with one woman, only one woman, who did not know who she had been. Only then could Anne be an equal partner in a relationship. But a relationship would come later. Sex, first, and ideally with someone she would never see again. Anne searched for women like herself who were one with the background. She considered several possibles and made her selection. Her heart was going crazy, and she realized she liked this. Yep. She did. She liked being a bad girl for a change. No, not a bad girl. Independent. Independent was what she was. She was not bad; she simply, at least for tonight, was not dependent on Helen or Yalia or anyone. Heck, she had earned close to five thousand dollars at the art show.

Review your cover story. Anne was Anne George, of course. Starving artist who works at Starbucks to pay the bills? Perfect. Anne gulped down the rest of her water and returned the glass to the bar. She approached her prospect: a plump, very cute woman who looked about fifty. "Hello," Anne said. No, wait. I shall not give my name as Anne George, especially if there is a chance she is returning to my apartment. Anne did not want another stalker; Jordan was enough.

The woman shook her head. "Can't hear you!"

"Hello!" Anne shouted over the music.

"Hey! What's up!"

"How are you doing! My name is Amy!" Good grief.

"Kaitlyn!" The woman took Anne by the elbow and led her to a quieter spot. "Ahh," Kaitlyn said, "isn't that better?"

"Much better indeed." Pour on the charm. Anne had watched her share of romance movies and romantic comedies and knew basically what to do. Anne leaned into Kaitlyn and batted her eyelashes. "Would you like to be naughty tonight?"

"Me?"

"You," Anne purred.

*****

In the morning, Anne opened her eyes, saw the wall facing her, remembered Kaitlyn, and clamped her eyes shut. Her bladder protested. Shhh. Anne sent out mental feelers, trying to figure out if Kaitlyn was in bed or if she had mercifully left. What time was it? If Anne's normally regular internal clock was on track, the time was six a.m.

And if the time was six a.m. , chances were Kaitlyn was in bed. Lovely. Their sexual encounter had been adequate. No, that was being kind. Lukewarm was a more apt descriptor. This was a nice fact for the history books: Anne Boleyn, queen of England , lost her lesbian virginity to a woman named Kaitlyn who basically did little but giggle and poke her dildo into the appropriate hole when the occasion called for it. Yep, dildo. Kailtyn had come with what she called "my little feller." At least Anne had learned something. Some lesbians did what was called packing. Nothing to do with luggage, and everything to do with dildos. While Kaitlyn had been hammering away inside Anne, she had been imagining herself starting packing and then doing Helen and Yalia.

I am stupid. I am terrifically, terrifically stupid. Anne's reasoning for a one-night stand eluded her at the moment. She could have had Helen and Yalia. Her first complete sexual encounter with a woman could have been with two women who truly cared for her. Yes, and then it would have exploded into a frightful mess. Be thankful for Kaitlyn. Shoo her off nicely.

Anne rolled out of bed and hurried to the bathroom, making sure to keep her back to the bed. When her morning ablutions were complete, Anne tiptoed back into the main room of the studio apartment. The bed was empty, and there was no sign of Kaitlyn. Good. She must have heard Anne and left.

Anne checked the door. Unlocked. So perhaps Kaitlyn had gone for breakfast and would be back? Lovely. Perfect. Sure enough, Kaitlyn returned five minutes later. "I hope you like chocolate chip muffins!" she said with a grin. "Last night was so awesome, wasn't it? I think I love you."

"Out," Anne said. "Get out."

*****

That afternoon, Anne used her phone to Google how to pack, and she found the address for a sex shop. She took a cab to the store. She wondered if Jordan was snapping pictures of her going in. If her encounter with Kaitlyn had been recorded last night for Benjamin's prying eyes.

"Hey," a sales clerk said with a grin. He had green hair, piercings in his eyebrows, nose and tongue, but oddly, not his ears. He looked to be about thirty. "Help you with anything?"

"No, thank you."

Anne looked around the store. Some things never changed. Sexual appetite sure did not. These items were much the same as items she had seen in Francis's court. Turned her on the same, too. Anne settled on a blue dildo with a base. She bought a harness and several pairs of briefs and boxers.

When she got home, she tried out her purchases and pulled on pants. Nice. The bulge was barely noticeable. Anne went to Starbucks and smiled the whole way. People smiled back. She liked having the dildo with her. She did not feel like a man, per se, but she felt more powerful. More in charge.

Kaitlyn had been well worth it.

Chapter Sixteen

"So, are you seeing anyone?" Rosemary, Anne's boss, asked. The time was about two p.m. on Anne's first day of work, and Starbucks was experiencing a lull. Anne was exhausted and glad for a chance to sit. She and Rosemary were at a table by the windows.

At least as far as Anne knew, no one at the Starbucks noticed she packed. Remembering the dildo gave Anne a bit of energy, and she managed a smile. "No. Are you?"

"Eh. Here and there. I don't tie myself down. I thought maybe you were seeing that blonde who met with you that afternoon you applied for the job."

Anne had brought water with her, and she nudged the green straw into her mouth. She drank to buy a few seconds. "Why did you think that?"

Rosemary grinned. "I felt like I was in chemistry class. There was a lot of tension. She's either your lover or your enemy." Rosemary cocked an amused eyebrow. "Perhaps both."

"You would not care if I was gay?"

Rosemary snorted. "Hell no. I like women too. Now, don't get me wrong. I like the feel of a man. His chest hair. His strong arms. His cock. His ass. But once in a while, a woman..." Rosemary shivered. "A woman is just what I need."

"You are bisexual."

"Fluid, really. So tell me about that blonde."

Anne drank more water. "Her name is Helen. We are not romantically involved. She is married."

"To a man?"

"She is married to a woman. Her wife is very nice. I have no wish to cause friction in their marriage."

"You're a good gal. Ya gonna get married again? I can't see myself making that trip down the aisle. No thanks."

"Why not?"

"People are not made to be monogamous. Simple fact of biology."

"I think..." Anne wrapped her hands around her water container. "I think Helen and her wife are interested in having me as, perhaps, as a third person."

"Sexually?"

"What other way is there?"

Rosemary grinned. "Well, emotionally. You know. Like polyamory."

"That is quite complicated."

Rosemary shrugged. "Can be. But it doesn't have to be. Maybe you're overthinking stuff. You really like her, right? Helen."

"Yes."

"And you like her wife."

"I do."

"So what is the problem?"

So what is the problem? So what is the problem? So what is the problem? The question was a painful buzz between Anne's ears. "Me," Anne said at last. "I am the problem. I have led a very complicated life. Simplicity appeals to me."

Rosemary leaned into Anne. "You're overthinking. Quit that."

"I am not overthinking. Before I married my husband, he was married. A lot of jealousy happened. His wife died of heartbreak. I have seen jealousy up close from my husband. He accused me, and his other wives, of stepping out on him. Jealousy is an ugly creature. And it is a simple fact that I would never be equal in such a relationship. Helen and her wife have a long history. They have inside jokes. They know each other in a way I will never know them. They love each other deeply, in a way they can never love me."

"First up, a little jealousy is good. Okay?" Rosemary said. "Second, life isn't fair. You gotta assert yourself. Okay?"

"I--"

"Listen to me. You tell them what you just told me. Request something like, uh, I don't know, one or two nights alone a week with each of them. Just you and that one. That way you get to develop your own histories with each."

Anne glanced out the window. A woman was pushing her daughter in a stroller. The child had red hair and reminded Anne of Elizabeth. "You make it sound simple."

"That's because it can be," Rosemary said. "It can be simple."

"I do not want to jump into a relationship."

"Then don't. Say you need to take it slow. Say y'all are just testing things out, sending feelers out. The main thing is to assert yourself. Life is too short."

Life is too short. Anne was tempted to say: "I am dead. Very dead. I have been dead since 1536."

*****

Anne chose her clothes carefully for dinner. About a week, with one nosebleed per day, had passed since her first day at work. Tonight she was meeting Helen and Yalia for dinner at the Union Station Uno's. The transportation hub was not far from her apartment, and she would walk. Walk with her faux penis. Would Helen and Yalia notice she was packing? If they did, would they say anything? If they did not notice, Anne wanted to tell them.

I am packing! And I love it. I want to fuck you both.

Anne had taken a liking to saying the word "fuck." One of her co-workers, a young man named Tyrell, said "Fuckin'-A!" a lot, but never around customers.

Anne told herself that the distance, the time away, from Helen and Yalia had done her good. She had her head screwed on better. Anne liked making head jokes--most of the time, anyway. Sometimes she did not like them.

Lost my head.

Head's out to lunch.

Running around like a headless chicken.

Girl, where your head at?

Anne would literally lose her head one day. Had. Had lost her head. Would lose her head. Anyway, the break from Yalia and Helen had done her good. Work was going well. It was hard, back-breaking work, and something Anne was unsure she could do long term. Some customers were unbelievably rude. The employee discount was nice, however, and Rosemary was a kind boss.

Anne arrived a few minutes early for dinner. She had never eaten at Uno's. It was technically named Uno Chicago Grill and was a chain that boasted itself on serving excellent deep-dish, Chicago-style pizza. Anne had studied the menu online the day before. The menu was varied and along with the many styles of pizza, had items such as chicken, hamburgers and steak.

Anne saw Helen and Yalia on the escalator. They were arm in arm. They both wore long coats in the same style: Helen's gray, Yalia's red. They did not see Anne right away, and she watched them for a moment. The break did me good thoughts vanished down a vacuum, and Anne's feelings, her insecurities, rushed back. Anne swore even the dildo felt pain. Of all people, why did she have to fall in love with a married couple?

In that moment, Anne realized she would have to do something about it. Period. Helen had wanted a conversation, and Anne would give her that instead of continuing to run. Do I feel for one more than the other? Anne thought not. Yes, she liked some things in Helen better than Yalia, but the reverse was true also. If she was forced to pick one, she could not. And that was as it should be; Helen and Yalia were a package deal.

Anne went up to them. "Hello."

"Hey!" Helen hugged her but not closely enough to feel the dildo. Yalia followed with a similar hug, and both women smelled good, too good.

"How have you been?" Yalia asked.

"Good. Good." Some mortification at Anne's crying jag returned to tinge her. The dildo reminded her to straighten. To be assertive. Confident. Not a mouse.

"How's work?" Helen asked.

"Good. Let us get a table."

Dinner was a stilted business. The three of them ate and did not say much. They avoided one another's gazes, and Anne hated it. They were at a stalemate, and Anne would have be the one to break it. Over dessert, Anne was about to say: "I apologize again for crying" but Helen beat her to saying something.

"Yalia and I wanted to tell you this," Helen began tentatively. "Well, no, we wanted to ask you something. Get your input and advice."

"What?" You have decided to date a third person, just not me?

"Yalia and I, we think it's time we had a child, maybe. We're getting up there in age. We can wait a few months, but the time is never going to be perfect."

"Ah." Anne moved her gaze to one of the statues, a warrior god or something, circling the upper level of Union Station.

"I don't think I should get pregnant," Helen went on. "Risk of fades for the baby. You never know."

"Yes."

"So Yalia said maybe she would. But, uh...we wondered what you thought. If you have any ideas or advice."

Anne ignored the knot of steel in her stomach. "Because I have been pregnant? Multiple times? You likely do not want advice from me. Look at my list of miscarriages." Anne regretted her words right away. She knew full well why Helen and Yalia were hesitant. They did want the news to turn her off.

"We value your input," Yalia said.

"You will both be good mothers." And I will be alone.

Helen reached for Anne's hand. "You could come to the doctor appointments with us."

Helen touching Anne and the concern and the love, well, the something like love in Helen's voice, made Anne want to cry again. She withdrew her hand from Helen's touch. Be assertive. Anne wanted to be with them, badly, and she would never forgive herself if she did nothing. "My life has been a tangle of thorns and complications. Simplicity is...I am not good at opening myself up. My life has been...it has been...I have been so lonely. I miss my brother and my daughter very much. I pretend I do not, and I do not let myself think about them. When I am with you both, I almost feel like I will be fine, and things feel so easy with the both of you until my brain gets in the way. I never expected to..." This will not do. She was going to cry again. Anne pictured herself crying in a bathroom stall. Stall. Stall your tears. She bit her lip and stalled the damn tears. "May I share my concerns?"

"Yes. Please," Helen said.

"Inequality is a concern for me, with your history. The both of you, shall we say, are a power couple. You are together every night. I do not wish to be powerless again in a relationship. I recommend one or two nights a week with each of you, individually, so we can build our own..." The word eluded Anne. History? Bond? Foundation? "Jealousy also concerns me. Sometimes it attacks unexpectedly."

Helen nodded thoughtfully, while Yalia's expression was one of astonishment. Fascination, too. Surprise. Anne got the vibe that Yalia and Helen had not discussed individual time with her. Not discussed it much, anyway.

Anne remembered another point. "I also do not wish to rush into a relationship. This is a delicate matter. However, the facts are these: we get along well. We have a bond that surpasses other bonds. I feel that you both will be good to me, and I will do my best to be good to you both."

"Well," Helen said, and a smile tipped the corners of her mouth. A light appeared in her eyes. "That sounds reasonable. Very. Thank you for sharing your concerns. I get them. I do. Individual nights..." Slight grimace. "I won't lie and say I won't be a little jealous when you are with Yalia. However, you have been alone many nights while Yalia and I have been together. I understand your perspective. I think the benefits outweigh the cons. We can try. I would like to. My concern is that you and Yalia fall in love and leave me. But that is a risk I have to take, I suppose."

Anne had not thought about that. She had not imagined Helen and Yalia being scared. "I would not do that to you," Anne said. "I care for you too much to hurt you like that."

"Can't control love and feelings."

"I would not do it," Anne said with finality.

Yalia had not spoken all this time, and Anne was sure Yalia's head must be swirling with doubts.

"Maybe Yalia can stay with you tonight," Helen said. "Then one night this week, I'll stay with you. Then one or two nights, all three of us stay at the house." Helen turned to her wife. "What do you think?"

A slight hesitation was in Yalia's eyes, but she whispered: "Okay."

*****

Yalia knew she had been as statue-like as a human could get since she entered Anne's apartment. Anne was not much better. Helen had dropped them off, and Yalia had wanted to run after the car. She did not want to be alone with another woman like this without her wife present. Felt too much like cheating. Repetition would take care of it, she told herself. The first time would be awkward. Second time would be a little better. And then no problemo.

What would Helen do tonight? Watch TV? Read? Masturbate? What would Yalia do when her wife was with Anne? Obsess over what they were doing? Yalia was not so sure anymore about this three-way thing, now that it was becoming real.

Icebreaker. Find an icebreaker.

"Pardon me." Anne excused herself to the bathroom.

Anne had a TV. They could watch something and cuddle. Get used to the feel of each other. Or they could get the sex over with.

Yalia stepped out of her clothes. She was naked when Anne came out of the bathroom. Anne stopped, and her eyes widened.

"Figured we might as well," Yalia said. "We should get it over with."

Anne's gaze dropped to Yalia's pussy, then darted back up. "I appreciate your forthrightness."

"But?"

Anne gulped. "No but. I just..."

Get it over with. Yalia went to Anne, put her arms around Anne, kissed Anne's earlobe. Felt something hard. She drew back. "Is that what I think it is?"

Anne blushed, endearingly. "I am packing. I enjoy it. I do not think people at work notice."

Desire shot through Yalia, desire that had not been there a minute ago. Anne packing. She gave Anne a look. A different look. Probably sexual. Surprised, too. "You know, I used to pack," Yalia said with a grin. "I started in college. Did it once a week, maybe. I stopped about the time I graduated."

"Why did you stop?"

"Don't know," Yalia said.

Long moment. The awkwardness was back.

Fuck it. "Anne," Yalia said, and she whisper-kissed Anne on the lips, whisper-kissed her again, and then lightly touched Anne's nipples, which were visibly hard through her shirt.

Anne moaned, a moan Yalia had not heard from her, and Yalia unzipped Anne's pants. They kissed again, and Anne's mouth was welcoming, eager, and the good kind of wet. They fumbled their way to the bed, and Yalia drew the dildo out. "I love it. A Smurf."

"Smurf?" Anne asked.

"They're blue people. It's a cartoon."

"I am unfamiliar with it."

"I'll show you pictures later." Yalia climbed atop Anne and guided the dildo inside her.

"Your..." Anne indicated Yalia's pussy. "Is very nice."

"It looks good with blue."

"You are quite beautiful, Yalia."

"Thank you," Yalia said, and Anne gave her a smile. An honest, open smile. A happy smile. They would be okay. They would be all right, the three of them. Anne had their best interests at heart.

Yalia brought Anne's hands to her breasts. "Please touch me here."

*****

The dogs were happy to see Helen. They hopped, yipped, whined and crowded around her. She let them out to use the bathroom. The drive home had been awful. Helen had spent half the time wondering what the hell she was doing. She prided herself on being open-minded. She had thought she could do this. But Yalia, her wife, was with Anne right now, with Anne, and they were bonding. Most likely fucking. Or, perhaps even worse, they were making love.

My wife is making love with another woman.

Helen ushered the dogs back into the house. Perhaps this was how Anne had felt, and if so, no wonder she had been hesitant to get involved with her and Yalia.Think about tomorrow night. Helen would get her turn tomorrow. And then later the three of them would be together, as it should be.

Helen had a stack of books about the Victorian era awaiting her. She had been avoiding them, but no time like the present to get started. She got ready for bed and re-read the "Overview" copy from her file.

The History Project (in the persons of Josiah Paul Franklin and Regina Lucrezia Franklin, from 1972) retrieved Newborn Girl Zero (thereafter referred to as NG0) on Sunday, January 20, 1901 in the Whitechapel area of London . The girl weighed three pounds and five ounces. She was found next to her biological mother, who had the appearance of being approximately thirteen or fourteen years old. The mother had died probably while delivering her placenta. The child was cold to the touch and presumed to be dead as well, but a faint pulse was detected.

NG0 was transported to modern times, where with the treatment of a doctor and proper nourishment, she began to thrive. She has given no sign of being abnormal, and history seems the same as it has been. As of this writing, NG0, now Time Traveler Zero (thereafter referred to as TT0), has been in

Helen could not bear to continue. She plucked the top book on the Victorian era and started reading. Infant mortality back then had been high because of, among other things, poor nutrition and diseases, including diarrhea-related diseases. Life mortality in general was abysmal. Health care for some people was nonexistent, and for other people, such as the rich, it was misguided.

My poor mother.

What a bleak life she must have led, this thirteen or fourteen-year-old girl. Even Edward Tudor had outlived her.

Chapter Seventeen

Anne could not sleep, but Yalia was very asleep; her deep breathing indicated as much. They were entwined, very tightly, and Anne was not sure where she ended and where Yalia began. She would not have it any other way. Well, if Helen was here, that would be better. Of course. So, that was one other way Anne would have it.

She grinned as she remembered their lovemaking. It had been on the raw side and actually probably not what would be termed "lovemaking." Anne had kept her clothes on at first, with Yalia riding atop her. Yalia had come, and then she'd ridden some more, came again. Then Anne had been brave and said "Fuck me hard," and Yalia asked "With what?" and Anne said: "Your fingers."

So Yalia had fucked Anne, hard, and had found her G-spot, where no one else had. Anne had her first vaginal orgasm.

"Yalia," Anne whispered, horny again. "Yalia, Yalia." She kissed Yalia's neck, was able to detangle from Yalia's body and kiss Yalia's nipples. Anne made her way to Yalia's womanhood. It was tangy and tasted 100 percent like woman.

Yalia moaned. "Oh, Christ."

"You are awake."

A laugh. "Fucking yeah, I'm awake."

After Yalia's orgasm, Yalia said: "Let me taste myself on your tongue," and they kissed hard, and then Anne was atop Yalia again.

*****

Michelle Yamaoto greeted Yalia with a hug. "Hi, baby."

Yalia hugged her mother back, keeping their touch together longer than necessary. She had called her mother that afternoon and asked what her parents were up to. They had invited her for dinner at their house, and Yalia was thankful. She did not want to be alone tonight, not while her wife was with Anne.

"Dad went out to get ice cream," Michelle said. "Now, tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong."

"Pshaw. You called practically begging to be invited over. What's going on?"

Yalia sighed. Sat on the couch. The lie formed in her head: Helen and I had a fight.

But why lie? Yalia was in love, genuinely in love, and grappling with an unusual set of emotions, was embarking on an unusual relationship setup. Anne had said she wanted to be an equal in the relationship, and that included equal recognition and to not be brushed away as a "friend." Yalia ought to trust her mother, give her mother a chance to help her. They had never had that kind of relationship, but they were adults now. Michelle had tried to reach Yalia after the shooting, and Yalia had pushed her away the best she could. Michelle kept visiting, and Yalia loved her mother the more for it.

"Home!" Yalia's father called. He hugged Yalia a moment later. "I got peanut butter and chocolate ice cream."

"Yummy. Thanks, Dad."

"So, what's wrong?" Michelle asked.

Yalia surveyed both her parents. "This is...I'm in a bit of an unusual situation. But a good one. It's all good."

"What?" Michelle asked, nervously.

"Do you remember when you visited me and met a friend who was staying with me and Helen? Her name was Anne George. We went for a walk with the dogs."

"Of course we remember."

"Well, she's moved out. She has her own place now. It's in D.C. But, uh..."

Michelle's eyes widened. "You've left Helen for her."

Yalia shook her head. "No, no. The thing is, the three of us--me, Helen and Anne--we're trying an, uh, it's called a polyamorous relationship. I don't know how it'll go. But, well, we're trying it. I'm here because Helen's with her tonight, and I didn't want to be alone or my mind would go crazy thinking about what they were doing."

Andy Yamaoto looked out the window. Yalia could tell he wanted to be anywhere but that living room.

"Andy," Michelle said, "why don't you start dinner?"

He jumped from his chair. "Good idea. Chicken and rice-a-roni okay, Yalia honey?"

"Sure."

Once Andy left, Michelle gave Yalia a hard, almost-angry look. But not angry. "Polyamory, huh? A 'V', then?"

Yalia was surprised her mother knew what a V was, which was when one partner had two lovers who were not involved with each other, at least not sexually. "No, not a 'V.' Triangle-shaped. Helen's with her tonight because Anne needs one-on-one time to develop relationships with us individually. I was with Anne last night, just her and me."

"How was it?"

Yalia could not help but smile. Hugely. "It was great." Jealousy butted its head in. And it will probably be just as great for Helen tonight.

Michelle fiddled with a button on her shirt. "Good. Good. Well, you know, I'm not sure what to say. I hope you don't get hurt. That Anne, she seemed like a nice person. But she isn't a nice new shiny toy for you and Helen, is she?"

"No. She is great. She really is. I am...Mom, I'm in love. I'm in love, really in love. The three of us together, it's wonderful. I can't describe it. It's like Anne completes us."

*****

"Perhaps this is odd," Anne said, "but Yalia and I shopped this morning for tonight."

"That's actually sweet."

Anne smiled. "It put your wife's mind at ease somewhat. It made her feel included for tonight." Anne unlocked her door and let Helen in. Yalia had told Anne what Helen liked: roses, in any color, in every color, scented candles, stuffed animals, champagne, a card, what Yalia called "downright cheesy romantic crap." Yalia did not necessarily care for that, she said, but Helen sure did.

There was no way in the small studio apartment that Helen could miss what was on the bed, an oversized teddy bear holding a rose. And miss it Helen did not. "Oh wow." Helen went to the bear right away. "So cute." She held the bear up, hugged it to her, then smelled the rose. "This is so sweet of you and Yalia." Helen's grin was wide.

Anne imagined Yalia's smile, imagined her saying: "We did good."

"I am glad," Anne said. "You deserve lovely things. I shall put that in a vase for you."

Yalia and Anne had met Helen about two p.m. for coffee and to, basically, for Yalia and Helen to switch places. The coffee date had been awkward, with Helen and Yalia asking each other superficial, innocuous questions, such as questions about the dogs. No questions like: "Did you fuck last night? How was it? Do you still want to be my wife?"

"How was last night?" Helen asked now. Her grin was gone.

"Good."

Helen nodded. "Okay. Good."

"Your wife loves you. Very much. Last night felt odd without you, and tonight feels odd without her. That is good, I think, because it shows we should be three."

Color rose in Helen's cheeks. "Three. Yes. I like three."

"We shall make do with two tonight, however. May I kiss you?"

Chapter Eighteen

The night of April 21, 1509

Benjamin Franklin studied the sleeping young man. Teenager, really, for the young man was seventeen years old. Tomorrow, this man-child's father would die, and the young man would become king of England . Yes, this was exactly what Benjamin would do. This was exactly how he would make amends with Anne if Benjamin was still around, still alive, in modern times when she saw him at her execution.

This was how he would appease Anne. Benjamin would take this man instead of taking Anne's daughter. Anne was right to let Elizabeth remain where she was. What kind of life could Elizabeth have in modern times, especially if she had severe fading issues and was confined to the Icarus building? That would not do. Besides, Benjamin had no enthusiasm for bringing more people from the past forward. Anne had been more trouble than she was worth, and undoubtedly others would be too.

This young man would be okay to bring into the future. Not as he was now, of course. No, Benjamin would bring him later. Much later, in late January 1547, when the man was fifty-five years old and only several days before death. At that point, according to history books, he would be bedridden and so feeble he was incapable of bringing water to his own lips. Benjamin would bring him forward and let Anne have her revenge on him. He would show her that Dr. Benjamin Franklin was not the bad man Anne believed him to be. Anne, not her husband, would have the last say, and Benjamin grinned. He could not wait to see Henry's shock at seeing his long-dead wife alive.

Benjamin had a gun on him. Mace and several knives, too. Bringing protection was simple common sense, but Benjamin wondered what would happen if he shot Henry right now, shot him through the heart. Would Benjamin change history? He was thoroughly in command of one fact: when he was in his natural time, he could not change history. Something innate compelled him to do things no matter how hard he tried to countermand the compulsion.

However, he felt his future as of right now had not been fixed. So in this way, he could change history. Maybe. He was ninety-nine percent certain that if he wanted, he had the free will to send a bullet through the heart of this seventeen-year-old slumbering prince. The only question that remained: Did Benjamin dare try? If he killed Henry, would the galaxy collapse on itself?

He was intensely, horribly curious to find out. He was so curious he had practiced shooting a dummy back in 2012.

Benjamin Franklin drew out the gun for the job. Would the universe somehow stop him, such as in the form of Henry rising up and attacking him, or the gun failing to fire? This gun had never failed to fire. It was top of the line. A failure to fire had many possible causes, and perhaps "universe prevention" would become a new one.

Benjamin did not let himself think any more. He was left handed, but he had practiced loading enough times so that it was second nature and being left-handed was not a hindrance. He opened the cylinder and used himself to anchor the gun. He inserted the bullets and let the speedloader fall. He swung the cylinder closed. He jiggled the cylinder to ensure it was properly in line with the barrel. It was. The gun was ready to go, ready to fire. The room was dark, but Benjamin's night vision had adjusted enough so that he knew where to shoot. He positioned himself but kept his finger off the trigger. He remembered the dummy back in 2012. Dummies, really. Holey, holey dummies. He had practiced in the dark back then, too.

One. Two. Three. Fire.

Nothing. No bullet. Henry lived. Henry was unscathed. Benjamin allowed himself a little smile and hazarded another try. Nothing. So, the gun that had never failed to fire was failing now. Universe prevention, indeed. Benjamin unloaded the gun and replaced it. He got the knife most suitable for the job. He had practiced knifing dummies in 2012, too. He wrapped both his hands around the handle of the knife. He plunged the knife down, and then...

And then...

Thank goodness Benjamin wore a vest to absorb the blow, for the knife was in him. In the vest, rather. Prince Henry shouted a mess of incomprehensible words, his red hair stood up in tufts, and Benjamin had his answer.

There is one, absolute timeline. Period.

This had always happened. Prince Henry had always been aware a man watched him on this night, Henry had been tensed and ready for the attack, and he had driven the attacker's own knife into the attacker's body. The attacker had made no grunts of pain, and there had been no blood. And then the attacker had somehow, mysteriously, disappeared before Henry's shouts brought his men. Perhaps the attack was attributed to a dream or hallucination.

Benjamin fumbled in his pocket for the red button on Aries. He was glad at last to have an answer to his burning question. "See ya in 1547, dude," Benjamin said. "Watch out, hmm? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned."

Chapter Nineteen

Helen wanted to kiss every inch of Anne's body, and she proceeded to do just that. She spent extra time and care on Anne's pussy, prompting groans from Anne when Helen moved on.

"Nooo, Helen. Go back."

Helen grinned. "I will later."

"Soon later or way later later?"

"Medium later. Unless you keep whining. Then definitely later way freaking later."

Anne laughed. "Come here, tease."

Helen went into Anne's arms, and they kissed luxuriously, no rush about it. Helen wondered fleetingly if it had been like this with Yalia last night, or something different. No matter. This is your time. Yours and Anne's.

Somehow, Anne ended up on top, and then Anne's mouth was on Helen's pussy. "You taste good," Anne said. "So good. Better than ice cream."

"So do you."

"Is this okay? Am I okay?"

"You're very okay."

"Are you scared?" Anne's voice was suddenly somber, breaking Helen from her decadent thoughts.

Helen sat up. "I'm...are you okay?"

Anne hesitated slightly. "I was not aware I was going to ask that question."

"Are you okay?"

"I am not sure."

Anne's troubled expression nearly killed Helen. "Why?"

"I am happy, very happy here with you. With you and Yalia. My heart is very full. Something bad will happen."

"Don't think that way. Don't make it a self-fulfilling prophecy." Truth was, though, a tumble of confused thoughts and feelings had assailed Helen for weeks. She was married. She was crazy to be getting involved with a woman dead since 1536. A woman with this crazy history, a woman with fades. But here they were. "Come here. Come here. Let's forget about this shit. Sit on top of my face."

"Ahh." A gleam returned to Anne's gaze.

"Yeah. Ahh."

*****

Afterward, Anne rubbed the bare skin of Helen's back and shoulders. She wanted to tell Helen, needed to tell her, in a way that she had never needed to say anything, that she truly was scared, very scared, because she was in love, in love like never before. In love with Helen and Yalia.

And that could not be good. Anne did not deserve to be happy like this.

You deserve to be happy. You know it. Forgive yourself for what you have done and move on. This is your new life.

Anne outlined the tips of Helen's breasts with her fingers. Their legs intertwined, and their hips began a twin dance. "I need to tell you something," Anne said. "In case I fade and do not return."

"Anne, don't talk like that."

Anne could deny her heart's anguish no longer. "Your father was the best thing that happened to me. I love him, and I love you and Yalia. I am very much in love, and at the same time I know I cannot be because I hardly know you both. I am in love with the newness and the thrill. My times with the two of you have been..." Anne's senses spun. She was being foolish, but she pressed on. "I just wanted you to know. In case I go away and do not return. I think I do love you and Yalia. Whatever love is."

Helen did not answer right away, and Anne felt stupider. "Well, that...that was...look, Anne, you're right. Who the hell knows what love is? Yalia and I have known our share of ups and downs, and our love now is different than from when we got married. But she--we--shit." Helen took Anne's hand, and heat rippled under Anne's skin at the intensity she saw in Helen's gaze. "Sometimes you just know something. I knew with Yalia. And you're the second person I know with. The three of us, we can..." Helen grinned a bit. "Maybe we're making a big mistake, but maybe we can figure out together this love thing. We love you too. I love you. We will be okay."

*****

Helen got home late that night, because she'd had to go to Gallaudet after leaving Anne's apartment. Yalia was on the couch and reading a book. The dogs were scattered around her.

"Hey," Helen said with a smile that she hoped concealed her nervousness. She and Yalia had not talked on the phone or texted that day.

Yalia got up. Small smile. A "Hey, yourself." The book she had been reading was on Benjamin Franklin.

Awkward, long seconds of tense silence.

"Hey, thanks," Helen said. "For the bear and the rose."

"You're welcome."

Helen crossed to her wife and wrapped her arms tight around Yalia. "I love you," Helen said.

Yalia clung to her. "I love you, too."

"Are we okay?"

"I hope so. Yes."

"It felt weird without you," Helen said.

"Same here. It'll be good when it's the three of us again."

Helen found Yalia's mouth, kissed her hard. "I love you, I love you," Helen said. "I love you so much."

*****

Anne rented a car at National airport Saturday morning for the drive down to Front Royal. She would be staying until Monday morning. Traffic on Interstate 66 was fairly light, and Anne hoped she would make good time. She was not sure yet if she liked driving. Just needed to get used to it, she supposed. Helen and Yalia had volunteered to get Anne, but she had said no. She would rent a car. She would be independent.

She was nervous about the weekend. Excited, too. Way more excited than nervous. Okay, maybe not. Probably fifty-fifty. She hoped matters among her, Helen and Yalia would not be weird after their individual nights together.

Anne stopped at a convenience store a few miles from Helen and Yalia's exit. She bought a Snickers bar and a Coke. Then on second thought, she bought two more Snickers bars for Helen and Yalia. Anne ate her own bar in the car. I am stalling. No more.

Ten minutes later, she was pulling up in Helen's and Yalia's driveway. Yalia met her at the door. They smiled at each other then hugged and kissed. Anne wanted to never let go of Yalia. She felt like she was home again.

Then Helen was there, and the pattern was repeated. Anne gave her new lovers their Snickers bars.

"Are you nervous?" Yalia said with a wide grin. "Because I am."

"I have not been more nervous in my life," Anne admitted. "However, I have been equally nervous a few times."

"One time that jumps to mind was the first time I had sex with Henry. I knew that would be the end of my life, so to speak. The end of what little freedom I had. I would get pregnant, and luck would dictate my future in the form of a girl child or a boy child. In the form of a live child or a dead child."

The three of them spent the afternoon doing low-key things. drawing out the tension for what would be doubtless a delicious night. They watched a movie, played cards, played Pictionary. It was amazing how well they got along. Anne did not observe any frowns or flinches from Helen when Anne and Yalia kissed, and vice versa. And Anne herself had no objections to Helen and Yalia kissing, perhaps because that was how it had been from the beginning.

About eight p.m. , they retreated to the bedroom. They took turns kissing one another, and Anne marveled that they need not speak aloud what to do next. They justknew. They moved organically, together.

They kissed a long time, a long, sweet and expansive time, sometimes Yalia and Helen, sometimes Anne and Yalia, sometimes Helen and Anne but always the three of them together, the three of them touching. Then they moved on to more-sweaty activities. Most of the time, two of them made love to the third, but at one point, Helen and Yalia came together. Anne loved watching them, watching them together. Watching them watch her. Contentment filled her entire being, her knees, her toes, her throat, her womanhood, everything. Everywhere.

After nearly five hundred years, Anne was happy.

Chapter Twenty

The nightmare jerked Yalia awake. Shit. Her heart was jumping out of her chest. She checked the time: three a.m. She slipped out from under Anne and Helen. She padded into the kitchen to fix a glass of water and then sat on the couch.

Shit. Damn.

The nightmare had felt real, terrifyingly real. She had been in 1536, had been Anne again. But only Yalia was in Anne's body. No Anne or Helen. The colors had been all wrong. The people had green skin and purple eyes. The crowd was wild, yelling, jeering. Thank goodness she had woken up the instant before her head--Anne's head--was sliced off.

Yalia shuddered. The wait for death must be agonizing for Anne.

"Yalia?" The voice belonged to Anne. Like Yalia, she was naked, and Yalia drank in her lover's firm, muscular body.

"Hey, baby," Yalia said. "Come here." She kissed Anne and took Anne into the crook of her arm.

"Are you all right?" Anne asked.

Yalia shrugged. "Nightmare."

"About what?"

"I was in 1536 again, in your body."

"Ah. Did I die?"

Yalia ran her hands through Anne's hair and let each strand fall one by one. "You were about to."

"I need to tell you something in case I fade and do not come back."

"Okay."

A shy smile from Anne. "These words do not come easy to me, and I probably would not say them if not for the specter of my death. I must tell you that I love you. You and Helen both. I love you very much."

Anne's words echoed in the stillness of Yalia's mind. I love you, I love you very much.

"I love you too," Yalia said, and she meant every word.

Anne smiled to herself. "I am glad."

"I love you," Yalia whispered, and she touched her lips to Anne's.

"Helen says I need not worry, that I will not die, at least not in this time. I will be fine. But you know, do you not, Yalia? You know I might not be fine. At least, you are brave enough to say so. I thank you for that."

Yalia's mouth trembled with the need to smile, but the attempt failed. "I'm glad Helen pretends otherwise. We need someone to be positive."

Anne laughed, deep, warm and rich. "You are correct." She took Yalia into her arms, held her close. "I love you, Yalia. I really do. Please always remember that."

*****

The rest of the weekend passed like a dream, and Monday afternoon found Anne back at Starbucks for her shift.

"Good weekend?" Rosemary asked.

"Yes. I spent it with my lovers."

Rosemary cocked an eyebrow. "You took my advice."

Anne giggled. "I did, and the three of us are lovely together. I thank you."

Rosemary left at six o'clock , and Anne passed her time until shift's end daydreaming. Jordan walked her home after her shift. Not walked her home, per se, but trailed her. Anne was sick of him. Sick of waiting for a fade to seize her to her death. She was eager to start her life with Helen and Yalia and to help them have their baby, their--

Baby.

Their baby would be Anne's too, and excitement swirled inside Anne's stomach. She would be a mother again. A true mother, with none of that hands-off style the Tudors practiced. She would hear her child's laughter again.

But first she had to die.

Anne locked her door behind her and sat. She thought. A whisper in her gut said: The end is here. You are brave enough to die. If she still had the power to fade of her own will, she should take advantage of it. See the execution through.

And, hopefully, stabilize in modern times.

Then no auspices of doom would linger over her, and she would force Jordan and Icarus to leave her alone. No stalkers, thank you very much. She would find a way to force them to leave her alone.

Anne was terrified. As terrified as she had been in her life. She fumbled with her cellphone. She could call Yalia. Yalia had not minded being in 1536. Maybe Yalia would die with her. No. Do not risk Yalia.

Anne got in bed and held the oversized teddy bear to her chest. Helen had left the bear for her to sleep with.

Nearly four years.

Anne had waited for her death nearly four years.

First, she had waited in a compressed period as the executioner from Calais kept being delayed. Then after the fades started, a new kind of waiting started.

Cause of death: gone crazy from waiting.

She could not breathe. Her heart raced, and she was dizzy, as if her air was cut off. She felt like someone was smothering her. Panic attack?

A breath found her, then another. She reached for a sheet of paper and a pen. Just-in-case letters.

Helen and Yalia,

Just in case I do not return, I wanted to say goodbye. Please do not be angry at me. I had to do this to start my life with you both afresh. I would not endeavor this risk if I thought it would fail.

It will work.

It will.

Out of death comes new life.

On my walk home after work (a brief walk, admittedly) I thought about our child. Perhaps such thoughts are presumptuous because our relationship is so new. But when I remember how you both look at me, I KNOW I am not being presumptuous. He or she will be beautiful. I ask you one favor. If I do not return, please tell our child about me. I do not mean Anne Boleyn, the Tudor queen, but the Anne you both love. Elizabeth is long dead, and she left no descendants. No part of me will live on except in our child who is yet to live.

Anne was crying, and she set her pen down. She wiped her tears away with her shirt sleeve. This delaying had to stop.

1536. 1536. Please take me back. Take me back. Please, please. Now.

Nothing.

Anne's heart fell. She truly did not have the power anymore. A fade would seize her someday, maybe in the middle of Starbucks again, and--

Ah. Anne was back, Anne was in 1536, with Kingston and her seven possible executioners.

*****

"Speak your mind," Kingston said.

Anne was strangely calm. She looked into the crowd, into the eyes of Englishmen and Englishwomen who brought food and their children. She felt the tangle of Helen and Yalia with her, their giggles, their pillow talk, their kisses, their lovemaking. She filled her head with these good thoughts as the rest of her set on a preordained course. "Good Christian people, I am come hither to die, according to the law, for by the law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against it." Good.Her voice was strong and steady. "But I pray God save the king and send him long to reign over you. For a gentler nor a more merciful prince was there never, and to me he was ever a good, a gentle and sovereign lord. And if any person will meddle me of my cause I require them to judge the best. And thus I take my leave of the world and of you all, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me."

Solemn nods from the crowd, and panic smothered Anne. Back. Bring me back. 2012. I want to go home. But Anne knew, as she had known before she made this trip, there would be no going back this way.

She was right.

She stayed exactly where she was in 1536.

She turned to the men behind her. Custom dictated that an executioner was to kneel and beg forgiveness from the person whose life he was about to take. The "victim" would grant the forgiveness and pay the executioner a sum of money. Because of what Henry had done, dressing seven men alike, this custom was not possible. "I forgive you freely," Anne said to the men as a group.

Kingston gestured for her ladies to approach. The blindfold. Anne turned back to the crowd, hoping to find a friendly face. Someone pretty, or someone handsome. Someone worthy of being the last person she would see in this life. Who would be the last person, who would be...

Benjamin. He was there. Benjamin Franklin, gazing upon her with utmost sorrow. She had nearly overlooked him. He wore a wig, and his clothes fit the time. Dirt caked his face, but he looked about the same age he was in 2012. He saw her see him, and he flinched.

I am not supposed to know he is here. Benjamin was front and center, in the perfect place for him to witness her head depart her body.

"Benjamin?" Anne said, and her heart soared high, so high she felt she was flying with birds. Their songs, their cries filled her ears. My God. How? What does this mean? The time machines...would he save her? Change history? Would he ensure she would not have to endure the utmost horror?

The blindfold was upon her, and then Anne had to kneel, and she said the words: "To Christ I commend my soul. Jesu, receive my soul."

Helen. Yalia. I love you. Their smiles, their laughs were a slideshow in Anne's mind.

And then again: "To Christ I commend my soul. Jesu, receive my soul," because as long as she was talking, the executioner would not part her head from her body.Benjamin, please. Save me. "To Christ I commend my soul. Jesu, receive my soul," and then she felt a prick at her neck, a nothing prick really, and she was falling, no pain, no pain whatsoever. She saw shoes, dirty shoes, and she knew her head was separated from her body. After four years, the end had arrived.

Anne had researched whether severed heads were conscious after they were separated from their bodies. Conclusions were mixed, but at the very most, the head would not be conscious for longer than thirty seconds.

Shoes. Dirty shoes. Brown, tan, black. Yellow.

Josiah. Regina . Benjamin. Yalia. Helen. George. Elizabeth .

I love you.

Anne Boleyn, queen of England , closed her eyes and died.

Anne awoke on her apartment bed, and she hurt all over. Her neck especially throbbed. Can this be? She was alive. She lived. The theory had been correct. Anne allowed no celebrations, not yet. She felt her neck. No bumps, no ridges. Nothing. She examined herself in a mirror, and the pain pervading her body vanished, like vapors, like ghosts. She was the same as always.

Dead in 1536.

Alive here.

Pray God no more nosebleeds.

Anne shuddered. She remembered the shoes, the sad dirty shoes in their subdued colors, remembered the pinprick at her neck before her head fell. Her executioner had been skilled indeed, and for an instant, she wished he had not been. The neck of Mary, Queen of Scots, had not been as disposable. Her executioner had to strike it thrice, and she had no doubt endured terrible pain.

Anne wished pain had filled her last moments of life in 1536. Pain was something she could carry with her, pain was something she could secure in her heart to remind her to appreciate her happiness. What she had had was a puny neck-prick. Her neck, her being, her majesty, tossed aside so easily. Dirty shoes. Dirty shoes.

Sobs racked Anne's body, relieved sobs, angry sobs too, and she started to dial Yalia. What would Anne say? Please come. Now. You and Helen. Please. It's over. I'm fine now. Let us start our lives together. And there's Benjamin. He's out there. He's playing God again.

Anne stopped the call before it went through. She was strong. She could handle this herself. She found Jordan outside. "Take me to Benjamin."

*****

Jordan led Anne to Benjamin's office. Benjamin wore the Icarus security guard uniform, and his hair was immaculately groomed. He showed no signs of having been roused from sleep.

He rose from his chair. "What brings you here so early, Anne?"

"I think you know."

Benjamin licked his lips, looked to Jordan . "Please excuse us."

Jordan left, and Benjamin indicated a chair for Anne.

"I shall stand," she said, and a thought hit her. What if Benjamin was at her execution because of the words she was about to say? What if he was at her execution because she told him he was? And he went to ensure history would not change.

No.

His eyes were flinty, steely. Unsurprised. He knew why she was here.

"The time machines are not broken," Anne said.

Benjamin nodded. "You are correct."

"Why did you lie?"

He shrugged. "Is it not obvious? Easier to lie. But worry you not. I take occasional journeys into the past. I bring no one forward. I am a sightseer, that is all."

Anne's rage grew. "What else have you lied about?"

"I have something to show you. Please excuse me a moment." Benjamin left the office, and Jordan entered a few minutes later.

"I am to take you to Ward C," Jordan said.

"Why?"

"I do not know," Jordan said, and for the first time, his voice was uneasy. Strained.

"Did you know?" Anne asked.

"About what?"

"About the time machines not being broken."

Jordan 's eyes widened in what seemed to be genuine surprise. "The...what? That cannot be. We have worked so hard to get them back up."

"Oh, they're up," Anne snapped. "Believe me."

Jordan opened his mouth. Closed his mouth. Finally said: "To Ward C, ma'am."

"What's there?"

"A medical facility."

Anne touched her hand to Jordan 's shoulder. She suddenly regretted not getting to know him, at least superficially. " Jordan ?" she asked. "What kind of man are you?"

Jordan glanced up. Cameras. Of course. He would not brazenly betray his employer. "Please come along, ma'am," he said.

*****

Jordan showed Anne into a lobby. Benjamin was waiting, his wide grin unnerving her. She was glad to have Jordan at her side.

"Please excuse us again," Benjamin said, and Jordan swallowed. Hesitated. Nodded at last and walked out the lobby.

"I have a surprise for you," Benjamin said. "I hope you will accept this token as my apology. You may do with him as you wish. Take your revenge upon him. The secret is ours only."

"Him?"

"In the few minutes you took to walk here, I spent an hour in 1547. Come."

Benjamin led Anne into the first room on the right. In bed was a man, hardly recognizable and at the same time, quite recognizable. He moaned feebly in his sleep. His head was bald, and his skin sagged like a man years older. His beard was gray, thin and lifeless.

Anne's heart clamped shut. Oh my God.

"Your husband is dying," Benjamin said. "Perhaps you would like to give him, as the saying goes, a taste of his own medicine."

Anne could only gape. This was not Henry. Could not be! This pale, sickly form was not her husband. Anne had read countless accounts of Henry's final days. Delusions. Hallucinations. So feeble he could not lift a glass of water. Inflamed ulcers on his legs, skin about to burst due to choked veins, open sores giving off an atrocious stench, constant pain.

The words did not begin to compare to the reality, and Anne wanted to weep for the pitiful creature in the bed. She was not sure why. Did she have some fondness for her husband, after all? Or was she sorrowful to see this once-mighty ruler succumb to reality?

"I wish to do nothing to him," she said through clenched teeth, "nor do I wish him to see me. Take him back."

"I cannot," Benjamin said reasonably. "If I took him back, there would be two dying Henrys. Anne, take a few minutes. A few hours. Get used to the idea that the power is yours, not his. You may torture him as he tortured you."

Anne clenched her fists. Unclenched them. If this incident told her anything, it was this: Benjamin Franklin was dangerous. He must not be allowed to go on like this. That look in Benjamin's eyes! He actually thought he would please Anne.

Anguished moan. Henry's eyes fluttered open. He managed to twist his neck. They stared at each other, and the nearly five hundred years whooshed backward. She remembered meeting him the first time, her sister introducing them, remembered the gentleness with which he danced with her sister and then with her. She remembered his feverish love letters to her. His ardent desire. Henry likely had no idea he was a player in her father's grand scheme.

"Anne," he said, and his voice was a croak. A smile lit his faded eyes, and then spread to his lips. "Anne, darling. Your hair."

Anne touched her hands to her hair. "It is short," she agreed.

"Mine own sweetheart, I have missed you." His voice was strong and held nothing but love.

Delusions. Henry was, at least in this moment, living in the past. The past past. He did not realize he had ordered her dead.

"Excuse me," Anne said.

*****

Jordan drove Anne to Front Royal. Through her swirling haze of haunting thoughts, she managed to tell him what happened.

"What will you do?" he asked.

"I do not know." Options whirred through her: get a doctor, wait, Jordan was a doctor, he took care of Anne, Henry should get some treatment, just ignore Henry, let nature take its course.

But what to do about Benjamin?

The time was four a.m. when Jordan pulled into Helen's and Yalia's driveway. He stayed in the car, and Anne rang the doorbell. Yalia answered a few minutes later, and Anne stepped into her arms, clutched her whole being to Yalia. She cried, and Yalia let her cry, and then Helen was there, and Anne was crying some more.

"I did it," she said at last. "I died in 1536. But Henry's here."

*****

Excitement filled Helen on the drive to the Icarus building. Excitement and shame. She wished she was not excited, but she was about to meet Henry VIII. That called for some excitement, no?

Yalia was driving, and Helen was in the back with Anne, holding her hand. Jordan was in his car, trailing them. Anne's gaze was numb, unbelieving. "Benjamin has to be stopped," Anne said. "I would rather kill him than kill Henry."

Helen thought of her mother, thirteen or fourteen years old. If she stopped Benjamin, she risked losing her mother. Risked the chance of getting to know her mother.Just as well. History is not to be trifled with.

But the pull...the pull was so damn strong.

"I want to know my mother," Helen whispered.

Anne rubbed her forehead. "We cannot get everything we wish."

"But..." But there was no but. Some things in life never got resolved, and this would have to be one. Helen would have to let the teenage girl who gave birth to her go. Helen had a bright future and two lovely women to share her future with. Looking to the past would do more harm than good.

*****

Henry was moaning and writhing in pain when Helen, Yalia and Anne entered. The smell of disease, of death, hit Helen right away. My God, Helen thought. Whenever she pictured Henry, she saw the man from the famous portrait by Hans Holbein the Younger. Ironically, the portrait had been done about the time Anne was executed. In the portrait, Henry was strong, broad shouldered, and while not handsome, he was authoritative. He had a presence, a joie de vivire. This was a man to be reckoned with.

The man in the bed was entirely different.

His anguish was tremendous, and Yalia said: "Jesus. He needs a painkiller or something at least."

It appeared that Benjamin had done nothing to ease Henry's suffering. Helen could smell and see soiled bedclothes, no doubt from bodily functions and from erupting sores.

"Has he faded?" Anne asked Benjamin.

"Yes, a few times. You are safer not touching him."

Anne went to Henry, and he stopped his groaning. He shrunk back, his gaze fearful.

"A ghost has come upon me," Helen thought he said. His English was, well, it was old English.

"What did he say?" Yalia whispered, and Helen told her.

So he's in his right mind now. Helen slipped her cellphone out. She took a quick picture, a real picture, none of this portrait business, this portrait guesswork, of the king and the queen together. She replaced her cellphone, and a weight crashed down on her. She was incapable of breath, and giddiness might as well have lifted her to the sky.

This is real. Since her father had told her about Anne, Helen had felt like her life was a dream, some sort of blurred reality. Her times in 1536 felt real, too real, in the moments. But now, with some distance, they took on the tinge of blurred reality.

This was real.

Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn in the flesh. Helen had a picture of the king and the queen. A picture worth billions of dollars.

Helen realized just how immense this was, how historic this moment was. It was the last, unwritten chapter of Henry VIII's life, and her mind at last clicked in understanding of why her mother and her father did what they did. They had abducted people. Kept people prisoner.

For moments like this.

They no doubt had pictures of Anne Boleyn and Benjamin Franklin together. Greatness, indeed. With the time machines up, Helen could get Edward as a baby. They wanted a baby, her, Yalia and Anne. They could get Edward, and why not Mary I while they were at it, and Tudor history would continue. All these players could develop new relationships. Instead of being an evil stepmother, Anne could become a caring mother to an infant Mary. Mary, Edward and Elizabeth could grow up a couple of years apart rather than the tremendous age differences separating them.

Elizabeth I and Mary, Queen of Scots. Their rivalry had been bitter, with Elizabeth ordering Mary's beheading in the end. But what if they had a chance to talk in modern times, to become friends? To find an understanding and--

Shit.

Helen gulped lungfuls of air, her thoughts scaring herself. Unchecked, she would do bad things. She was sure of it. So this program needed to be destroyed. Anne Boleyn was going to be part of Helen's life. Helen had made love to Anne Boleyn, loved her immensely.

Anne needed to move on, and so did Helen.

"Henry," Anne said.

He bellowed a tremendous cry of pain and shielded his eyes. "Be gone, witch!"

"Morphine," Anne said to Benjamin. "Give him an overdose of morphine so that he will die peacefully."

Benjamin blinked. "Pardon?"

"I have no interest in revenge or anything of the sort. Perhaps if he was healthy and in control of his faculties, I would. But dare you not retrieve him in any other form again. Ever."

Benjamin frowned. "Morphine? Your Majesty, I beg to differ."

Your Majesty. Helen bit her lip. So Anne was a queen again to Benjamin, and the immensity of the moment squeezed Helen again. This is the king. This is the queen.

"This man lopped your head off," Benjamin said. "And you propose for him a peaceful death?"

"His death is nothing but peaceful!" Anne shrilled. "He groans and screams in pain. His sores erupt. You shall get morphine, and you shall inject it yourself."

*****

Henry fell quiet not five minutes after the morphine injection, and he still lived. His breathing became more labored.

"You did right," Yalia said to Anne.

"I hope so," she whispered. Anne went to him. She took his hand in hers. A frail hand it was, and he opened his eyes.

He smiled. "My flower," he whispered. "I dream of you."

Anne would be a better person than he. She would not stoop to his level. She replayed the look in his eyes when they were married and chose to believe that was the real Henry. She would do it for her daughter's sake, at least. And her own. She would not let bitterness drag her down. "Our child," Anne said, "will be a great ruler. She will be a girl, name of Elizabeth ."

"Girl?" Raspy whisper.

"Girl," Anne affirmed. "A girl more than ten boys together. A warrior girl, a warrior queen, a girl no match for anyone. You did what you set out to do. Your legacy is safe in our daughter."

"I would not thought it possible," he breathed.

"Me either," Anne murmured, and Henry shut his eyes.

No death rattle.

He opened his eyes again, and she saw fear. He looked to her neck, and she knew he was in his right mind again.

"I am innocent," Anne whispered. "You know that, do you not? I hope the cruelty of what you did to me and George and everyone else gave you forever nightmares."

"Anne," he whimpered, and with that, Henry's chest rattled and he died.

Anne decided to bury him in the courtyard, under the mural of Elizabeth 's family tree. She, Helen, Yalia and Jordan dug the grave while Benjamin watched from a distance. The digging was hard going, owing to the hard, cold ground. But at last they were done.

Jordan and Benjamin sterilized the body and embalmed it, making it safe for burial. Benjamin had a coffin delivered, and the king was lowered into the ground.

"Goodbye, husband," Anne said, and peacefulness came over her. Perhaps Benjamin had been right to grant her closure. She had much to discuss with him, but such a talk would have to wait. She was exhausted.

Chapter Twenty One

The next morning, Yalia got up early. She dug a little, paper-shaped grave in her back yard. Helen and Anne were asleep, and Yalia hoped they would stay that way for awhile. She wanted to be alone for the time being. Henry's burial had given her an idea. She should bury Louis. Symbolically, of course, because the real Louis was buried in St. Louis , Missouri , the city where he was born and the city he was named after.

Yalia unfolded the piece of paper she brought. LOUIS was written across it in blocky black letters. Yalia crouched and placed the paper in the grave. She filled the grave up and marked it with rocks. She would tell Helen and Anne later today why the rocks were there.

Yalia sat by the grave. "Louis," she said.

I'm here.

"Hey, buddy."

Don't make me go.

Yalia swallowed.

Please, Yalia. Don't. I'll be so lonely. No one else talks with me.

"Okay," Yalia whispered. "I won't make you go." Louis would always be part of her past. And a part of her future. He would always live on in her mind. The guilt, anyway. That would live on.

"I am sorry," Yalia said.

I know. It's okay.

"Good."

You could get me.

Yalia gave a start. "No. No way."

Don't deny you've been thinking about it.

"I haven't."

You have. Subconsciously.

"Whatever."

The time machines are up. You could get me, anytime before I'm shot, and let me live the life I was meant to live. And it'd be better with you and Anne and Helen. I wouldn't be anyone's Satan stepson. You'd be a cool mom.

"I would love to get you, honey. But..."

But what? You're chicken?

"I'm not chicken," Yalia said indignantly. "Just that so much is unknown. Fades. What if you couldn't go anywhere or...I don't know. Leaving history alone is best."

I will be fine. History will be fine. We can figure whatever out later. I'll always be here, you know. You're going to get me one day, Yalia. You could get it over with and do it soon, or ten years from now. It's your choice. But you WILL get me one day, because my voice will get louder and louder in your head. Getting me will be the only way to stop it.

Goosebumps covered Yalia's skin. She stood and wiped grass and dirt off her jeans. "Get Louis," she murmured, and she pictured him in her mind, his floppy brown hair, his brown eyes, the gap-toothed smile in his obituary picture. She pictured holding baby Louis in her arms, taking three-year-old Louis to the park.

Yalia felt weak. Faint. I am actually considering this. She was not the only one contemplating something unsavory. It was easy to tell that Helen wanted to meet her mother and get to know her mother. Bring her mother back, even. Save that young girl's life. And doubtless Anne wanted Elizabeth .

They needed solve the problem of the fades, of the dual existences. That was the big thing. If there was some way to bring Elizabeth and Louis forward without them knowing who they were in another life...

If they could solve that somehow, then...

"No," Yalia said with a groan, and she headed back inside. To her future. She undressed, got into bed with Helen and Anne. Kissed them good morning.

*****

The doorbell rang about eleven a.m. , and Yalia dragged herself out of to bed to answer it. The visitor was Jordan , looking snappy in a business suit.

"Give us a few minutes," Yalia said. She got Anne and Helen up, and they met Jordan in the living room.

Jordan sat and fixed an intense gaze on Anne. "I want to apologize to you, ma'am," he said. "I truly had no idea what was happening. I would not have sanctioned it."

"Thank you," Anne said carefully.

Jordan nodded. Sighed. "I suppose the three of you know as well as I do that very little will stop Dr. Franklin."

"Yeah," Yalia muttered. They could, and most likely would, meet with Benjamin. Today, even. Hurl heavy words and threats around. You have to stop, the machines have to be destroyed, blah blah blah. In one ear, out the other. Benjamin would say glib words, spout glib lies.

"I've a plan," Jordan said. "But I will not implement it without your permission."

Helen shifted uneasily. "Isn't this house bugged?"

"Bugged? Oh, no. No."

Yalia cocked an eyebrow. "Really? That's nice to know."

Jordan grinned. "Here's my idea. When Benjamin fades next, I'll destroy the time machines. And I could destroy more, if you think it prudent."

"What other things?" Anne asked.

"Computers. Everything. Maybe the entire building. Undo years of progress."

"What would you do with Benjamin when he reappears?"

"That's the big question, isn't it?" Jordan murmured. "Now, I've talked with the others. Not as bluntly as this, but enough. None of them like Benjamin. This project wasn't what they, or I, signed up for. We were supposed to go into the past to observe history, to see things happen as they actually happened in real time. We were never supposed to interfere. I wanted to study the Borgias, and I haven't been allowed into the past yet." Jordan turned his gaze upon Helen. "Two years after I joined, I was horrified to find out interference had already happened, with you."

Uncomfortable swallow from Helen. "Mmm."

"We don't appreciate being lied to," Jordan continued. "That's all that has been happening the past few years. It has to stop. We just need to wait for the next fade." He clasped his hands together. "That's the plan, anyway. The three of you talk it over. Call me when you've reached a decision."

"Benjamin's a smart guy," Helen said. "Surely he has hidey-holes. Secret hiding places outside the building. He must go out from time to time and secrete time-machine stuff."

"I suspect he does," Jordan agreed.

"You can try destroying," Helen said. "But it might do more harm then good."

Jordan nodded. "You're right. It will make Benjamin furious and possibly more dangerous. But we gotta try. He might not think we are capable of such actions. Maybe he hasn't hidden anything."

*****

One week later, Anne surveyed her clothes and selected an outfit. She dressed and made sure her dildo bulge was not too noticeable. Helen and Yalia were picking her up in a few minutes to meet Yalia's parents for dinner. It would be the official "we're in a relationship, so let's get to know the parents better" dinner. Anne was nervous. How could she not be? Helen and Yalia were undoubtedly nervous too.

The past week had gone by okay. Anne had spent most nights with Helen and Yalia. No more nosebleeds. No more stalkers. Anne seemed fine in every way. Henry's quick appearance and just as quick disappearance weighed on her, and she hated Benjamin for putting her in that position. She wanted to kill Benjamin, she truly did. She comforted herself with the fact he would get his comeuppance one day. He had to.

Knock knock.

A grin leaped to Anne's lips, and she rushed to answer the door. She hated being away from Helen and Yalia.

"Hey!" Helen hugged her first.

Kisses and more hugs all around, then Helen patted Anne's crotch area. "Ooh, good. I hoped."

Anne grinned. "Why's that?"

Helen shot Yalia a sly glance. "Yalia got horny about halfway on the drive over. A certain kind of horny."

"Intense, pounding-fuck horny," Yalia affirmed. She wore the same dress she had to Anne's art exhibit opening.

"We have a few minutes," Helen said.

"Happy to oblige," Anne replied, and Yalia got lube from a drawer.

"Chair," Helen said, and Anne sat. Yalia mounted her and pushed aside her own underwear.

Helen made herself comfortable on the bed, and Anne groaned when Helen slid her hand into her own pants. Anne's had yet to see Helen masturbate--or Yalia, for that matter--and her horniness skyrocketed.

They would be late for dinner. No way about it.

*****

They lucked out. Traffic caused Yalia's parents to be late too, and they all arrived at the same time.

Yalia took Anne's arm. Her tryst with Anne had relaxed her somewhat, but not enough. "Mom, Dad. You remember Anne, don't you?"

Michelle smiled, but smile did not quite reach her eyes. "Indeed we do! How are you?" At least she was trying.

"Very well, and you?"

They made small talk until about halfway through dinner, when Michelle apparently tired of tiptoeing around the matter.

"So," Michelle said, leaning back in her chair and fixing Yalia with a piercing gaze. "A three-way relationship."

Yalia popped a French fry into her mouth. "Yep."

"How is it going?"

Yalia forced a smile. "I won't speak for Helen and Anne, but it's going pretty well."

"Michelle," Helen said. "If you asked me a year ago if I could do a three-way relationship, I would have said no. But I hadn't met Anne then. Yalia had not met her. It's like..." Helen gestured, her hands coming together to form some sort of ball shape. "Yalia and I were having problems. I don't deny that. There are many ways to address problems, and Yalia and I consider ourselves lucky that we have Anne. It means a lot to us that you accept Anne."

Stiff smiles from Michelle and Andy.

"I have to say something," Andy said. "Doesn't having another person increase the number of problems you have?"

Yalia sighed. "It might eventually. Who knows. But I don't think so. This whole journey has changed me. I'm really working on being a better person. A better communicator."

"But the jealousy," Andy whispered. He shot Michelle a proud look. "I couldn't share her with anyone."

"Well, I won't lie and say I don't feel jealous sometimes," Yalia said. "Because I do. All three of us do. We talk it out. It's worth it on balance."

Michelle sighed. "Anne, dear?"

"Yes?"

"Do you love my daughter?"

"Yes." Anne's answer was earnest.

"Good luck," Michelle said. "To the three of you."

*****

Three weeks after the dinner with Yalia's parents, Anne was finishing up a shift. She had just put in a request to Rosemary for a transfer to the Front Royal Starbucks when Jordan strolled in. Anne wrapped up her conversation with Rosemary and went to greet Jordan .

"Hey," he said. "It's done."

"Benjamin faded."

"Yep. And we destroyed everything."

"When will he be back?"

"At least not for a week, I suspect. He was gone a week last time, five years his time."

"Are you sure he faded and that it was not an intentional trip?"

"Oh yeah. I'm sure. All the time machines were accounted for."

"He could have another you are unaware of."

"Yeah. I try not to think about it." Jordan ran his hand through his hair. "Shit. I wish I'd never gotten involved with this crap. I really do."

Chapter Twenty Two

Yalia kissed Helen's stomach and her pussy. Then Anne did the same. Yalia took Anne into her arms, and their tongues parried with each other, long and hard. Jesus H., Yalia thought. This is incredible. Lovemaking with three people was the best. Of course, the fact that the three of them genuinely loved and respected one another played a large part in it.

They were about to play what they called the "five-minute" game. They had a timer, and they took turns telling one other person what to do.

Anne went first and selected Helen. "Touch yourself."

Helen touched her hands to her own breasts. It did not take long for Helen's fingers to find their way inside her, and Anne watched in rapt attention. So did Yalia. Helen was more adventuresome. Yalia, too. But this Helen was different. Good different.

"Jesus," Helen moaned. She gritted her teeth. "Jesus. Jesus."

She would come before the five minutes was up, no doubt.

*****

That night, after they were done, they lay entwined. Life could not get better than this, Anne thought. This was heaven. This was her paradise.

"I wonder sometimes," Helen said.

"Wonder what?" Anne whispered sleepily.

"If Benjamin had something hidden away. And if he did, would that be so bad?"

Anne sat up, and Helen flinched. Anne wondered what her own expression was like. Shocked? Betrayed? But a moment later, Anne admitted: "I wonder also."

"Louis said I should get him," Yalia said.

Helen turned wide eyes onto Yalia. "Really? Do you want to? Because you could get him, and I could get my mother. Anne, you could get Elizabeth . We'd have to figure out the fades first, but that's doable. Has to be. We'd get them young. They wouldn't have to know who they were. Best that way."

"You did not know who you were," Anne said. "And you were angry."

"I got over it. If they found out, and that's a big if, they'd get over it too. Would you get Elizabeth ?"

Anne shook her head. "No. No. Not Elizabeth ."

"Someone," Helen said. "You could get someone. Who would you like to? Your brother?"

The room was suffocating. Anne did not like this discussion. She preferred not having a choice. Preferred being helpless. Sometimes, anyway.

"I wronged so many people," Anne whispered. "Katherine, the first Katherine. And Mary. I miss George and Elizabeth tremendously." Elizabeth 's laughter rang in Anne's ears, and she pictured George picking Elizabeth up, tossing her over his shoulder. Them both laughing and laughing and laughing. "But it does not matter what we do. Whatever happened still happened."

"Yes," Helen said insistently, "but--"

"We can get them young," Anne said. "That is true. It also means they will not be the same people."

"Would you get Louis?" Helen asked Yalia.

"I would need to think about it," Yalia equivocated.

Helen kissed Anne. "In theory," Helen said. "In theory only. Who would you get?"

Anne knew who she would get. She had known all along. She had known in 2008 after she read her first history book on the Tudors. After that book, Anne's sins, her misdeeds, jumped out at her. Her misdeeds could be explained away by blaming her father. In every case, with every person. Except one person. With that person, Anne had been cruel and spiteful, and that person had died an agonizing death after living a life that basically amounted to nothing. Mary had only wanted happiness, a man to love, a baby to love. It had been apparently too much for her to ask.

Maybe it was the futility of Mary's life and her tragic death that touched Anne. So much like Anne's own. A lot of waiting, a bunch of nothing. In comparison, Elizabeth 's life had been relatively long and by any standards, successful.

But getting Mary as a baby would change nothing. That Mary would not be the same Mary Tudor who became Queen Mary I, a.k.a. Bloody Mary. Anne wanted for Mary the same happiness Anne felt now.

Anne wanted, desired, yearned for Mary's forgiveness.

At what age would it be best to get Mary? Perhaps while Anne was still alive. 1535, maybe. Or...

"Well?" Helen prompted.

Anne allowed a ray of sunshine to pierce her heart. A trembling, panicked ray. Do not do this. You will not be able to stop at one. Well, maybe you could. But Helen could not. The world will explode, the galaxy, the universe... "Mary," Anne whispered. "In an ideal world, I would get Mary in 1535. She would be nineteen years old, and she could live a happy, healthy life here. She would miss her mother deeply, and maybe she would decide to get her mother. Mary would adjust eventually. She would meet a man who loved her through and through. They would have babies, beautiful babies."

"Let's make it happen," Helen said. "We'll find a way. We'll talk to Benjamin when he gets back."

Anne wondered if Josiah Franklin had known this would happen. If he had known that Helen truly was his daughter in the way that counted.

Anne put her arms around Helen. "I love you," Anne whispered. "I love you very much."

They fell asleep, the three of them, and Anne imagined Mary's wide eyes, her gasp.

"Welcome," Anne would say to her stepdaughter. "Welcome to the rest of your life."

THE END