That’s what the guards had told her. Tomorrow she’d be beheaded.
Who would go first? Her, or Gifford? Would they be able to see each other? Perhaps Jane would be made to watch as her husband burned alive, and then her head would come off before she could even shed a tear. Or the other way around, maybe. Gifford might see the axe swing and a flash of red hair flying, and then they’d light the pyre beneath him.
Jane hugged her knees and shuddered. Her imagination was too vivid.
Night fell. She knew only because the faint light from the windows faded, not because her body gave her any useful signals. Her head was light with thirst and hunger. When she ran her tongue along her lips, they were dry and cracked. Her stomach felt hollow. If she could have escaped into sleep, she would have, but shocks of terror and dread jabbed at her mind every other minute, reminding her that these hours were the last she had left.
If she slept, she’d waste them.
For another hour—or some amount of time she had no way to judge—she thought about Gifford and what he must be doing now. Likely he wasn’t still in the stables, but moved somewhere more secure, now that it was night. She thought about his laugh and his jokes, the charming way he found humor in everything. Would he find humor in this situation? Tomorrow morning?
If only she could see him now. She’d apologize for the last week and a half. She’d name him king. She’d kiss him and say she trusted him. She’d— She’d—
Maybe Gifford wasn’t safe to think about right now.
Jane shifted her thoughts to Edward, wondering if he’d felt this deep unease in the face of his own death. Anxiety. Trepidation. Horror.
She tried to conjure up more synonyms, but a dim, orange light flickered beneath the door. Footfalls echoed on the steps, and a moment later the door creaked open.
Firelight shone in, blinding her. She squeaked and buried her face in the hollow of her arms and knees. Then, squinting, she looked up.
“Jane?” Lady Frances rushed in, holding a torch, which she quickly set into a holder on the wall. “The guards let me in. We have a few minutes at best. I came to ask you to reconsider Mary’s offer.” She knelt in front of Jane, her expression almost maternal in its concern. “I wanted you to know I’m sorry I wasn’t more . . . supportive back there. Please forgive me.”
Jane stared at her mother. She’d never heard an apology from Lady Frances’s lips before, and she wasn’t sure what to do with it.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said at last. “The throne changed hands very quickly, didn’t it? No one resisted.”
Lady Frances bowed her head. “The Privy Council turned on you. Dudley betrayed us as well. The moment Mary arrived, he declared his allegiance to her—even though it means he’s not the Lord President anymore—and his loathing of E?ians. He declared himself a Verity. He made it sound like all along he was actually clearing a path for Mary to take power. But forget about Dudley for now. This is about you. Take Mary’s offer. It’s not too late. A life in exile is better than this.”
“No.”
“Jane, this is no time to display your stubbornness.”
“It’s not stubbornness. It’s a matter of honor. I will not denounce Gifford or E?ians—you included, Mother.” Jane coughed at the dryness in her throat.
Lady Frances’ eyes flickered toward the door, like she was afraid someone would overhear. “Ungrateful girl. You have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m no E?ian.”
“I know you are. I heard you and Father discussing it years ago.”
Her mother shook her head like she might deny it, but then she sighed. “And I hate it,” she whispered. “I never change, not if I can help it. I push that part of me down until it’s buried. It’s unnatural.”
“And yet it’s part of you,” Jane implored her. “In one of my books about E?ians, the author said that long ago, in ancient times, all people were able to change into an animal form. Everyone was E?ian. It was considered their true nature. It was considered divine.”
“Nonsense.” Her mother’s expression grew cold. “All those books fill your head with such drivel. I should have burned them all, and then maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
Jane closed her eyes for a moment. Then she pushed her stiff muscles until she was able to stand up. “Do not ask me to forsake E?ians again, Mother. You will not change my mind.”
There were voices in the hall. Lady Frances glanced over her shoulder toward the door.
“Our time is almost up,” Jane said. “I suppose we should say good-bye now.”
“Please, Jane.” Her mother grabbed her arm. “You don’t have to die. It will bring ruin on the family. On me. I’ll lose Bradgate. I’ll lose everything.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help that,” Jane replied, and she meant it. She, too, loved Bradgate, but it wasn’t worth her honor. “Do you know where Gifford is being held?”