Disclaimers: See Part 1
Chapter Thirteen: Benjamin
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: Benjamin
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 just knew. 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.
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.
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