face and kissed him, shoving her fingers through his hair to draw him closer. “Stay with me,” she pleaded against his lips. “Don’t change.”
Gifford pulled back for a heartbeat, his eyes wide with surprise. “Jane,” he breathed. “I—”
“Don’t change.” She lifted her gaze to his. “Please.”
“Oh, Jane.” He kissed her. Softly at first, but then she pulled him close and pressed her lips harder to his. And that was it. She could feel him giving in by the way his body pressed against hers, the way one of his hands cupped her cheek, and the way the other slid down her arm. She could feel his desire to stay human in the fevered, desperate way he kissed her. Like he wanted this to last, to make this moment stretch on.
But then he jerked back and threw his shirt free, bright white light enveloping him.
“No!” Jane’s eyes stung with tears.
The light faded, and Gifford stood there as a horse.
Jane pressed her hands to her mouth to hold in a faint sob.
His head dropped.
“It’s all right,” she said tremulously after a long moment. “It’s very difficult to master the change. Even Gran said she had a hard time with it, remember? You can try again. When you’re better rested.”
She went to lift the flap for him to step out of the tent.
“I’ll see you later,” she said. “Tonight.”
He didn’t look at her as he passed. He just went. Then she was alone in the dim space that still smelled faintly of horse.
She stared down at the tangled blankets they’d shared, trying not to cry. Perhaps she’d put too much hope in his feelings for her. What if he didn’t care about her as much as she cared about him? What if that was why he hadn’t stayed human? She’d tried. Oh, she’d tried, and they’d kissed. But it hadn’t been enough.
She hadn’t been enough.
Jane spent the day waiting for dusk.
She didn’t see Gifford, except the occasional glimpse of him running with other horses, or resting in the shade. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. Not that she had time to dwell on him. There was so much to do to prepare for nightfall.
When the sun was almost down she made her way to Edward’s command tent. Gifford trotted toward her, chestnut coat shining in the honey light, and then he vanished into the tent without pausing to acknowledge her whatsoever.
Her heart sank.
She watched as the camp readied itself for battle. The men put on their armor and strapped on shields and swords. The archers tested their bows. The cavalry saddled their horses. And the noncombatants pinned open their tent flaps, preparing to receive the wounded.
There would be wounded. There would be dead.
“All they have to do is look scary.” Edward came outside his tent and saw Jane brooding over the infirmaries. “It’s like you said. They’ll distract Mary from us.”
“I know.” Jane hugged herself. “But some will inevitably be injured. They’re here to draw fire.” Archer was out there among the assembling troops, ready to lead the Pack into battle. Gracie, she knew, had insisted on joining him in the fight. What if Gracie was hurt? What would it mean to Edward if she were killed?
A chill ran through her. What if Edward himself was killed? Her plan wasn’t perfect. There were variables she couldn’t possibly account for. He could die.
She didn’t know if she could survive his death a second time. Or Gifford’s.
Gifford.
(At this point we as the narrators would just like to say something about the true danger of this entire situation. We should remind you now that we only promised to tell you an alternate story to what the history books record. You’ll be lucky if you can find a history book that mentions Jane at all—since she’s often skipped over in the line of English monarchs—but if you do, that book will say that Lady Jane Grey ruled England for nine days, was deposed by Mary, and then had her head chopped off. Well. We already know that didn’t happen in our tale. Our Jane still has her head.
But we can’t promise that Jane’s always going to be safe in the part that’s coming up, or Gifford, or Edward, or any of the other characters you’ve come to know and love. The truth is, any of them could die at any moment, and then, well, Queen Mary would undoubtedly spend the next five years living up to the nickname Bloody Mary by having hundreds of