Twilight of a Queen Read Online Free PDF Page B

spark of anger as she thought of the contents of the letter, Abigail’s last remark particularly rankling. Jane would never have spent the last year on Faire Isle if she had had anywhere else to go.
    She ought to write back to Abigail, protesting her innocence. She had never plotted to assassinate the queen, and as for the charge of witchcraft, Jane would have been the last woman in the world to dabble in sorcery. Not after an obsession with alchemy was what had destroyed her younger brother.
    As for Abigail’s beloved George, the man had not found Jane inconvenient in the past when he had needed to borrow money from her to settle his gaming debts.
    But that was a bitter thought and Jane did her best to suppress it. She could not entirely blame her cousins for shrinking from her. Only a year ago, Jane herself would have been leery of anyone coming from this island of witches.
    Not witches, Jane reminded herself. Daughters of the earth, that is what Ariane and the other women who inhabited Faire Isle preferred to be called. After dwelling among them, Jane had discovered much to admire, especially in Ariane. The Lady of Faire Isle was learned and astonishingly skilled in the healing arts.
    But Jane was wary of the Lady’s pagan beliefs and herability to penetrate one’s thoughts was far from natural. No matter how kind Ariane was to her, Jane feared she would never be comfortable remaining on Faire Isle.
    Life as a Catholic in England had its own perils and uncertainties, but at least there, Jane’s role had been clearly defined. Widow of a prominent London merchant, mistress of a great household, devoted sister. Now that all that had been torn away from her, she was no longer certain who she was meant to be, where her duties lay.
    “I am a stranger in a strange land,” she thought, recalling the passage Ariane’s niece had read aloud from her Huguenot Bible yesterday eve.
    Young Seraphine Remy had a fine voice, passionate in its intensity, but as a Catholic, Jane knew she should not even have been listening.
    Guiltily, she fingered the gold cross suspended about her neck, starting a little at the sound of snapping twigs. Peering round the oak tree, she caught the flash of a lantern in the distance. Someone had entered the gardens from the direction of the house. Coming in search of her? One of Belle Haven’s servants, perhaps, or even worse—the Lady herself.
    Jane’s cheeks heated as she thought of trying to explain why she was creeping about Belle Haven’s grounds at this hour like some kind of thief.
    “Your ladyship?” Someone called in a low tone as the lantern bobbed closer. Jane breathed out a sigh of relief as she recognized the voice of Margaret Wolfe.
    Faire Isle’s other exile. Although Jane supposed it odd that she should think of Meg that way. The girl was French-born and had strong ties to the daughters of the earth thatshould have made her better suited to life on this island than Jane was. And yet Jane sensed that Meg felt as lost as herself.
    “Jane!” Meg called again, louder and more urgently. She held the lantern aloft and glanced about so frantically she was in danger of darting past where Jane sat concealed beneath the tree.
    Jane stood up and replied, “Meg, I am over here.”
    Meg spun about, the light from her lantern illuminating her face that appeared ice-white amidst her tangle of cinnamon-dark hair. She vented a tremulous breath, the depth of her relief astonishing to Jane.
    The girl hurled herself at Jane, wrapping one arm around Jane’s neck. Jane blinked in amazement. Meg tended to be reserved, rarely given to such displays of emotion.
    Although surprised, Jane returned the embrace, murmuring, “Bless me, child. What is all this?”
    She cradled her close and felt Meg’s thin shoulders shake. “What’s wrong, Margaret?”
    “N-nothing. I saw you disappearing into the garden and I thought… I feared something might—”
    Meg sank down upon the bench Jane had vacated,