Hi, everyone. This is a wistful author's note, apologizing for having taken a 2.5-year hiatus unannounced. It was unintentional. I am fully dedicated to this story and its characters.

In the past 20-odd months, I have received tons of comments and private messages from my readers, requesting for me to come back and finish this story. You have no idea what that's meant to me. I would have returned either way, but to know that there are individuals eager to read the rest is an incomparable honour.

My great hope is that I will be able to gain back some of my former readers, and hopefully to gain some new ones. Thank all of you for your support and feedback over the six years since I've begun posting this.

This is a very short chapter that serves as a bridge for us to get back into the plot. It's a bit different – I suspect my writing style will have changed – and I hope you like it. =) I will be back with a more substantial update within a few weeks.

As always, reviews are welcomed. =)

Overnight, 17-18 May, 1536

He dreams of her. He closes his eyes, he tumbles from consciousness, and there she is.

i.

In this life, she is the daughter of a merchant. She's dressed in white. Silk. She is young, perhaps twenty, and is descending from a litter when he sees her. A man, also young and well-clad, follows her. They are unmarried, but there is happiness on the face of each. Betrothed, it seems. In love.

He sees them from a distance, but has a view as though he stood close. He doesn't know who he is.

ii.

In this life, she comes from a farming family, and he sees her at market. Her hair is undressed, in a simple knot, and she arranges baskets of apples. When he approaches her, coins in hand, she meets his eyes. She smiles. "Hello," she says.

He sees a plain band on her finger as she places the next apple on top of its mates.

iii.

In this life, there is no ring on her finger.

"Hello," he says. She is new at court. A lady-in-waiting to the queen, whose household has been expanded after the birth of a rosy Tudor prince.

"Good morning, sir," she replies. Her eyes hold him unblinkingly. He waits, tense, for recognition. A hint of a smile is on her lips, but he cannot discern what she wants to say.

iv.

In this life, she causes a reasonable scandal by marrying Tom Wyatt, he having cast off his first wife in her favour.

They are both at court, he with no chain of office. She is herself, but who is he?

It's Twelfth Night and she wears a gold mask, pinned into her hair, that covers almost none of her face. He is wearing a mask too. Everyone is.

She turns from her grinning, ebullient husband and unexpectedly seeks him in the dance. He sees a wedding ring on his own finger.

It's a saltarello. Their hands know each other. Her eyes hold his, dangling him on a sting, as the music flares.

"Hello," she says.

v.

In this life, she is his wife. Finally.

He wakes next to her in bed. They are far from court, perhaps in the north. Snow falls outside the window.

She is still asleep, but she responds to his touch, coming closer when she recognizes his warmth. The room is drafty. He hears a whimper in the distance: the momentary stirring of a toddler.

He doesn't know his name, or hers. He kisses her between the eyes, and his lips form "hello," silently, so he will not wake her.

She breathes in and out.

vi.

In this life, she is destined for Henry. He is himself, receiving her in black robes and gold chain at court. She is royalty, a cousin of King Francis.

Crowds part for her: admiration, respect. She is learned. She is witty. She is tasteful. She is everything a queen ought to be.

She makes her way toward them – no, toward Henry – with stars in her eyes. Henry's neck, he can see from his position to the king's right, pulses with his excited heartbeat.

Her hair hangs down her back, adorned with gems that match the ones that drip from her neck. When she reaches the king, she drops gracefully to her knees, onto the waiting pillow, while Henry welcomes her magnanimously.

The future Queen of England is introduced to Henry's closest advisors. Norfolk and Suffolk kiss her hand.

She doesn't offer her hand to him when she turns in his direction, without waiting for Henry to lead her. "Bonjour." She waits, lips parted, blinking at him.

He reaches for her hand and she delivers it. "Bonjour, votre Majesté."

He thinks her fingers squeeze his as he kisses her hand, but perhaps it's the reverse.

vii.

In this life, she is a queen again, although there is no king by her side. The widow of a jousting accident, she sits at the head of the Privy Council and presides over Parliament. She negotiates with diplomats and leads men onto the battlefield.

And he is nobody, a soldier in her ranks. A layman. He kneels in the mud when she addresses her troops. They push from the pale of Calais, back and back, Ardres, Belle Castle, Cordes, Ancre. Bray. The night before they plan to take Montdidier, he climbs a nearby hill to get away from the smell of soot and blood. Unexpectedly, she is at the top of the hill, quite unprotected by the royal guard. He sees her at a distance and pauses. An eternal moment beats by. He turns to leave; his presence is not appropriate so near his sovereign queen. A woman such as she. Several steps away and out of sight, his boot snaps a twig.

From behind his back: "Hello?"

viii.

In this life, he doesn't know who either of them is, but they know one another.

They have been separated for some time. They are both younger, both of an age where love sparks in one's veins, and spark they both do. He finds her on a street in London, crowded and noisy, and pushes through bodies to reach her. She is beaming and nearly shedding tears when they meet. Her eyes glisten up at him, wide and blue; her nose is a moist pink; her mouth opens and lets out a shuddering breath, too pleased to speak. So he speaks for her, reaching up to smooth her loose hair back from her cheek. Hello.

ix.

In this life, she is a Papist and he, the executioner.

She is painfully thin, with dark caverns beneath her eyes, which are red-rimmed and bloodshot. She's shorn her hair, which is likely where she found the money that is in the purse she hands him. There are less than ten spectators.

He arranges the kindling around her feet. Finally she meets his eye. Her gaze is steady.

He circles round her and bends to light the straw. "Forgive me," he whispers. He does not know her, and yet he does.

x.

In this life, she is the Queen of England and he is Master Secretary, and she wins.

She delivers a healthy boy into Henry's waiting arms. They name him Henry. Her husband cannot do enough to please her, lounging by her bedside while she recovers, reading scripture and poetry. He composes a score of new songs heralding her virtues. He plans banquets, pageants; when she is up, they walk the royal gardens together, close and murmuring as new lovers in spring. The Seymours depart suddenly from court to attend to family business.

Henry withdraws from him in his newfound affection for her. He speaks about nothing but their child and the golden future of England.

One day, he appears in Henry's outer apartments to await an audience with him and Anne emerges, glowing. They bow to one another. She gleams up at him.

That night he is arrested on vague charges of heresy and suspected treason against one or both of his sovereigns, a charge which can only mean one thing. It is he that Kingston conveys with grim tact past Traitor's Gate; it is he that counts ravens from his window.

It is she that appears at his door this time. He does not play at ignoring her. He stands, bows, and faces her wordlessly.

She inhales deeply, her collarbones rising like the tide. "I wish it could have gone differently."

When she closes the door behind her, he raises his hand. "Hello," he says to no one.

xi.

In this life, they are themselves, but ten years ago. The king is tired of Mary Boleyn, who is bonny and buxom but without a shred of wit. He turns his eye to her sister, two years older, who debates theology with men and translates French poetry for pastime.

She has been back in England for nearly four years, but Henry suddenly notices her intense, dark beauty. On May Day while he stands under a great tree near the king and his cardinal as the court prepares for maypole dancing, Henry murmurs to Wolsey: "Boleyn's elder daughter intrigues. I heard say her Irish marriage was called off, and that business with the Percy lad. No match for a woman of her competence."

Wolsey squirms, shoots a glance at him. "Majesty -"

"Might not be inappropriate to ask her to open the dance." Henry's eyes track Anne, who, the king no doubt thinks, is coincidentally wandering toward them in the crowd.

Again, Wolsey fidgets. "Your Grace, indeed…"

Henry's boyish face breaks into a sheepish grin. "I know, Thomas. It is not seemly given the business with her sister."

"Ah – no, sire. That is," the cardinal clears his throat. "Our own Master Cromwell here," and Wolsey indicates him, standing almost unnoticed to the right, "is in negotiations for betrothal to Lady Anne."

"Oh?" The king turns to regard him. "Are you indeed?"

"Ah – yes, Your Majesty. My wife has been dead a year. My son needs a mother." His tone is almost apologetic.

Henry smiles. "Children need mothers indeed." He moves around Wolsey, whose relief is visibly evident. The king reaches for his hand and shakes it, with a congratulatory pat on the back. "Well done, Master Cromwell. She's splendid."

He smiles and bows. "Thank you, sire."

"I'll have to find another lady to keep good company," Henry continues with a wink. "Hopefully it shouldn't be too difficult – Mistress Boleyn!"

She's approached them now, having been en route all the time. She drops a low curtsy. "Your Majesty."

Henry takes her hand and kisses it, then places it in his. "It is my understanding you'll be wed to Master Cromwell." His youthful exuberance is genuine.

She smiles at the man whose hand clasps hers. "Yes, we hope by midsummer."

The king gestures to Wolsey. "Ensure that Thomas Boleyn understands my support for the match. Perhaps a country seat can be found for a wedding gift."

Her curtsy meets the ground. "We would be immeasurably grateful, Your Majesty."

"Blessed be." Henry returns to surveying the crowd. "I beg you'll give me leave." He bows again and is off, approaching a flaxen-haired maiden new to the royal household. He reaches for her hand and kisses it, clasps it in both of his momentarily, and then begins leading her toward the maypole, pointing out the details of this year's decorations.

When they are alone, she turns to him fully. They are still holding hands where the king joined them, in the shade of the tree. They smile at each other, blue eyes at green, and he says, "Hello."

"Hello."

"His Majesty finds you intriguing."

She laughs. "It seems I've won us a country seat. Perhaps if you make good use, we might earn a title."

He chuckles back and then looks up as the maypole music begins. "All in time."