Author's Note: I normally don't publish fics in chapters, but with time running out and everyone's hearts aching, I figure that anything uplifting should be put out as soon as possible. I can't promise zero angst (it's me, after all), and even in my happier stories, Francis's end is out there, waiting, because I've always loved Mary and Francis with the understanding that she will lose him. That is no reason, however, for them not to have enjoyed the time they did have. *side-eyes LM*

So this is the story of their perfect day, and I promise to update as often as I can.

You bound strong sandals on my feet,

You gave me bread and wine,

And bade me out, 'neath sun and stars,

For all the world was mine.

Oh take the sandals off my feet,

You know not what you do;

For all my world is in your arms,

My sun and stars are you.

- Sara Teasdale

A gust of salty air lifts the loose tendrils of hair away from her face, bringing with it the sounds and sharp fragrances of the surrounding sea, and she shivers as she reaches out to press her palms against the smooth wooden railing in front of her. Disoriented, she finds that she is standing alone on the deck of a ship, watching an emerald green coastline recede farther and farther away from her sight, and she is utterly lost and bereft for reasons she cannot explain.

"Adieu," she whispers, though she has no idea to whom or what she is bidding this poignant goodbye. "Adieu."

The ocean wind chills her to her very bone, prompting her to pull her cloak all the more tightly about her slender frame. She is perplexed at how unexpectedly voluminous it feels, and how heavily it hangs from her shoulders, completely at odds with the usual cut her tailors give such garments. Curious, she glances down to see that it is not her own cloak that she is wearing at all, but instead one of Francis's, and this confuses her all the more.

"Why am I so sad?" she wonders as an anxious, unpleasant feeling settles like lead in the pit of her stomach. "Why am I wearing Francis's cloak?"

Finally, and most unsettling of all: "Where is Francis?"

She longs to call out for him but finds she cannot. In fact, it seems she can do little other than clutch tightly onto the ship's railing and keep her gaze trained upon that distant coastline, which is all-too-rapidly disappearing over the horizon.

Something is wrong, she realizes instinctively. Something is terribly, hideously wrong. Everything within her tells her to call out to him, to summon him to her side, but instead she begins to sob helplessly, and as she lifts the fabric of his cloak to her face to wipe away her tears, the faint scent of him that still lingers within its folds assails her, and she drops her hands with a cry. She suddenly cannot bear it, and the tears course unchecked down her face—fat, heavy tears that drop from her eyes like beads of glass and fall audibly upon the wooden deck at her feet with a dull plinking sound. Her eyes continue to strain toward the dark line of receding land as the sound of her falling tears strengthens to an unsteady drumbeat, keeping time with the painful throbbing of her broken heart.

Plink.

Plink.

Plink.

Mary Stuart heard her own terrified gasp just as her eyes popped open and she blinked rapidly in the pearl grey pre-dawn light seeping into her bedchamber.

Plink.

Plink.

The muffled tapping that greeted her ears was the very same that had infiltrated her terrifying dream, and the sudden realization that the sound was far-too-real only heightened the anxiety which had been brought about by the image of her solitary, sobbing figure leaning forlornly against the railing of that unknown ship.

Someone was at her window.

Stealthily, she reached for the dagger which she kept concealed beneath her pillow. It was the very same weapon that Francis had pressed into her hands on that day when, en route to meet young Charles's betrothed, they had spotted from their carriage the English warship as it sat anchored ominously in the near-distance of the bay. Thankfully, she had been given no cause to use it then, but after the most recent attack on the castle waged by the Italian Count Vincent, Mary had found that her fear had become so oppressive that she could hardly sleep without knowing the weapon was within arm's reach.

Sensing movement, she spotted a shadowy figure through the thick glass window panes that looked out over her balcony and felt her heart leap into her throat. With nothing between herself and the intruder save for panels of easily-shattered glass, Mary knew that she had no time to scream for help, for by the time aid came she would already have fallen victim to any assassin worth merit (for certainly her enemies would hire a man skilled in the art of murder, would they not?) and be well-beyond saving.

I sent the last man who tried to harm me to an early grave using nothing more than a fork, she reminded herself as she drew forth the dagger and slipped silently toward the door. Once there, she stopped and sucked in a steadying breath, steeling her shoulders for what might follow. Anyone who harms me, harms Scotland, and no one harms Scotland without feeling my wrath.

Not giving herself a second more to consider the consequences, she held the knife aloft and swung open the door, fully prepared to kill or be killed on the spot.

The beaming smile on Francis's face instantly disappeared as he ducked and dodged away from her, spluttering incoherently and flinging himself up against the stone wall as far from her reach as possible. "Mary—Mary, what on earth-!"

Relief flooded through her as she let the dagger clatter harmlessly to the balcony's flagstones. "Francis," she cried, "oh, it's you! I'm so glad it's you!"

It took him a moment to recover as he stared at her, dumbfounded, before bursting into incredulous laughter. "I take it you were expecting someone else?" he teased, letting out a small oof! of surprise as she flung herself into his arms and began raining kisses onto his forehead, cheeks, and lips.

"I woke up and saw someone through the glass," she explained, laughing herself now that he was here and the final remnants of her horrible dream faded like morning mist within the sunlight of his presence. "I thought perhaps someone had been sent to harm me."

A shadow passed over his face as he lifted his hands to lovingly caress the sensitive skin between her neck and shoulders. "Ah, Mary…I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I would never want to—I never meant to frighten you that way."

"And I never meant to almost kill you."

His eyes, dropping to where the jeweled hilt of the blade glittered benignly at his feet in the weak light, widened considerably. "I suppose I should say a thankful prayer that a war has been averted and I am not lying dead at your feet."

Lying dead at your feet. The image his words evoked raised goose-flesh along her arms, and she stood on her tiptoes to kiss him once more in order to assure herself that he was alive and real before her. "Do not even tease about such things."

She felt him smile against her lips. "I can think of worse ways to die, Mary, than at your side."

"And why are you here?" she asked, anxious to change the subject. "Is something wrong?"

He took her hand and pulled her back into her bedchamber, where the embers of the previous evening's fire still glowed feebly. "Come inside," he told her. "You're absolutely freezing."

She darted a nervous look toward the heavy oak door that led out into her presence chamber, where she knew her servants would soon be stirring as they set about their daily tasks. "But what if someone comes in?" she asked.

Her question elicited a wicked grin from Francis. Ever since Count Vincent's plan to overtake the castle and kidnap the dauphin had been foiled just a few weeks prior, their lives had turned into an endless quest in search of empty rooms, isolated nooks, and dark corridors, for it had been in the immediate aftermath of the attack that Mary had finally understood that it was foolish to put off life's pleasures when it did not hesitate to dole out its pains. The very next morning she had arisen alongside the sun and, taking advantage of the castle as it lay empty of servants, slipped unnoticed into his rooms and arms. That day would shine star-bright in her memory, she knew, until she breathed her last. Even now, weeks later, as she went about her daily routines, memories of those hours would sometimes come back to her in sudden flashes, warming her cheeks and causing her skin to flush hot and crimson. Memories of Francis leaning over her, his chest bare and his hands sliding between her thighs. Of Francis, groaning against her neck while his body trembled with the effort it took to go slow, to hold himself back and not cause her pain, and making love to her over and over until she was so thoroughly used and sore that he was forced to take his mouth to her flesh and wring cries of pleasure from her in entirely new ways. He had awoken within her an intoxicating blend of vulnerability and empowerment that she could never even have imagined before that moment, bared her naked before him and taught her to glory in it, touched her in the most intimate places where her flesh joined his and made her—

Yes, it had been a day of startling firsts, indeed.

But, it had also been an anomaly.

By nightfall, the servants who had escaped through the castle's hidden passages were returning to their duties, and King Henry and his company of soldiers had hastened back to court as soon as word of the attack reached them. Guards resumed their posts, and as an added measure, Catherine had insisted on tightening the security surrounding the queen of Scotland's apartments. The order was issued, the queen claimed, so that Mary might feel more secure in the wake of her "harrowing ordeal."

Mary, however, knew better. Catherine was no fool. She was acutely aware that Mary and Francis had rekindled their relationship, and—with Olivia now gone—had no one else at her to disposal whom she might throw into their paths to separate them except for herself. And so Francis found his days filled ever-more with council meetings and courtiers, and his path to Mary's door at night barred by guards who would be quite willing to let him pass, and also quite willing to tell the tale of the dauphin visiting the queen of Scotland's rooms at night, unchaperoned. Catherine wanted rid of Mary so badly (but, why?) that there was no doubt the queen would use such information to her advantage in order to ruin Mary's reputation and pack her and her belongings onto the first boat back to Scotland.

And so Mary and Francis now spent what precious free time they had searching out quiet spots where they might be alone. He had lifted her skirts and pressed her up against the doors of vacant rooms, tumbled her to the grass on the grounds of an empty gamekeeper's cottage, hustled her behind the heavy drapes of the library when they were nearly caught with her hands down his trousers—and while these clandestine meetings were often thrilling in their secrecy and urgency, Mary also yearned for how it had been on that first day, when he had made her cry out for him at his leisure and she had dozed off to sleep breathing in the warm scent of his skin.

Unfortunately, that was not their reality. Their reality was a troop of servants just beyond a carved wooden door, and the possibility that at any moment one might walk in and dash Mary's reputation to splinters.

Catherine's pockets, after all, were deep.

"Don't worry. I won't stay long," Francis whispered, unable to stop himself from bending to kiss her once again. "I actually never intended to come this far at all. I've been standing in the gardens below your window for a quarter of an hour, tossing pebbles against the glass like a lovesick schoolboy in the hopes that you would appear. Luckily, all that tree-climbing we did as children has its uses, though I nearly disturbed a nest of squirrels in my efforts to reach you. The mother squeaked at me quite menacingly."

"Well, I'm here now," she offered, trying not to be distracted by how lovely he looked in the early morning light, and how she longed to see him this way always. "What's wrong? What is it?"

His face glowed as eager as the schoolboy's to whom he had just compared himself. "I want you to come with me."

"With you? Where?"

"It's a surprise," he told her. "An adventure. Just the two of us."

There was nothing in the world that Mary wanted more than an adventure with the man she loved, but even her willful heart quailed before a lifetime of well-drilled precepts and lessons on decorum. "I would love to," she demurred, "but, Francis, is it not too risky? If anyone were to find out that the two of us had sneaked off together alone—"

"Don't worry," he assured her as he took her hand and squeezed it. "I've taken care of everything."

It was nearly impossible not to giggle at his endearing self-satisfaction. "Oh, really? And how did you manage that?"

"Well, it turns out that among my grooms there is a young man who is nearly as in love with one of your servants as you are with me—" he flinched as she swiped at him playfully "—and so I have negotiated a deal: my silence and complicity in exchange for his. The four of us are free to spend the day as we please, but as far as everyone at court is concerned, he and I are setting out this morning to tour a shipyard that Father has an interest in, and you, my darling, are travelling with Aliénor to a nearby abbey to inspect its charitable works and dine with the nuns."

"Aliénor!" Mary hissed, putting the pieces together. "I knew something was going on with her! She's been so forgetful lately, lost in daydreams. I told—"

"Shh, shh, Mary," he brought his fingers to her lips to quiet her excited prattle, shooting a pointed look toward the closed door. "They might hear you."

She leaned into him and nestled her cheek against his shoulder. "So is this real?" she asked, her voice soft and hopeful. "Are you really going to be mine for the entire day?"

She felt the pressure of his lips, gentle and cool against her forehead. "I am yours every day, my love," he murmured, "but today we are going to enjoy it."