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her daughter-in-law with a meaningful glance. Bearing down on me, Elizabeth spoke.
    “Dolly, look me in the face. Do not turn away. Tell me the truth. Tell yourself the truth. You’ve met me before, haven’t you?”
    The woman in the incredible, red-velvet Queen of Hearts costume had her hands on my shoulders and her face inches away from my own. Her costume was so arresting that I hadn’t looked closely at her face until that moment. There was no denying that she looked a lot like Elizabeth, Harry’s mother. My Harry’s mother.
    “You look a lot like my future mother-in-law,” I acknowledged, trying to appear calm and collected despite a growing angst. “Wait a minute! Are you my future mother-in-law? Elizabeth, is that you, talked into this Tudor-road-show stunt and that incredible costume by my cunning bridesmaids? No, it couldn’t be— could it?”
    Whoever she was, the woman in the Queen of Hearts costume waxed enigmatic. “I may become your mother-in-law…and I may not. Harry may become your husband tomorrow…or he may not. Dolly, you must apprehend that your Harry and our Henry VIII are the same man, cosmically speaking. And that is only the beginning of what is in the cards. You must appreciate that there is more than mere coincidence at play here.”
    Fine words, coming from a woman dressed like the Queen of Hearts. At the time, I thought that she was making much ado about a little déjà vu—but that was because I didn’t have a clue about what was really abrew.

Chapter Seven
    Dolly Gets Her Sea Legs Back—and
Loses Them Forthwith
     
    When a professor of Tudor history takes on a man with six ex-wives, she has to prepare herself for raised eyebrows and a lot of jibing. My family and friends delivered the goods, along with a heaping helping of advice: “Sure there are six of them, but they didn’t get all his money. He has enough left over to be a good catch. You’re not getting any younger —go for it!” said the budget-minded Kath.
    My friends in academia were a little harder to reconcile. My fellow history professors reminded me that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it. “Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived,” they recited. “You are too immersed in your work. You need professional help!” said my friends in the Psychology Department. The Social Work School tried to find me the right support group, but the closest they could get to it was Gambler’s Anonymous.
    In the end, I spent a soul-searching afternoon with my spiritual friends in the Theology Department who contributed a cautionary reminder about what happened to Sir Thomas More when he tangled with Henry VIII. As you can see, I’d become accustomed to people pointing out the Harry-Henry VIII parallels, as if I could not see them for myself; so I felt that a wedding-eve rehash of all this fell into the category of “a day late and a dollar short”—surely, the time for this kind of thing had passed. I also thought that it was taking unfair advantage to hit me with it when I was alone in a strange place, in a strange nightdress, flat on my back with no panties on and the Queen of Hearts pinning me to the bed by my shoulders.
    “Look,” I said to the one-woman, red-velvet restraint team, “I’ve got bride things to do. I am willing to see this Renny Faire performance through if my friends took the trouble to arrange it, but let’s move it along. You must let me up, and let me get into my own clothes.”
    “Your nightdress is yours, Dolly. Get out of bed and look at it. Don’t you recognize it?”
    I got out of bed and stood up. Looking down at the garment in question, I actually did recognize it. Molly Rose had given it to me only the day before as a shower gift. It was a beautiful, billowing, old-fashioned chemise, white handkerchief linen, fully floor length, and gathered at the neck and sleeves. She had also given me one just like it—only much larger, of course—for Harry.