The hooded woman followed Emma into her chambers.
“Here. Have a seat yonder,” Emma beckoned. “And speak the words you say you have for me.”
The woman looked around the chamber, taking in the adornments. Emma supposed the room must look rich in her eyes, which would be unused to seeing things such as tapestries and soft rugs and embroidered cushions. Emma had always prided herself in her embroidery skills, and one of the tapestries was of her own making. She had begun working upon it when she was twelve and it had taken many years and much aid to finish. The embroidery on the cushions was also partly her own, and she supposed she was vain enough to take pleasure in surrounding herself with things she found beautiful. In her newlife, there would be no room for such luxuries, yet Emma looked upon this new life with good cheer. She would do away with it all, with all the wealth her family possessed, just to feel the sun on her face and call herself free.
In some surprise, she saw the woman had not sat herself down, but was now removing the cloak and the heavy hood she’d been wearing. Emma covered her mouth with her hand, to prevent herself from crying out loud. The woman…
“You see, milady, why I wanted to speak to you,” the stranger told her in a composed voice, glancing at her levelly.
Emma shook her head, trying to still her thumping heart. Nay, this could not be. She closed her eyes, willing to focus, but when she opened them again the image she’d perceived was still there. As Emma looked at the woman, it seemed to her she was looking in a mirror.
Wide blue eyes, fair hair, full lips, the same nose and chin. Each and every feature in the woman’s face was a mirror image of Emma’s own features. As Emma approached the woman, she saw they were the same height. If there was a difference between the two of them, Emma could simply not see it.
“Who are you?” Emma asked softly, clutching her chest.
She’d always thought witchcraft was mostly a tale to scare children with, yet she indeed began to think this was witchery. Was this woman a witch? A devil from beyond the mirror sent to torment her? Or, perchance, an angel sent from above to watch above her fate? Emma tried to clear her head and looked closely upon the woman. She did not look like an angel or like a fiend for that matter. She looked just like Emma herself, and that was all.
“I am Rowena,” the woman told her, and this time she spoke English and not Norman.
Emma creased her brows. This woman was from Emma’s own homeland. And apart from her uncanny appearance, there seemed to be nothing uncanny about her. Who was she then? Akinswoman who looked just like her and that no one had told her about? Yet the resemblance was simply unworldly. Surely such a thing could not be. The woman was now staring at her with a faint smile on her lips.
“We look alike. Like two peas in a pod. I’ve glanced upon you in the square and saw it only too well. Do you have a mirror, milady?”
Mutely, Emma pointed to the copper mirror which hung on the opposite wall, and unwittingly followed the woman who strode to it with decisive steps. They stood, side by side, and looked in the mirror.
“Alike. Just as I thought. See?” the woman said in deep satisfaction.
Emma stared at the image, removing her headdress to uncover her fair hair. The hair was indeed the exact same shade as the woman’s, who wore it slightly shorter than Emma, but the difference was insignificant. She also noted they might be nearly the same height, but not quite, as the woman who’d called herself Rowena was after all slightly taller. But the difference was so slight, that Emma herself had not even noticed it the first time they’d looked upon one another.
“How can that be?” Emma asked in sheer wonder, looking at lips, nose and eyes which looked just the same.
“I do not know. Nor care to ask,” the woman shrugged. “God works in mysterious ways. Perchance there are more people who look alike in this world and we do not even know it. This world is vast.”
“Perchance. Yet perhaps you are my kinswoman. You are from England, so…”
“I’m of full English blood, milady, and a commoner. I know your family is both Norman and Occitan. Do you still think we are related?” the woman asked with a smile.
Emma would not have been able to tell this by the woman’s way of talking. Her English was just as the one spoken by some of the noble lords and ladies in London. It did not carry the sound of villages or of other lands in it. Emma would not have been able to discern this woman was a commoner even from the way she spoke Norman. Rowena’s Norman sounded every bit as noble as that of the people of Emma’s acquaintance. She thought hard upon her own family. Her father’s kin had come to England with the Conqueror, and, to her knowledge, there’d been no English woman or man who had wed into her family. Her mother’s family was Occitan. But perchance there was a connection between this woman and herself. Her father... She thought of her father and of how her mother always complained he’d not kept faith with her. What if this meant she was related to this woman?
“What is your father called? Do you know of him?” Emma asked, beginning to think this woman might be a sister born out of wedlock.
“He was a good, hard-working man, and English,” Rowena answered with an unconcerned shrug.
“But…”
Rowena laughed, and Emma nearly startled, understanding that even this woman's laugh and voice sounded quite close to her own. It was strange. She stared upon the woman, looking upon the tell-tale signs of the otherworld. Yet the woman standing in front of her seemed to be entirely of this world. And Emma thought the uncanny resemblance was not so uncanny after all if this woman shared a bond of blood with her.
“I know what you may be thinking, milady. You may be right. Perchance we are somehow related. But does it matter now?” Rowena asked.
“Well, yes. I…”
Rowena looked around her, speaking in tones which sounded bold and assured.
“I seek to turn this thing to my advantage. Me looking like a noble lady. What if I were a noble lady myself? Would I pass for one, you reckon?”
Emma frowned. It was dangerous for a commoner to pretend to be noble. Such transgressions were punished harshly. Didn’t the woman know that? Yet, as she glanced upon Rowena and upon her bold, assured, almost regal manner, she could see what Rowena meant. Rowena was not humble. She was far more assured than Emma herself, who’d been born a lady. Aye, she could see what Rowena meant. But what good could this resemblance do to her?
“You are to marry soon, milady, aren’t you?” Rowena asked, in her bold, assured voice.