by Ally Carter
“I’m jet-lagged,” I say, pulling my pillow over my head to block out the light that streams through the window. She must have opened the shades.
Ms. Chancellor pulls my pillow away. “The best way to combat jet lag is to put yourself on your new time as quickly as possible. Now, come on. Up. Up. Up.”
She’s laughing as she says it, teasing. She really wants to be my friend, I realize, and suddenly I feel sorry for her. She doesn’t know what a terrible thing it is she’s asking for.
“Is he up?” I ask, pushing myself upright.
“Your grandfather has always been an early riser. Well, he has been for as long as I’ve known him. I’m afraid he can’t join us for breakfast, though. He had an early meeting at the palace.”
“Well, if he was needed at the palace …”
Ms. Chancellor forces a smile. “Why don’t you get dressed, Grace? Come downstairs. There is something you and I need to discuss over breakfast.”
When Ms. Chancellor leaves, I go into the bathroom. My mother kept snapshots tucked inside the mirror’s frame. There are probably a dozen, and I have no choice but to study them as I brush my teeth.
Mom and the grandmother I never knew. My mother and her best friend, smiling on the beach. Mom as a little girl, sitting at Grandpa’s desk. Part of me wants to yell and scream and throw every piece of my dead mother out the window. But I just put my toothbrush in the cup beside hers. I pull my hair onto the top of my head and go downstairs.
When I reach the doors to the dining room, Ms. Chancellor is standing behind a chair at the head of a table that probably seats at least forty. Maybe fifty. I don’t stop to count. I’m too busy staring at the silverware, and then wondering if you can still call it silverware if it’s actually made of gold.
“Come in, Grace,” Ms. Chancellor tells me.
“I usually eat in the kitchen.”
“Come in,” she says again. “And close the doors.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I’m careful to do exactly as she says as I walk around the edge of the room, as far away from the ornately set table as possible.
None of our plates at home even match, I realize. One of the many downsides of moving every six to eighteen months of your life. I learned from an early age to never own anything I didn’t want to end up in a million pieces at the bottom of a box.
“I thought you were getting dressed,” Ms. Chancellor says, and I look down at the T-shirt I slept in, my yoga pants with a bleach stain on the hem. I bring my hand up to touch the ponytail that sits lopsided on the top of my head and regret every decision I’ve ever made. Ever. Which makes this a perfectly average morning. Just with better silver (or gold) ware.
“Oh. Right. Sorry. You know, I think I left an iron on upstairs, and I —”
“Grace, if you have used an iron within the last six months, I will eat that fork,” Ms. Chancellor says.
“Which one?” I try to tease. “You’ve got a lot of forks to choose from.”
“From which to choose, Grace. Do not end your sentences in prepositions, dear.”
“Of course. I totally see what you’re getting at. I mean, at what you’re getting.”
I force a smile and move to the head of the table, take hold of the chair, but before I can pull it back, Ms. Chancellor singsongs, “Not that chair.”
“Okay,” I say, moving to the chair beside it.
“And not yet,” Ms. Chancellor says, moving to the head of the table. “You may sit after the head of the table sits, Grace. Never before.”
“Okay,” I say as she sits down regally. When she nods, I take the chair beside her.
“Have you ever studied etiquette, dear?”
“Yeah. My dad and brother were super big on that. Right after they covered the proper cleaning and storage of military-grade side arms, of course.”
“Grace.” The word is a warning.
“What?” I ask.
“I’m serious.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” And the bizarre part is that I really am. I want to be good, to use the right fork and wear a pretty linen dress to breakfast. I want to be the girl in the pictures upstairs. But I can’t be. That girl is dead.
“Your arrival here is quite good timing. Did you know that?” Ms. Chancellor takes the napkin and places it gently in her lap.
I mimic the gesture as I tell her, “Uh … no. I didn’t know.”
It hadn’t seemed like good timing to me.
I don’t pick up my gold fork until Ms. Chancellor picks up hers. I mimic everything, right down to the small sliver of ham she slices and puts in her mouth.
“Oh, well, Adria is a place that takes its traditions very seriously. History matters here, in the best possible sense. And one of the traditions that matters most is about to be upon us.”
“Oh.” I prepare to take another bite. “What would that be?”
“Every year, the ambassadors who are stationed here must visit the palace and present their credentials to the king. It’s a very old, very important tradition.”
“Okay,” I say, then risk a sip of water.
“Always wipe your mouth before you take a drink, Grace.”
“Okay,” I say one more time, not fighting it. I’m just happy to, at last, be eating.
“As it happens, the presentation-of-the-credentials ceremony is tomorrow night at the palace.”
“That’s nice,” I say, still unclear what any of this could possibly have to do with me.
“Oh, it is very nice.” Ms. Chancellor chuckles a little. “In fact, technically, it’s a ball.” I wipe my mouth and reach for my juice as Ms. Chancellor finishes, “And you are going to be your grandfather’s date.”
That is when I spit juice all over Ms. Chancellor and her pretty purple suit.
“No.”
I don’t wait for Ms. Chancellor to stand before I bolt to my feet. It’s all the proof they should need that they are after the wrong girl. I drop my linen napkin on the floor for good measure.
“No. Just no,” I say.
“Grace.” Ms. Chancellor is trying to come after me, but I’m moving too fast. I have always been fast. “Grace, hear me out.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, turning briefly to glance at the woman behind me. “I mean no, thank you.”
When I reach the doors, I try to throw them open — but there must be some kind of trick to the latch, because they don’t budge.
“The tradition is three hundred years old.”
“Then they know how to do it without me!”
“It is an essential part of maintaining our place in diplomatic society! Without it, the United States would no longer have diplomatic status here.”
“All the more reason to leave it to the professionals,” I tell her.
Ms. Chancellor takes my shaking hands, pulls them away from the door. “Grace, you are officially the lady of this house. It is your duty to be by your grandfather’s side at events like this. Like it or not, your country needs you.”
She knows how to play me — I’ll give Ms. Chancellor that much. Honor. Country. Code. These are the things that have been drilled into me all of my life.
“Grace” — she grips my shaking hands harder — “it has been a very long time since your grandfather has had someone by his side. The other ambassadors, they bring their spouses. Their children. But your grandfather … Please do this. For him. For your mother. Or, better yet, do it for yourself.”
She’s looking at me now — not at my stained yoga pants and messy hair. She’s looking at me, as if maybe a part of me actually does resemble the girl with the pink canopy bed. Like maybe I might belong here after all.
But she’s wrong. And I don’t have the heart to say so.
“I …” I start slowly. My voice is more of a whisper than a scream. It’s harder than it should be to admit, “I don’t know what to do.”
Ms. Chancellor smiles. The doors pick that moment to slide open, and I see Noah standing there. He must have been holding them cl
osed all this time.
“That is why I’m here,” he says.
Before I can do anything, Ms. Chancellor is embracing Noah in a hug. He wears a polo shirt with a navy blazer and khaki slacks. His hair is slicked back and his posture is perfect. He looks like diplomacy personified, and I can’t help thinking that this is a boy who knows his way around the gold-ware.
“Thank you so much for coming,” Ms. Chancellor says, then turns to me. “Grace, this is Noah Estaban. He’s offered to help us. Plus, I thought you two should know each other.”
“I —” I start, but Noah quickly holds out a hand, cutting me off.
“Hello, Grace. It’s so nice to finally meet you,” he says. When Ms. Chancellor looks away, he winks.
“Oh. Yes. It’s nice to meet you, too,” I say.
“Noah’s mother is one of my dearest friends and one of the most cultured women I know,” Ms. Chancellor says.
“But she wasn’t available, so I’m afraid you’re stuck with me,” Noah quips and flashes the kind of grin that grown-ups love. “Don’t worry, Grace. I’ve been doing this stuff for years. A bow here. A curtsy there. You’ll do fine.”
“Yes. Because you know me. I live to curtsy.”
Ms. Chancellor ignores my sarcasm, and Noah offers me his arm.
“Stick with me, kid.”
I know I don’t really know Noah. One moonlit excursion doesn’t count for much in the grand scheme of things. But I look at the boy beside me, so confident and comfortable. He’s different from the boy on the cliffs. He’s not in either of his countries, but I can’t shake the feeling that Noah is back on his home turf.
“Shall we begin with a waltz?” Ms. Chancellor asks.
“What do you say, Grace?” Noah eyes me. “Shall we?”
There’s no furniture in the room next door. I know why as soon as Ms. Chancellor leads us inside, walks to an old-fashioned record player, and drops the needle on a vinyl album. It scratches to life, and soon we aren’t two twenty-first-century teens being drawn into an archaic tradition. No. We are two young people transported back in time. The grand room makes sense. My messy hair is all but forgotten as Noah places his hand at the small of my back.
“Yes. Very nice. Very nice,” Ms. Chancellor says. “Now, Grace. Chin up. Shoulders back. And follow Noah’s lead.”
“Hear that, Grace?” Noah asks. “Follow my lead.”
When we start to dance, I don’t protest. Noah is pretty good at this. At least, I do more stepping on his feet than he does stepping on mine.
There is a parquet floor beneath my feet and antique sconces on the walls. The record is decades old, and for a moment I feel timeless, weightless, and unafraid.
When we make it to the other side of the room, Noah leans a little closer and lowers his voice.
“So last night …” he starts, and it all comes rushing back to me.
The cliffs.
The party.
The Scarred Man.
I’m starting to shake as Noah goes on. “We aren’t going to have a repeat of that little performance anytime soon, are we?”
“Did Alexei feed you that line or did you come up with it all on your own?” I ask.
We dance a little more. From the other side of the room, I can hear Ms. Chancellor chanting, “One two three. One two three.”
“What you did was dangerous. You know that, right? It was insanely, ridiculously, freakishly dangerous.”
I stare up at him. “It was a calculated risk.”
“Chin up, Noah. Shoulders back!” Ms. Chancellor chides.
“Besides, if I’m not mistaken, I kind of saved your sister’s hide,” I tell him. It’s meant to sting, but he smiles instead.
“Thank you.” He glances away. “Don’t do it again. But thank you.”
“You’re not the one who owes me,” I point out.
He nods. “Yeah, well, Lila is … Lila. I’m just grateful that she didn’t eat me in the womb.”
“Grace, dear, the waltz is not what one would call a humorous dance,” Ms. Chancellor scolds when I start laughing.
“Noah?” I say once I’ve regained my composure.
“What?” Noah asks.
“Do people ever go in there?”
“Where?”
“There,” I say.
“In the Iranian embassy?” Noah whispers, glancing to where Ms. Chancellor stands on the far side of the room, thumbing through a stack of records. “Is that what you’re asking? Do people ever go in the Iranian embassy?”
“I take that as a no.”
“No. That’s an are you out of your mind? Wait — what am I saying?” he asks with a shake of his head. “You jumped off a cliff. Of course you’re out of your mind.”
“It’s just …” I can’t find the words — or maybe the strength — to finish.
“It’s just what?” There’s an edge to Noah’s voice. He’s known me less than twenty-four hours and already he knows he should be worried about whatever is going to come next.
“I heard something.” As I say it, the music fades away. In my mind, I can hear the creaking floor, the scurrying vermin. And the voices. I can see the man with the scar.
I cannot forget the man with the scar.
“When I was in there,” I go on, “I thought I heard something.”
“The place has been abandoned for years. The whole building is probably falling down. Half the rats in Valancia live in there. I’m sure you heard a lot of things.”
The needle scratches. The music stops for real this time. In the silence I whisper, “Voices, Noah. I heard voices.”
“You did not hear voices.”
“But —”
“No one goes in there, Grace. No one. And that includes you. Okay?”
“Okay,” I tell him.
“Okay,” Ms. Chancellor parrots the word but not the tone. She slaps her hands together, obviously pleased with our morning thus far. “I believe we are ready for phase two.”
Noah says good-bye even though I beg him to stay. I’m far less likely to kill Ms. Chancellor if there’s a witness.
“No boys allowed for phase two,” Ms. Chancellor teases as she pulls me toward the open doors across the hall. “Look at these, Grace. Aren’t they beautiful?”
She honestly sounds like a schoolgirl as she walks toward the racks of clothes that fill what is usually a formal living room. Now the furniture has been pushed aside. There are long rolling racks covered with dresses. Stacks and stacks of shoe boxes.
But the worst part isn’t the rows of clothes and shoes. It’s the girl who stands on the opposite side of the room, staring at me.
“Megan!” Ms. Chancellor throws open her arms. “Hello, dear.” She gives Megan a big hug, then pulls away. “Did you see Grace is back with us?”
Megan did see me. She saw me jump off a cliff and crawl under an Iranian fence. Megan has seen plenty. And I can’t help but hold my breath, waiting on her answer.
“Hi,” Megan says, turning to me. “Welcome home.”
Home. The word hits me. I’ve spent all my life thinking that I didn’t have one, but now that I’m back I can’t deny that I’ve spent more of my life on Embassy Row than in any other place — that maybe it wasn’t just my mother’s childhood home. In a way, it’s mine, too.
“Thanks,” I tell Megan. Then I turn to the rows and rows of dresses. “Where did you get these?”
“All the designers, dear,” Ms. Chancellor says. “It’s the event of the season in Adria.”
“Then I shouldn’t go,” I say, looking only at Ms. Chancellor, trying to make her understand.
“Nonsense,” Ms. Chancellor says before stage-whispering to Megan, “Grace doesn’t think the ball sounds like very much fun. What do you think we’re going to have to do to convince her?”
“Obstacle courses help,” I say. “I’m really, really good at obstacle courses.”
“I bet you do an excellent belly-crawl.”
Megan’s voice is flat. Ou
r stares lock. This is how things are going to be, I can tell. Her knowing something that can destroy me. Me waiting for her to either throw the grenade or put the pin back in.
“Yes,” I say slowly. “I’m a good person to have around in a crisis.”
If Ms. Chancellor hears the undertones of our exchange, she doesn’t show it.
“What about this one for Grace?” Megan asks, selecting a gown that is long and puffy and very, very pink. “The color will look good with your skin.”
I want to glare at her. I am as pale as ice in winter except for when I’m angry or embarrassed, and then my cheeks go red.
In other words, my cheeks are almost always red.
Megan has maybe the prettiest skin that I have ever seen. Her hair is sleek and black, perfectly straight and constantly shiny. My hair is thin and shoulder length and looks like the stuff you pull out of the dryer after doing a load of yellow towels.
But Megan just holds the dress up against my skin as if to prove her point.
“Oh, I love that,” Ms. Chancellor says.
The dress is the color and texture of cotton candy, with a tight bodice and a long, full skirt. There must be acres and acres of fabric.
“That’s called a princess cut,” Ms. Chancellor says, eyeing me over the top of her glasses. But I’m no princess, I want to say.
“I’ve never seen you wear pink before, but I always thought you should,” Megan tells me, and something in the words makes me panic. Always thought you should.
That’s when I realize that Megan knows me.
Even worse, Megan knew me.
Before.
There is a privacy screen set up in the corner of the room. I freeze as I recognize it, as I remember.
“Grace —” My mother steps out from behind the screen, then spins around. Her dress is long and white with beautiful black lace covering the bodice. She actually does look like a princess. “What do you think?”
“So, Grace —” Megan’s voice is too loud. I shudder. “What do you think?”
“What?” I say, remembering where and when I am.
“The dress?” Megan’s arms look like they are filled with cotton candy. “Do you want to try it on?”
“It won’t fit,” I say. “See, it’s dragging on the floor.”
