by Ally Carter
“Oh, well, in many ways, they are our most famous royals.” The prime minister laughs, but it is not a joyful sound. “That is King Alexander the Second, his wife, and their two sons. There was a daughter, too, but she was just a baby at the time — so young they hadn’t even commissioned a portrait of her yet. Alexander ruled during a terrible famine. The wells were dry. The crops were dead. And almost the entire region was at war. The people were hungry and frightened, and they grew to distrust the monarchy. One night, the royal guard rebelled. They left their posts and threw open the gates. The people stormed the palace and dragged Alexander and his family from their beds.”
“They were murdered?” I ask.
The prime minister nods grimly. “Power has always corrupted, my dear. Even the promise of power. It is a hard thing to look at through a fence for hundreds of years without wondering what it would be like on the other side.”
“But Adria still has a royal family?” I say, confused.
“We do indeed,” the prime minister says. “That great tragedy began what is known as the War of the Fortnight. In the end, the rebels surrendered and the king’s brother took up the throne. The monarchy was restored — this time with a house of parliament and a prime minister.” He gives a slight bow, as if the tale had conjured him out of magic.
“So just like that it was over? The rebels just gave up?”
“Yes, dear.”
“But why?” I ask.
For a long moment the prime minister looks at me as if the answer should be the most obvious thing in the world. When he speaks again, his voice is soft.
“It rained.”
I look back at the painting of the dead king and queen and the two little princes who were dragged from their beds. For the first time I realize how perilous peace can be. I appreciate the tightrope that my grandfather has spent his whole life trying to walk. And now, more than ever, I grow terrified that I am going to make us all fall down.
“Now, Grace, if you’ll excuse us for a moment, I need to borrow your grandfather. Official business,” the prime minister says. “Man stuff.”
Before I can say anything else, Ms. Chancellor takes my arm. “I believe it’s time for us to go powder our noses.”
“He said man stuff,” I tell her as we walk away.
“He did indeed, dear.”
“Are you okay with that? Tell me you are not okay with the phrase man stuff.”
“I am not,” she says through a too-bright smile.
“But —”
“But Queen Catalina bided her time and ruled for sixty years, my dear.”
“So you’re going to kill the prime minister in his sleep?” I ask.
She never softens her smile. “No. But that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the power of patience. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I see the Chinese ambassador and I need a moment of his time.”
I have new respect for the woman who is walking away from me. Her hips sway beneath her long black gown. Her blue wrap catches the light. She is a guest at the palace, but there is no doubt she is the belle of the ball.
I feel exceedingly glad she’s on my side.
I also feel very much alone as I stand in the crowd of people, looking up at a painting of two dead little princes, wishing that I could talk to Jamie.
I could call him, send him a text. But it’s not his voice or his words that I miss — it’s him. It’s not being alone. It’s having someone to step in between me and the strange looks, to change the subject and tell me that I’m doing fine.
But I shouldn’t miss my brother so badly. It’s almost like I’ve conjured him — or someone just like him — out of thin air because instantly I feel a hand on my arm. I hear Alexei say, “Hello, Gracie.”
Jamie is the only person I allow to call me Gracie. Sure, other people (like my grandfather) do it too, but Jamie is the only one who has my explicit permission. I’m tempted to remind Alexei of this fact, but as soon as I turn to face him, all I can think is that Alexei is here. Alexei is looking at me. And Alexei is wearing a tux.
“You look very lovely this evening.”
His accent is heavier as he says it. And being all slicked and shaved and tuxedoed like he is, a more gullible girl might be impressed — she might even swoon a little. But whatever swooning I’m doing is entirely tight-dress related. I swear it is.
“Hello, Alexei. I was just going to powder my nose, and —”
“Not so fast.”
I’m turning away when he catches my arm, pulls me to him. His arm goes around my waist. His other hand takes mine and before I realize what is happening, we’re dancing.
“I’m not talking to you,” I tell him. “And you’re not talking to me either if that look you didn’t give me a while ago is any indication.”
“Whatever you say.”
“In fact, I’m sick of you.”
“Okay.”
“I’m just —”
“You seem to be struggling with the concept of ‘not talking,’ aren’t you, Grace? Or perhaps my English is not as good as I think it is.”
We’re spinning, and I watch the ballroom pass. The royals in their receiving line, the musicians, the long tables filled with food. I know there are other couples around us, but they feel like distant blurs. Only Alexei is solid and sure. Between my tight dress and aching feet and swirling head, he may be the only thing keeping me steady.
And I kind of hate him for it. Or maybe I just hate myself.
“You do look nice tonight, Grace. Being clean and bruise-free seems to agree with you. Are you enjoying the party?”
True to my word, I stay silent.
Alexei gives a short laugh and talks on, his accent thicker.
“Most posts aren’t like this, you know. Embassy life is not usually so … glamorous. But Adria is different, my father says. It is like the old days here, with their balls and their beautiful embassies. Some say it is because it is good for tourism — that it is an act and they have an image to protect. But I do not know. In any case, you and I are very lucky that our families are posted here.”
“I’m not listening to you,” I say, looking over his shoulder and refusing to meet his gaze. “I don’t have to pay attention to you. Or mind you. Or care about your opinion.” Finally, I do find his eyes. I’m staring right into them when I say, “You are not my brother.”
I expect this to hurt Alexei, wound him in some way. But he just laughs at me like I’m hilarious with my attempts to be my own person.
“I am your brother’s proxy, Grace.” He pulls me tighter. “And in the diplomatic corps we take proxy responsibilities very seriously.”
Alexei has known me for most of my life. And he still sees me as a child. But it could be worse, I realize. He could see what I turned into.
The song ends and we stop moving, but Alexei is still holding me.
“Grace, I …” he starts, and then he drops me.
I don’t fall. But when his arm leaves my waist I stumble for a moment, struggling to stay upright while my numb feet find their place beneath me.
He’s looking around like he’s been caught sneaking out, breaking into Iran, doing the kind of stupid stuff that is usually reserved for me.
“What was —” I start.
He cuts me off. “I must go, Grace. Excuse me.”
He gives me a real, actual bow and pushes away just as the quartet begins to play again. I can’t stop myself from calling out, “You really have a hard time making up your mind, you know?”
But Alexei is already gone.
I step off the floor that is filling rapidly with dancing couples. It’s like a minefield of swirling, moving silk and sparkling sequins. I’m more than a little relieved to make it to the edge.
I scan the room, looking for Alexei, but he is nowhere to be seen. Even when Noah approaches, I can’t stop looking.
“Well, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were a lady,” Noah teases, but I’m too busy scanning the crowd, looking for
answers.
“Where did he go?” I ask.
“Who?”
“Alexei. He was here and then he just disappeared.”
“Oh, Alexei.” Noah doesn’t sound surprised. He eyes me skeptically. “Et tu, Grace?”
“What?” I ask, distracted and annoyed.
“Nothing.” Noah shakes his head. “There he goes.” He points to the big, sweeping staircase. Alexei’s figure is unmistakable as he climbs.
“Just remember who your best friend is!” Noah says as I turn to leave. But then I stop and spin back for a moment, stand on my tiptoes, and give Noah a kiss on the cheek. He blushes, happy.
“Save me a dance,” I tell him, even though I’m pretty sure it’s the pink dress talking, not me.
And then I turn and dash off through the crowded hall.
The carpet on the stairs is rich and red, and so lush that it feels like running through a forest covered with moss as I chase after Alexei. He doesn’t look back, and by the time I make it to the landing he is nowhere to be seen. So I hold my billowing skirt in both hands and dare to run a little faster down the long corridor.
The ceiling is at least twenty feet high. The stones are a dark gray, and I know even without reaching out that they will be cold to the touch. Outside, the sun is finally down and the lights of the city shine like fireflies through the darkness. Beyond the wall, the sea stretches out, dark and vast, and I know why — once upon a time — it would have been easy to think the world was flat.
The music is so faint it’s like someone left a radio on somewhere in the depths of the palace. I am so alone in that wide hallway that it’s easy to forget there are hundreds of dancing, laughing people just a floor away.
Alexei, I want to call out, but I do not dare. I can feel eyes upon me as I walk past even more portraits of the kings. A few queens. They are practically life-sized, the frames towering over me, filling every inch of the wall. I almost expect them to speak and tell me to go back to the party or at least point me in Alexei’s direction. But they stay silent in their frames. Whatever secrets they are hiding, they do not say a thing.
The hall leads to another massive room. Formal furniture and a fireplace so large that I could walk inside it without even bending over. There are more portraits and chandeliers, but no Alexei. So I step back into the hall, turn, and keep going.
The music is gone now. The party all but forgotten. There is a force I cannot name that is pulling me forward. I want to call out for Alexei. And I’m afraid he’ll hear me. Both.
When I turn another corner, I hear a door creak open, but it does not close.
I freeze and lean against a large piece of antique furniture, pressing myself and my enormous dress against the wall, suddenly all too aware of how far I’ve wandered, the trouble I will be in if I get caught.
But I do not move. I cannot leave. I just slow my breathing and listen.
“I need to talk to you,” someone says in Adrian. And in my mind I feel cold and wet, like my dress is an ocean and I’m drowning inside it.
“Not now,” the second voice spits back.
Someone is in the hallway. Someone is coming closer. “This isn’t the end of this!” the first voice says. The second man laughs.
It is a cruel sound, high and haunting. And I am certain of one thing: I have heard it before.
“Of course it isn’t,” the man says at last. “If I’m right, then it is only beginning.”
I’m not sure when I started shaking, but I’m terrified they’ll hear me. I’m terrified they’ll see me. Just like when I overheard them in Iran.
Because if there is one thing I’m sure of, it is that these are the same voices that I heard in Iran.
I push myself farther into my little corner. I’m trying to disappear, willing myself to become one with the stone and the wood. And maybe the palace hears me and grants my wish because the wall behind me starts to move, pushing slowly inward as I push slowly back.
It’s a closet, I think as the blackness envelops me. I move into it as quickly as I can. The hem of my train catches and snags as I push the door silently shut behind me. There is still enough light coming in through a crack in the door for me to see movement in the hallway.
I shift and peek out. The floor creaks.
The dark figure outside spins and looks. “Who’s there?” he asks.
My breathing is so heavy I bring a hand up to cover my mouth. A slice of light cuts across my face, and the man is so close I can smell his cologne. He turns and looks up and down the hallway, as if somehow he knows that he is not alone.
He stops and opens the door of the cabinet I had been leaning against. His shadow crosses my face.
And that is when I see him — really see him.
He is no more than a foot away this time. Unlike the Iranian basement, the palace hallway is well lit. I will never again be able to convince myself that it was a trick of the light, a figment of my mind.
No. The man has dark hair speckled with gray. He wears a well-cut tux with gold cufflinks, an expensive watch, and a long black tie. His profile is handsome and perfect and strong with the exception of the jagged scar that runs from his eyebrow to his jaw.
The scar that is very real.
The scar that is perfectly clear.
The scar that has haunted my dreams every night since the moment my mother died — from the moment the Scarred Man killed her.
I press my hand against my mouth and swallow the cry that is rising in my throat. I don’t want the Scarred Man to hear me. To find me.
To kill me.
I press myself against the closet wall because my head is spinning and I’m afraid I might pass out. There isn’t enough air in the closet, in my chest. There isn’t enough air in the world.
But there also isn’t time to panic. Now is the time to think and process and act. Now is the time to survive.
“Grace, no!” I hear my mother call.
My mother would want me to survive.
I don’t know how long I stay in the closet. A minute. An hour. A year? When I finally push my way outside and retrace my steps I half expect to return to a different party. But the quartet is still playing. The people are still talking and dancing, not caring at all that the man who killed my mother is here.
He’s here! I want to scream and claw and wail until someone hears me. Until someone finally cares.
But the words don’t come. I’ve said it all before, after all. I’ve described the Scarred Man to my father and to Jamie. I told the military police and the cops from town. I told the doctors all about him.
Once, I even wrote the details in a note and sent it to my grandfather. But I never got an answer to that letter. Maybe he never got it. Or maybe he just didn’t want to be one more person to tell me I was crazy.
It was an accident.
There was no Scarred Man.
You have no idea what you really saw.
But I do know. I know what, and I know who, and I know that I was right that night in the Iranian embassy.
The Scarred Man is in Adria. I’ve finally found him. But I don’t dare let him find me.
“Grace, your dress is ripped,” Noah says. He has been here for a long time, I realize. Talking to me. Trying to tease me into dancing or eating. But he’s not teasing anymore. “Grace, what happened to your dress?” Then he rethinks, asks a better question. “Grace, what happened to you?”
“I … I …”
“Grace, look at me!” Panic is seeping into Noah’s voice. I want to tell him that it’s going to be okay — that I’m going to be okay. But I can’t lie to Noah. Not even when I know it’s what he wants to hear.
“Ms. Chancellor,” Noah says, calling her over.
“Well, hello there, you two,” Ms. Chancellor says. “Don’t you look handsome, Noah? You make a very striking pair.”
There’s a twinkle in her eyes, and I know what she’s thinking. She’s playing matchmaker. She’s practically naming our children, taking c
redit for Noah and the most excellent influence he has been upon me.
“I was just telling the ambassador of France all about you, Grace. Her niece is visiting next month and I told her that you and I would love to —”
But then Ms. Chancellor looks at me. She must see the panic in my eyes, the way all the color has drained from my face. I’m sure I no longer share the rosy hue of my pink gown. I must be the color of paper.
“Grace, are you okay?”
I try to speak, but the words don’t come.
“Noah, take her home,” Ms. Chancellor commands, but Noah is one step ahead of her. He already has my arm and is guiding me to the door.
“I need to go home,” I mutter.
“I know,” Noah says. “Come on. I’ll take you back to the embassy.”
“No! I need to go home,” I say, but then the realization comes: My mother was my home. My mother is dead. And the man who killed her is wearing a tuxedo and an expensive watch and going to parties. The man who killed her is at this party.
“Where’s my grandpa? I need to talk to my grandpa.”
“He’s busy, Grace. Come on.”
We make it outside and Noah says something to one of the uniformed men. The car with US flags is coming toward us. Noah is leading me to the door.
“You’re going to be okay, Grace,” Noah tells me. “You probably just ate something funny or …”
I climb into the car, but before Noah can join me, I slam the door and tell the driver, “Go! Just go.”
The car is not on fire.
I know this like I know my name. My age. My social security number, and that I have brown eyes. I am certain of these facts, and yet I forget them. The black leather interior fades away. The divider between the driver and me is up, and I’m alone in the strange red glow that is coming off the instruments in the backseat. I blink harder and harder, and I know that I’m not crying. My eyes are just trying to wash away the smoke that isn’t there.
I bang my head back and slam my hands over my ears, but still I hear the cries.
“Grace, honey! No!”
“No.” I toss.
“No!” I yell.
