by Ally Carter
The Society was here, they might as well have carved. And now I know I’m close.
I could scream or fight, but I force myself to back away and look at the room anew. Crates, shelves, barrels, and weapons. But no big boxes. The stones along the wall look undisturbed. And I have to think.
They would have been hidden quickly, probably in the dead of night. Maybe the Society members who came for the royal family intended to return once the coup was over. This is hardly fit to be a royal grave. And it’s not, I realize. It’s a royal mystery.
I step toward the table again, but this time I almost trip when my toe catches on the edge of an old, faded rug. It must have been heavy at one time. No doubt placed down here to fight the chill, but that’s not why I feel a shiver in my bones when I look at it.
Now the chairs that seemed so heavy a moment ago fly across the room like feathers as I toss them aside. The old table creaks and groans and crashes to the floor when I grab one side and hurl with all my might, toppling the furniture and pushing it aside.
Now there’s only the old rug that has lain beneath the Society’s symbol for ages, just waiting for someone to look.
I hold my breath and take a corner. The rug starts to disintegrate beneath my hands, but I keep pulling and pulling until I can see the stone floor give way to wooden planks. It used to be a door, I can tell, and I think about the tunnels that crisscross the city. Many caved in ages ago, filled with rocks and dirt and debris. There’s not a doubt in my mind this used to be one of them.
Now the trapdoor is nailed shut, and the wood is still solid.
I know I should wait for Dominic. We need tools and more light—workers and archaeologists. This is history that I’m unearthing, and even though I know that I should wait, I can’t. This secret is like the telltale heart, ticking beneath the floor of this room, and I have to make it stop.
Iron sconces are set throughout the room. On the ceiling, you can actually see the soot and scars from hundreds of years of fires that burned through the night. But the torches are cold now, and when I reach for one, I have to use all my strength to jerk it free—but it comes off, dirty and dusty in my hands.
Heavy.
The iron is solid, and I swing as hard as I can, sending it crashing into the wooden planks that fill that section of the floor. I swing again and again and again, until wood splinters and dust scatters.
I’m breathing too hard, coughing and gagging, but I can’t stop until the old door breaks and I’m able to reach down and pull it open, watch as the narrow beam of light from the window shines onto four ancient bundles that lie, resting in the shallow space below.
A part of me wants to ease forward and pull back the ancient cloth, look down at the remains just to be sure. Another part of me wants to turn and run from this dark place, go just as fast and as far as I can.
But all I can manage to do is sing.
“‘Hush, little princess, wait and see. No one’s gonna know that you are me.’”
And then I hear it, a shuffling behind me. I start to turn, expecting to see Thomas and Dominic, but instead a pain shoots through me, jarring me forward.
I double over and I sway, but I see nothing but stars.
When I wake up, I can’t be sure that I’m not dreaming.
At first, I think I’m back in the little cabin on the island. That the thumps and thuds I keep hearing are the sounds of Alexei and my brother fighting and training in the cool ocean air.
But the floor beneath me is too cold and too hard. In spite of the mind-numbing pain that is reverberating through my head, I desperately want to sneeze. But as I try to push myself upright it’s all I can do not to vomit, not to sway and sink back to the floor again. I’ve known pain like this only once in my life, and that was when I was twelve and jumped off the wall.
There’s not a doubt in my mind that, this time, my foolishness really should kill me.
But worse than the pain and the nausea and the confusion is the fact that I’m almost certain I smell smoke.
“Oh, good. You’re awake.”
Ann sounds so calm and so at ease as she walks around the room. There’s a gun in her hand, though, and she’s lit all of the old-fashioned torches. Storm clouds must have covered the sun, because flickering fire is the only light and the room smells like smoke and death.
“You found them, Grace.” She stops and looks down into the shallow grave where my ancestors lay, waiting. “I’ve lived here for eighteen years, and I never found them. Can you believe it? I feel like a fool. I feel like … it is a shame, really.”
“What’s a shame?” I ask, because I don’t know what else to do.
“It’s a shame that now they have to disappear again. Forever.”
I push myself upright, ignoring the white-hot pain that still shoots inside my head.
“Funny, I didn’t even know this room was here,” the princess says as she walks around the room’s perimeter. “But I guess no one did, did they? After a century or two I suppose it’s easy for things to get forgotten. Even a room that seems to be used mainly for the storage of lamp fuel.”
That’s the smell, I realize. Something more powerful and pungent than gasoline, and a new terror shoots through me. One of the big barrels has tipped over. A hole has been punched in the side and liquid is seeping out, running across the floor and then pooling in the shallow grave.
“What are you doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m going to burn the bodies,” Ann says, and then she laughs. “And I’m afraid you’ll have to die as well.”
Maybe it’s that she looks like Karina.
Maybe it’s that she sounds like me.
But it’s more clear than ever that Ann’s not well. That this isn’t about bloodlines and legacies and history anymore. It might have started that way, but now it is about power and some misguided belief that two hundred years later we can make it right.
She is a woman obsessed, and I wonder about the weight of carrying this kind of secret—this responsibility. As a child, Ann decided to right a two-hundred-year-old wrong, and for most of her adult life she thought she’d succeeded. She’d thought her son was the answer. And then she learned that she was wrong. That—if anything—her son was at risk.
I know how the human mind can be—how it’s both wonderfully strong and terribly frail, and how, if necessary, a person can rewrite history, even if only for themselves.
Ann has done that. She’s given her life to this cause and now …
She’s ready to give mine.
“You’ve won,” I say. “You’re the princess and I’m here. I took your deal. In a few years, Amelia’s heirs will sit on the throne.”
“No!” Ann shouts. “If you had taken my deal, you wouldn’t be here, trying to find your mother’s precious proof! And now … well, Amelia’s heirs will sit on the throne someday. But not yours.”
“I don’t think Jamie’d be good at bearing children,” I say, even though it’s not funny. “He doesn’t have the hips for it.”
“Oh, Gracie. Did you think you’re the only female descendant? I’ll find the next one in line. And then … You did this to yourself, Grace. I wanted it to work! But no. You had to dig and dig. You’re just like your mother. Neither one of you could ever leave well enough alone.”
“It’s not going to be easy to find another girl desperate enough to go along with your scheme, you know. Or do you already have someone in mind?”
I don’t really care about the answer. I just have to keep her talking.
Dominic will be here soon.
Dominic will find me.
Dominic will save me because he couldn’t save my mother and the Scarred Man isn’t the type to fail twice.
But then sparks fly from the torch in her hand, igniting a trickle of lamp fuel that trails across the floor. Flames flare to life and smoke fills the room, and I’m no longer in a palace. I’m on a deserted street.
I’m listening to my mother yell, “Grace, no!�
��
The fire pops and cracks as the old, dry wood of the shelves catches and flares to life. And a part of me knows that this is what I want, isn’t it? For the proof to disappear? For there to never be anything that ties any member of my family to this place ever again?
It would save Jamie.
It would save his children and grandchildren and …
But the palace is hundreds of years old, ancient and weathered, and it has natural gas running through almost every room.
Maybe the fire wouldn’t spread and grow and consume all it touches.
But maybe not.
The fire hasn’t reached the bodies, and so far it’s still contained. It’s not too late. Yet.
“Ann, stop!” I shout. “Listen.”
“I am through listening to you, Grace Blakely.”
“Lighting a fire here is suicide.”
Behind me, I can hear shelves spark and crack. Cases of wine crash and shatter on the stone floor, and the smell of the lamp oil fills my lungs. It’s seeped into the cloth around the bodies and the wood of the old trap door. It’s covering my hands and pooling at my feet.
“The heir has to return,” Ann says. She sounds like Karina. Like me.
Then there are noises on the stairs—footsteps and running and—
I know the moment when Ann hears him. She jerks her head toward the stairs, and for the second time in my life, I see the Scarred Man through the smoke. He’s strong and fast, and I’m not the only one determined to change how the story ends this time.
But he doesn’t know that Ann’s down here. He probably can’t see her or the gun, and this my chance, so I leap up and rush toward her.
Ann’s hand is outstretched. There’s a scream—a cry full of terror, and I realize too late it’s coming from me.
“No!” I yell, and throw myself across the room, but it’s too late, and Ann’s firing. Bullets slam into Dominic’s chest, and he drops to the ground.
His gun crashes, then slides across the floor, and the truth hits me: It’s far too late for anyone to save me.
The lamps are sparking, and I know the moment the second pool of oil on the floor catches. There’s a great whoosh as the fire grows and spreads.
The smoke is rising, filling the room, and I know I could turn and run for the stairs. I could make it to fresh air and freedom.
I could save myself. But some things aren’t worth saving.
I’ve spent months chasing freedom, and now it lies before me, just a few feet away, cold and dormant on the floor.
What I want is to be free of this place and this world and this curse that will haunt me for the rest of my life.
What I need is revenge.
Before me stands the woman who ordered my mother’s death, who chased my brother and bargained with my future.
I reach for the gun.
I see the Scarred Man through the smoke, rising from the ashes. And I hear my name.
“Grace, no!”
It’s my mother’s voice, and I know what this is: my chance to do it differently.
To go back and let it burn.
Ann is walking to the grave. There’s a torch in her hand, and even through the smoke I know it’s almost over. She just has to drop that torch into the pool of oil that surrounds the bodies, and the DNA will be gone. The proof. The lifelong mission that doomed my mother.
But my mother’s not dead because of those bodies. She’s dead because of the woman who stands over them, and so I close my eyes for a moment. I try to block out the smell of smoke and the color of fire and the voice that keeps shouting, “Grace, stop! Grace, no!”
I squeeze my eyes closed and I hear the shot. I smell the smoke, and I know that I can’t end it. That it’s too late and I’m too lost. I’ve done it. I know. I’m in a room with a two-hundred-year-old secret, letting history repeat itself.
I look down, but my hand shakes. Empty. And nothing makes any sense.
“Grace?”
The voice is not my mom’s this time, and I turn to look at Thomas. The gun is tumbling from his hand as his mother crumbles, blood-soaked, to the floor.
I spend the night in the embassy. In my mother’s bed and my mother’s room, but my mother’s ghost isn’t here when I wake up.
No.
That honor goes to Noah.
“It’s about time!” he tells me.
“Is she up?” Rosie says from the corner. “Good.”
Soon I’m surrounded by my friends, but it’s Lila who has my full attention.
She isn’t smiling. She’s no doubt heard all about the fire and the rumors of the shooting. My mere presence in this bed is enough to tell my friends that it’s over, but it’s not. And Lila and I are the only ones who know it.
Her brother looks at her. “What’s wrong with you?”
She hands me a sweater. “Get dressed. It’s time.”
When we reach the headquarters of the Society, it doesn’t look like it did the day Ms. Chancellor first brought us down here. Chairs have been assembled and the big tables have been pushed to the sides. Once again, the women all sit in a circle. Some of them I recognize from Paris. Some I’ve seen at the palace or meeting with Ms. Chancellor. No one makes introductions, and the truth is no one has to. They all know who I am: Grace Olivia Blakely, the not-so-lost princess of Adria.
When Lila and I step onto the little balcony that overlooks the big room, every head turns.
“It’s good of you to join us, Ms. Blakely,” the Englishwoman from Paris tells me.
“I’m happy to be here. Alive,” I say.
“Grace.” It’s Ms. Chancellor who eases toward me. “How do you feel?”
“How’s Dominic?” I ask because it’s all that really matters.
“He’ll be fine. And Thomas. He’s …” I know what Ms. Chancellor can’t say. It might be years before anyone knows how Thomas is.
“If we might have your attention, Ms. Blakely …” Prime Minister Petrovic signals that the women are growing restless. “We have asked you here today to discuss recent developments.”
“You mean how I found an ancient, hidden tomb and got attacked by a lunatic princess while this noble Society didn’t do a darn thing to help me?”
“We had a bargain, young lady,” the British woman tells me.
“Yes. Well, I’m pretty sure all bargains are voided once one of the parties tries to set the other party on fire. Isn’t that correct, Ms. Chancellor?”
“Yes, that does seem like legal precedent to me.”
But the women of the Society aren’t as happy I’m alive as I am.
“I know you wanted me to marry Thomas. I know you wanted me to have little royal babies so that no one ever found out Amelia survived. And I get it. I do. This”—I gesture to the ancient headquarters around us—“is secret. We are secret. Two hundred years ago Amelia needed to be kept a secret to keep her safe. But now …
“‘Hush little princess, it’s too late. The truth is locked behind the gates. Hush, little princess, pretty babe. Sunlight shines where the truth is laid.’”
When I stop singing, Ms. Chancellor studies me, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
“Our ancestors wrote that song. Our mothers and grandmothers have been singing that song to us for generations because they wanted the bodies to be found. Amelia was never meant to be a secret forever.”
I watch the words sweep over the room, but no one nods. No one speaks until the PM leans closer.
“As tragic as yesterday’s events were, the fact remains that we face a crisis,” the PM says. “The very thing we have longed to prevent is inevitable. The king, queen, and two princes have now been recovered … without Amelia. Now there is DNA, and … I do not know how much longer we can keep it a secret. We are all at risk.”
“You’re right,” I say. For once, I agree with her. “As long as there’s a secret, there’s a risk. So it cannot remain a secret.”
“Ms. Blakely, we cannot take a chance with Adria’s fut
ure!” says a woman with a French accent who I last saw in Paris.
“I’m not saying we have to risk Adria’s future. I’m asking you to have faith in mine.”
The women seem to consider this. It takes a moment for the PM to speak again.
“The king left you a legacy, Ms. Blakely. You are mentioned specifically in his will.”
“I don’t want my legacy. I don’t want anything from him. Whatever it is, you can give it to Thomas.”
“Oh, I assure you, Grace,” the prime minister says, “you want this.”
There are five coffins at the front of the church. Two kings. A queen. And two little princes, both under the age of ten.
It’s caused quite a stir, of course. The finding of the bodies, literally unearthing a secret.
There are those who think Thomas’s grandfather should have had his own service—one final moment in the spotlight all alone. But I know better. He spent his whole life looking for the people who now lay in the coffins on either side of him.
It’s too much to hope that people won’t notice who isn’t here. The official story is that Princess Ann, prostrate with grief, has been taken ill and is unable to be by the sides of her husband and son. The unofficial stories vary. None of them come close to the truth.
When the prime minister finishes her remarks, she looks at me, as if wondering if I’m really going to go through with this. She smiles at me, and I’m so shocked it takes me a moment to realize that she’s giving me one last chance to chicken out. I probably should. This is probably a harebrained scheme. A foolish mistake. So of course I stand when she introduces me, and then I make my way slowly to the front of the cathedral.
There are hundreds of people looking at me, not counting the millions watching on TV. My palms sweat and my blood burns, but I keep my gaze on the coffin of the king. I have to say what he’d have said if only he’d had a little more time.
“I’m not much for public speaking,” I choke out, then add, almost to myself, “for public anything, really. I’m here today because, evidently, the day he died, the king made some changes to his will. He asked me to do this in the event of his death, so I’m not up here for me, you see. I’m up here for”—my voice quakes—“for the people who can’t be up here themselves.”
