See How They Run

by Ally Carter

  “She never told me about anything.”

  “You mustn’t blame your mother, Grace. She loved you so. She just wanted to protect you.”

  “From what?” I snap. Ann is not the princess of Adria now. She is my mother’s first and best friend.

  She is someone who might have answers.

  “Tell me,” I demand.

  Ann smiles. I suppose very few people ever make demands of princesses. “Tell you what, Grace?”

  “Tell me everything. About the Society. And the treasure. And your other friend — my friend Alexei’s mother. Do you know what happened to her? Why did someone want my mother to die?”

  Ann stands. “We found out when we were about your age, I suppose. Your grandmother had passed away, but one day Ms. Chancellor and my mother came to us. Caroline and I had always been friends, but when we learned that we were descended from the daughters of the founders … when we learned we had that in common — that in that way we were more like sisters than friends — then we became much, much closer. I suppose you might even say we grew obsessed.”

  “With the Society?” I ask.

  Slowly, Ann shakes her head. “With history.”

  It’s such a strange response it takes me a moment to truly hear it.

  “What did she find? Why did someone want her dead?”

  “Grace —”

  “Don’t deny it!” I stand too, unable to sit corralled inside some fancy chair. “I know she was obsessed with something.”

  At last, Ann looks surprised. “You do?”

  “Was it the treasure the Society smuggled out of the palace the night of the coup? Was it something else? Did she find it? Is that why they tried to kill her?”

  I watch Princess Ann’s brown eyes, wait for her to carefully word her denial. But the denial doesn’t come.

  “Oh, Grace,” Ann says instead. “Your mother loved antiques, and she loved secrets. I think perhaps she did find … something. But I don’t know what.”

  “What was she working on?”

  “You have to understand, your mother and I hadn’t been truly close in years. When I married, it was difficult to maintain ties to my old life — my life before this.” She gestures at the palace and all its trappings, but also its loneliness. It feels like we must be the only people here.

  “But you know she was still looking for it, don’t you? You know about the treasure.”

  I’m deadly serious, but Princess Ann almost laughs. “The treasure, if you want to call it that, disappeared two centuries ago. It won’t be found now. When we were girls we thought it exciting and fanciful. It was our own little adventure. But we grew up, Grace.”

  “I know you got together as grown-ups. I know you were still looking after Jamie was born.”

  “After Jamie was born we would get together as friends.”

  “What happened to Alexei’s mother?”

  “I don’t know,” Ann says. “Karina was always a bit … wild. She had an unhappy marriage. When she went away, Caroline and I did not ask too many questions.”

  “You think she abandoned her child?”

  “We didn’t know what to think. But a part of me did wonder. I saw less and less of my friends in those days. I was desperate to have my own child, and I was selfish. I forgot about my friends. But after Karina disappeared, your mother told me she still searched for the treasure — that that had become her job within the Society — and I grew worried. I told your mother to forget it. To be honest, I thought she had.”

  Slowly, the princess turns to me, a sad smile on her face. “Oh, how I wish she had.” Princess Ann is one of the most beautiful women in the world, but right now she looks like she wants to cry. I know the feeling. There is nothing worse than remembering.

  “Now, Grace. I need you to tell me the truth: Are you here with your grandfather’s permission?”

  “Yes.” The lie is automatic now.

  “Grace.” Princess Ann’s voice is a warning. She sounds just like … a mother. “If your grandfather is at the embassy right now, worrying about where you might be —”

  “He’s not.” This much, at least, is true. “He’s not worried. I promise. I told someone where I was going.” If Princess Ann doubts my lie she doesn’t say so.

  “Forgive me,” she says. “Motherhood has this effect on a person. I worry about my son every day.”

  “Oh. Yeah. I’m sure you do.”

  “Your mother said that someday we would make the two of you get married and then we’d truly be family. Did she tell you?”

  I choke on my tea, and Ann laughs.

  “Don’t worry, darling. We never actually signed the betrothal contracts.”

  The look on my face makes her laugh even harder.

  “Oh, Grace. I am so glad you called.”

  It’s funny how, until this summer, I’d never really realized that my mother was a girl once. Sure, I always knew that she’d grown up in Valancia, that the embassy was her childhood home, and yet I’d never thought about the fact that my mother had once been a child.

  Like me.

  No wonder someone tried to kill her.

  “Excuse me, Your Highness.” I turn and see a man in full livery standing by the doors. “I am sorry to interrupt, but the young lady’s escort is here to return her to the embassy.”

  “I don’t have an escort,” I say, but then Dominic appears over the footman’s shoulder.

  “Please excuse the interruption, Your Highness, but the ambassador has asked me to bring Grace home,” the Scarred Man says. “It is no night for her to be out alone.”

  I could argue, but then I remember the bonfires and the crowds and the chaos. I remember bodies hanging from four beautiful windows, and that, no matter how high your walls are, no one is ever truly safe. It’s no wonder my grandfather has sent Dominic to find me.

  I turn back to Princess Ann one final time. An hour ago I’d hoped that someone who knew the girl my mother was might be able to explain what happened to the woman she became. But that’s not meant to be, I guess.

  “Thank you for the tea,” I say, because I can’t thank her for the answers.

  “It was my pleasure, dear.” Ann pulls me into a hug too tight to be anything but real. When she pulls away she actually pauses for a moment, pushes a stray bit of hair out of my face and tucks it behind my ear. A motherly gesture.

  It makes me want to cry.

  Dominic doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smile. I’m walking beside him, trying to keep up. When he leads me through the palace gates I look for a black car with the little US flags flying near the headlights, but the circle drive is empty. I guess we’re going to walk.

  The sun is nearly down, and soon the streets will be black and lit by fire. We’re walking quickly through the crowds that are filing toward the palace, over cobblestones and curbs. Tonight, the crowd is different. Most of the men wear long black capes and ornate masks. Women and young girls dance in flowing white dresses with red sashes. Most have flowers in their hair.

  It’s beautiful.

  And it’s insanely creepy.

  Dominic holds me tight, pulling me against the tide of people flowing toward the palace. I should be happy to have his arm around my shoulder, to feel his big, steady, and intimidating presence beside me. I stumble once, but he holds me so firmly I don’t even start to fall.

  “Grandpa sent you?” I ask.

  He grunts something that sounds like yes, and we keep walking.

  “He didn’t know where I was,” I tell him, but Dominic shakes his head.

  “I knew where you were, Grace Olivia.”

  Of course he did.

  “How is your injury?” Dominic asks.

  “My what?” It says a lot about me that I don’t even notice the ache of a stab wound anymore, that a part of me is so utterly immune to pain. “It’s fine. I mean, it hurts. But I’m used to that.”

  Then, as if on cue, a wave of tourists passes by us, jostling me closer to him. “You should ne
ver have left the embassy. It was foolish to come.”

  Now that Dominic has mentioned it, my side starts to ache. I feel out of breath. Aware.

  “What were you thinking, leaving the embassy tonight of all nights? Are you listening to me? You aren’t safe here!”

  “I am safe! I’m fine.”

  I’m not fine, and standing before me is one of the few people on the planet who really knows it — who will ever know why.

  As the sky grows darker, the crowds grow thicker. People push recklessly toward the palace, too close. Too strong. It’s different from the first night somehow, and I’m not the only one who feels it, because Dominic reaches for me, tucks me protectively under his arm.

  “Masks are dangerous things,” he says. “They make people feel anonymous, immune. They give people license to act as they otherwise wouldn’t dare. This is no time to be out of the embassy.”

  “That’s okay,” I say, “you’re here to protect me.”

  I’m not being flippant. This isn’t my idea of a joke. It is the truth, and I know it. I watch him move — see how strong he is — and even as I know that I am safe, another thought is coming to me. My brother’s words come rushing back.

  It’s hard to break somebody’s neck, Jamie said. It would take someone strong. And fast. And trained.

  It would take someone like Dad.

  The Scarred Man is about as much like my father as one man could possibly be. I suppose my mother had a type.

  And with that realization, a cold sense of dread bubbles up within me. A realization dawns.

  “You.”

  It’s easier than it should be for me to pull myself free of the Scarred Man’s grasp. I think he’s too shocked. But he, of all people, should know better than to underestimate me and all of my crazy.

  “You were there. You saw us that night, when Jamie and I got back from the island.”

  “Grace, this isn’t the time.”

  When he reaches for me I pull away. “No. I saw you! And you heard us fighting about Spence, didn’t you? You knew he tried something. You said you’d always keep me safe.”

  “I will.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  The look on the Scarred Man’s face chills me to the bone. “If I had killed a man who hurt you, Grace Olivia, they would have never found the body.”

  He’s not joking, and that’s what scares me. Dominic could kill, would kill — no doubt has killed. But he wouldn’t hurt me, I know it in my soul, and I realize something strange: I’m the only person in Adria who actually trusts the Scarred Man.

  Maybe this makes me even more of a fool.

  Or maybe it just makes me safe.

  “You belong in your embassy,” Dominic says, and nudges me forward.

  The crowds are growing thicker, the sky darker. Someone must have lit more bonfires because the smell of smoke carries on the wind.

  “I’m going to get you to tell me, you know,” I say, but I don’t glance back as I start down the hill. “About my mom and the island and whatever it is you think you can’t tell me. I’m going to get it out of you. I’m …”

  The Scarred Man is silent. Too silent.

  And when I turn back, he’s already gone.

  I stand for a moment, wondering what to do. But the current is too strong, and soon I’m pushed with the crowd. Even though the embassy is in the other direction, I can’t fight it. I am surrounded by people in masks and capes and long white dresses draped in red.

  The sun is down, but it’s not dark. Not exactly. Not yet. The gaslights are growing brighter, though, and the bonfire still burns.

  Firecrackers erupt in the street, and I jump. It sounds like gunfire, and I find myself pressed against the brick of one of the buildings, rocking.

  “Hush, little princess …”

  Maybe it’s the smoke, but I feel my eyes begin to water. I will not allow myself to cry. I will not crumble. I will not turn to ash and blow away like the tiny sparks and embers that fly up from the bonfire and float like fireflies out to sea.

  “Dead and gone …”

  The words come to me through the darkness, and I want to scream.

  “No one’s gonna know you’re coming home …”

  “Grace!” I hear my mother’s cries.

  “Grace!” my mother screams, and I find it harder and harder to breathe because I’m surrounded by smoke and masks and the sky is the color of fire.

  “Hush, little princess, wait and see …”

  “Grace!” the word comes again, and I know these women in white dresses are each my mother’s ghost.

  When I feel a hand on my arm I want to fight and run, but the man in the mask is gripping me too hard. It’s too dark and I’m too tired. I lash out, pushing and fighting with all that I have. I grab the offending hand and step to the side, spinning. But then the voice calls again, “Grace!”

  With his free hand, Noah removes his mask. He leans down and looks into my eyes.

  “Grace, it’s me!”

  I’m breathing so hard now the air doesn’t actually reach my lungs.

  Noah frees himself of my grasp and reaches for me again. Then he seems to think better of it.

  Another man in a mask bangs into me, his elbow landing in my side, and I cry out. I think about another day, another mob. The knife wound in my side. The mob that was after Alexei. After me.

  And just that quickly I can feel the panic take me, the air being pulled from my lungs. There are just too many people — just too much smoke.

  “Jamie,” I tell Noah. “I need Jamie.”

  When Megan appears at Noah’s side, she’s breathing hard, laughing. I can tell she’s been dancing around the fire. Her long black hair is swept back and tied with a red bow at the base of her neck. Her white dress is long and flowing, old-fashioned and high-waisted. It’s like she’s danced here from a dream.

  “Grace!” she exclaims, breathless. “You came!”

  “Was Jamie at the embassy when you left?”

  It’s loud, and Megan can’t hear me, so I yell again.

  “Was Jamie at the embassy?”

  “I don’t know,” Megan says, shaking her head. “I haven’t seen him. Grace, what’s wrong?”

  “I have to get back to the embassy,” I say, even though I have no idea what will come next. I can’t think that far ahead. This is no chess game. It’s my life. And it is spiraling out of control.

  “Hush, little princess …”

  “Stop it!” I yell, putting my hands over my ears, trying to block out the song that is echoing over and over in my mind. “Stop it!”

  “Stop what?” Noah asks.

  “That singing. It’s —”

  In my mind, I start to say. But Noah is shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

  “They’ll sing it all night,” he says, as if he is annoyed, too. He has no right to be bothered, I think. The song’s not inside his head.

  But then I realize that if it’s not in Noah’s head, then it isn’t in mine either. Noah gestures at the crowd, at the men in their capes and masks and the women and girls in their dresses. I catch glimpses of red sashes waving in the firelight. It’s like seeing splashes of blood.

  “They always sing it on the Night of a Thousand Amelias,” Noah says, as if it’s a simple fact, common knowledge, as obvious as the sun rising in the east.

  “The what?” I think Princess Ann said something like that too, but she didn’t explain it.

  “The Night of a Thousand Amelias,” Noah says. “You know how on the fourth night the masked men came and cut down the bodies of the royal family? The king and queen and the children were all wearing these white nightgowns or sleep shirts or whatever, but they’d been stabbed so many times there were big red streaks like —”

  “I get it, Noah.”

  I recall Ms. Chancellor’s words, the image of white muslin glowing in the moonlight except where it was stained with blood, and I think I’m going to be sick.

  “Well” — No
ah is getting into it now — “legend has it the royal family comes back every year and haunts the mob who killed them. So every year the women pretend to be little Amelia, all grown up and out for revenge.”

  He gives me his Evil Laugh, but I just think about Princess Ann watching from her window. Noah doesn’t know his story is terrifying in a totally different way.

  “The men dress in masks and capes like the men who came on the fourth night to cut the bodies down,” he finishes.

  “They weren’t men,” I say, but the crowd is so loud that no one hears me. In fact, if anything, the song grows even louder. My mother’s voice is singing.

  “Hush, little princess …”

  “Grace, are you okay?” Megan asks from beside me.

  I shake my head slowly. “My mother used to sing this song.”

  “Everybody in Adria sings this song.”

  The firecrackers erupt again, their sparks flying up and filling the small side street that stretches up the hill. The gaslights are brighter now in the darkness; the street almost glows with an eerie, smoky haze.

  This isn’t right. I shouldn’t be here. Dominic was right, but now Dominic is gone. In my head, my mother sings and I smell smoke, and I’m afraid I’m going to be sick all over Megan and her pretty white dress.

  Something is wrong, I know it.

  When I see the dark figure striding through the smoke, backlit by the glow of the torches, I can’t help myself. I start to shake.

  “Spence,” I say. I could swear I’m talking to a ghost.

  Even when the smoke fades and the figure becomes clear, the words on his jacket support the lie. “Spence.” I read the name and struggle to breathe.

  “Gracie!” It’s Jamie’s voice, but I’m still shaking as my brother draws closer and pulls off his mask. “You’re here,” he says, but I’m grabbing him, clawing, as he asks, “What’s wrong?”

  “I thought you were Spence. I thought … Spence,” I mutter. My gaze goes to the words embroidered on the jacket my brother wears.

  “It’s his.” Jamie’s voice is solemn, and he doesn’t look me in the eye. “They got swapped and —”

  “He was wearing your jacket.”

  Suddenly it all makes sense, but I’d give anything for it to go back to being a mystery. Sometimes the answer is far worse than the question.