“And you think he made my mom’s box?”
“No.” Megan’s eyes glow. “I think she made it.”
“It was a woman?”
Megan nods. “And when you search online, this is the only photo of her you can find.”
The picture on Megan’s phone really is quite daring. Black-and-white and no doubt taken in the late 1800s, the woman is wearing trousers and her gray hair is cropped short. She stands in a cluttered workroom, but behind her sits a gorgeous, ornate clock. It’s easy to zoom in, look closer, and see the symbol I know so well carved into the base.
I cut my eyes up at Megan. “She was with the Society.”
Megan nods her head. “I was thinking, if you want me to, I can work on your box while you do whatever you have to do now.”
“What box?” When the prince speaks, it takes me a moment to even remember that he’s with us.
“It’s nothing,” Megan says. She turns off her phone, slides it into her pocket.
I’m still looking at Megan, though, thinking about my mother and her secret lair—the work that killed her. And, suddenly the memories are too hot. I can’t risk anyone else getting burned. “No. I need it,” I say. “I want it. With me.”
“Okay.” Megan sounds surprised and disappointed but goes to get her backpack anyway. My mother’s puzzle box is nestled safely inside, wrapped in an old sweatshirt. She hands it to me without another word.
But the prince is looking at me, as if wondering what kind of crazy person his mother is trying to fix him up with.
It is an excellent question.
“Come on, Your Highness,” I tell him. “We need to get you home.”
“What is this place?” the prince asks as we walk through the basement, and I have to give him credit. For a boy who just broke out of a palace and found out his family is trying to kill the girl they want him to marry, he seems to be taking it all in stride.
“Iran,” I tell him. “Technically, this is the Iranian embassy. I know we shouldn’t be here, but …” I don’t bother to explain. I just wait for the usual cries of outrage and disbelief, but the future king of Adria just shrugs.
“Come on,” I tell him as I head into the tunnel.
If it weren’t for the sound of his footsteps, the occasional deep breath, I wouldn’t know he’s still behind me. I don’t look back. Not now. Not ever. There are too many dragons in my past. Looking back only helps if they’re no longer back there. But I know in my gut they are. Looking won’t do anything but slow me down.
“Where are we now?” Thomas asks after a while.
“I don’t know for sure,” I tell him. “Probably somewhere under Egypt or maybe Australia.”
“I mean, what are these?”
He catches up to me and makes me stop, gestures to the tunnels that stretch out before us and behind. Sometimes they branch and twist, but I know my way now, even without the little flashlight that lives inside my pocket.
“Tunnels,” I say. I don’t mean to sulk—really, I don’t. But all the things I’ve seen and heard—what I know and will never in a million years understand—these facts are swirling inside of me. Too fast. It’s going to make me sick.
“What kind of tunnels?” The prince sounds patient. He’s not on the verge of a royal hissy fit. No, that honor is reserved for me.
“Old ones,” I snap without really meaning to. It’s not his fault. None of it. So I go on. “Really old. Like probably since-the-time-of-the-Romans old. For sure older than the wall.”
“The wall?” the prince asks, sounding impressed.
“Yes.”
He eyes the rough walls again with new appreciation. “Were they carved?”
“I don’t know. I think so. But in some places they look natural. There are catacombs and stuff all over the city. Or under the city, I guess I should say. They even go out beneath the sea in places. But I think these were carved out. Sometimes you can see chisel marks. See?” I shine the light to a place on the wall where the line is too straight to be anything but man-made.
“I never knew there were tunnels,” the prince says in disbelief. It’s a tone I know. It’s one that asks, What else haven’t they told me? Then he meets my gaze and whispers, “Who?”
If the tunnel wasn’t so narrow … if we weren’t so close, I might not hear the question, but I do.
“I think the Romans. Maybe the Byzantines or the Mongols, but it doesn’t really seem the Mongols’ style, you know. So that’s why I think it was—”
“Who wants to kill you?”
Oh.
I stop babbling, but the words don’t come. I feel calmer than I should as I readjust my grip on my mother’s puzzle box, then turn and start walking. I don’t say a word as I lead Thomas through the tunnel, all the way to the ladder that I know will take us to a small alley behind the Israeli embassy.
When we’re outside, the air feels cooler, and I’m suddenly chilled by the wind.
“Who wants you dead?” he asks again.
“We need to get you back to the palace before you’re missed.”
“Have there been attempts on your life, or is this just theoretical?”
He sounds so calm, so matter-of-fact. He’s going to gather all the information and form a rational, informed opinion. He’s not going to run off half-crazy and half-cocked.
If opposites do attract, then Prince Thomas might really be my soul mate.
But he’s a soul mate I’m not going to answer.
“You shouldn’t sneak out, you know,” I say, then start the steep climb toward the palace. I don’t stop and examine the irony of my giving someone else this advice. I don’t stop and examine anything.
“You have to tell me,” he says.
“It’s not my place.” I keep walking until I realize that the prince is no longer behind me.
He’s standing, staring up the hill and then at the buildings that surround us. You can see the wall from here. And, beyond that, the inky-black waters of the sea. The moon is almost full as it climbs higher in the sky, and the gaslight burns atop the lampposts, lighting our way.
Thomas will be king of all of this someday—this and much, much more. But it looks very much as if he’s seeing it all for the very first time.
“Are you in danger, Grace?” he asks me.
“At the moment? No.”
“But you were. Is that why you moved into the palace?”
I don’t answer. Which, I guess, is answer enough.
“Who tried to kill you?” He takes a step closer.
“Who do you think?” I practically shout. The words reverberate off the cobblestone streets and down the hill, echo out toward the sea. “My brother should be king. Who do you think wants us dead?”
I expect outrage or anger—for someone to strap me to a bed and pump me full of meds until I stop talking crazy. Nothing could surprise me more than when he looks down at the bundle in my hands and asks, “Where did you get that box?”
I’m so shocked that for a second I don’t answer. “It’s … It was my mother’s.”
“Where did she get it?”
“From her mother,” I snap. If we’re going to fight, I’d really like to get it over with.
“They told me about you,” he says, but it’s almost like a threat. “They said you had issues. I’m not supposed to believe you.”
“That’s a very solid game plan. But it doesn’t mean I’m lying.”
“No.”
“Fine. Believe me. Don’t believe me. I don’t care. And, for the record, I don’t want to marry you and have your babies either, but it’s that or be hunted until I die, so …”
“That’s a lie.”
“Is it?” I look into his eyes and stalk closer. “You know the woman you just saw? The one who was singing that creepy, made-up song?”
“It’s not made up,” he snaps. I don’t argue.
“Well, she was your mom’s friend. Just like my mom was your mom’s friend. And together they went look
ing for the lost princess. That woman ended up in a mental institution for her trouble. My mom ended up dead.”
The prince is backing away again, but he’s no longer shaking. “They would have told me.”
“Do you really believe that?” I don’t mean to shout, and I don’t mean to sound sarcastic. But some things can’t be helped, I guess. “You didn’t know that there were tunnels beneath the city. You look like you’ve never even seen the city after dark. Have you?”
He doesn’t give me an answer, and I don’t wait for one.
“You think you know your parents? Well, trust me, you don’t. I don’t care if they’re royalty or military or schoolteachers or dentists or … I don’t care and it doesn’t matter. Because you never really know anyone. And that’s the only thing I know for sure.”
I don’t realize it, but I’ve slowly turned as I’ve been speaking, and when I finish I’m looking up at the palace on the hill. Spotlights shine upon it, and from here I can see the tower Ms. Chancellor locked me in at the beginning of the summer. I can almost feel that old panic start to rise again, knowing that, in a way, I’m still trapped and I’ll never be able to break free.
“So believe me or not, Your Highness, but that won’t make it any less true.”
I turn.
I stop.
I panic.
Because the future king of Adria is nowhere to be seen.
I should run, I know. I should look. But the streets and alleys are like a maze here. Worse. They’re like a maze where nothing runs straight and nothing runs even—where right now the prince could be running up toward the palace or down toward the sea. Or lower.
I look behind me. Thomas knows how to get into the tunnels now, so I bolt in that direction, expecting to see a flash, a peek. But the alley is empty and the opening to the tunnels is closed. I open the door and lean down, listen for the sound of running royal feet, but there is nothing but the drip, drip, drip of water. I know in my gut that I’m alone.
I stand and bolt back to the street, turning, looking. “Thomas!” I yell into the darkness, but Valancia is sleeping. I am alone. And the future king of Adria is gone.
I didn’t lose the prince.
I didn’t ask him to come with me. I didn’t tell him to follow. I certainly didn’t make him run off in the middle of the night down streets that I’m pretty sure he’s never even seen before.
I absolutely did not lose the future king of Adria.
Or so I tell myself over and over throughout the night.
By the next morning I’m not entirely sure that anyone is going to believe me.
Maybe he made it back, I tell myself. He’s a big boy—just a year younger than me. By the time I was his age I’d already lived a dozen lifetimes. But Thomas isn’t like that. He’s lived his whole life behind walls and gates and fences so high that the outside world never stood a shot of seeping in.
By his age, I was nestled deep inside a shell that was growing harder and harder every day. The world could still harm Thomas, I know, and that’s what scares me.
I should tell someone, I think. But who? And what should I say exactly?
Funny story. So last night, I snuck out of the palace to go see the boy I like and my friends who are trying to prove that the royal family are murdering psychos, but then my pseudo-boyfriend’s mom—who is an actual psycho—freaked out and I had to leave. Oh, and the prince followed me and heard all of this and then he freaked out and ran into the city and I didn’t know where to find him, so I just gave up and came back. Now what’s for breakfast?
No. I don’t think that would help matters at all, so I don’t say a word of it.
But I have to do something, I know, as I slide my mother’s puzzle box beneath my bed, then dress and start downstairs.
I have to find my friends and divvy up the city.
Rosie and I can take the tunnels; Noah and Lila can scour the area around Embassy Row. It’s possible Megan might be able to access some of the city’s street-level surveillance cameras—maybe they caught a glimpse of the runaway prince.
It’s not too late to find him, I tell myself.
It’s going to be okay, I lie.
But as soon as I set foot on the first floor I know nothing is okay. The palace is alive, swarming with guards and uniformed members of the staff. It is a whirl of hushed words and hurried, frantic footsteps. For a second, I think I’m too late. That they know. Or, worse, that something has happened. This is what tragedy looks like, life has taught me. The palace is never supposed to be in disarray.
Everywhere I turn there are guards and workers and … florists.
I stop on the stairs and look down at the big room where I first met the royal family. Suddenly, I realize that this is a different kind of chaos.
“The party,” I tell myself as I remember the king’s coronation and the anniversary and the gala. I didn’t think it was possible, but it’s suddenly a whole lot harder to admit I might have lost their prince.
When the butler starts toward me, though, I know what I have to do.
“Good morning, miss,” he says with a bow. “Is there anything you might require this morning?”
I stay silent a little too long, but the butler doesn’t move. My tells are too obvious, too automatic. I’ll never lose them now, I think as I realize my hands are shaking and my heart has started to pound.
“Miss?” he says.
“Prince Thomas …” I start. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen him?”
“Why, yes, miss.”
“Because I didn’t ask him to—Wait. What?”
“His Highness is in the south corridor, miss. Is there anything else you might need?”
I’m too numb to speak. It’s not until the butler turns and starts back up the stairs that I ask, “How do you get to the south corridor?”
I’ve found the prince, but as I rush through the crowded halls of the palace I realize I have no idea what I’m going to say when I reach him. Do I explain? Do I pander or condescend?
Some might tell him that he’s crazy—that he didn’t see what he saw or hear what he heard. But I could never do that to another human being, so I make up my mind to do the craziest thing of all: tell him the truth.
I don’t know what to expect. Maybe the prince is rallying the troops, alerting the media, running away? Maybe he wants to get as far from the crazy new girl as possible. I certainly wouldn’t blame him. I’d love to run away from me, too, most of the time.
This is a boy who has just learned that he has no actual claim to the throne he’s been promised since birth, that his spouse has already been chosen for him, and that everyone he loves might want me dead.
Maybe he’s decided to agree with them.
I may be running into anything, I realize, and still, as I turn the corner, I’m utterly surprised by what I see. Because not only is the prince standing in the corridor, looking out the massive windows, but he is not alone.
“Hello, Ms. Blakely,” the king says. “We’ve been expecting you.”
For a moment the whole thing is so surreal that I forget where I am—who I’m talking to. But then Thomas gives me a silent signal and I drop into the world’s most awkward curtsy before the king.
Before the man whose family wants me dead.
As I slowly rise, it’s all I can do to keep myself rooted—to make myself calm. The prince should be screaming for the palace guards, but it is just another morning as far as anyone could tell.
They don’t look like king and heir, surveying their kingdom. They look like a grandson who has sought out his grandfather, needing a little advice.
My anxiety turns to full-on panic.
Then I see the object in the prince’s hands, and my panic turns to rage.
“What is that?” I shout, but I already know what it is. I recognize the color and the shape and now, in hindsight, the brief recognition in the prince’s eyes last night when Megan mentioned my mother’s puzzle box and pulled it from her backpack.
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“You got that out of my room? How dare you? That’s mine! I’ve given up my life for you people. The least you can do is leave me a sliver of privacy.”
“I didn’t go into your room,” Thomas says, defensive.
“That was my mother’s—give it to me.” I lunge for the box, but the prince steps back, out of reach.
I don’t care that I sound like a petulant, spoiled child. I still snap, “Give it to me now!”
But when I lunge for the prince again, I find a seventy-year-old monarch standing in my way.
The king’s voice is kind but strong. He doesn’t sound like a killer when he tells me, “This box was not your mother’s, Ms. Blakely.”
For a second, I’m so stunned that I recoil. That’s one of the curses of being me. I’m never really sure that I’m not lying.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” I say. I need to be strong. “But you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No, I’m the one who is sorry, Ms. Blakely. I should explain. This is not your mother’s box, you see. I know because this box is mine.”
The king turns and takes the box from his grandson. Carefully, he pushes and pulls the ornate carvings until, with a snap, the box pops open. He tips it on its side, and out slides a very old-fashioned key. He holds it up before me.
“Do you know what this is?” he asks.
“A key?” I say. I’m not trying to sound flippant. I’m just so tired and worn that I can’t help it anymore.
The king smiles. “Not just any key, Ms. Blakely. This is a key to the kingdom. And I mean that quite literally. It fits these gates, you see.”
But he’s not pointing toward the front of the palace. He’s pointing toward the tall iron gates that stand at the end of the south corridor. I realize that there is a sort of courtyard on the other side, and that is where the king leads us.
“Two hundred years ago the palace was smaller,” he explains. “And, these were the gates that the guards threw open the night the royal family was killed and the coup began.”