I try not to look at the television cameras or Thomas and his father. I don’t want to notice how there are representatives from every royal family in Europe and the Middle East—presidents and prime ministers from many others.
I don’t want the world to see me, know me—to have verified once and for all that I am exactly as crazy as advertised.
“The day before the king died, he and I had a conversation. He was a really nice man. A good man. And when he found out I was in trouble, he wanted to help me, and …” I choke back a sob and try to find the words. “I suppose everyone knows now that the king isn’t alone here today. You’ve all no doubt heard the news that we recently found the lost tomb of King Alexander the Second and his wife and sons. What you might not remember is that he had a daughter, too. And the daughter’s remains aren’t here because … well … the daughter lived.”
A shocked murmur goes through the crowd, but I can’t stop now. If I stop, I may never start again, so I keep talking.
“For generations, some people have believed that there would always be a threat to Adria so long as Amelia lived. As long as her descendants lived. But the king never believed that. No. He knew there would always be a threat so long as Amelia’s descendants remained a secret. And so I stand before you today …”
I take a deep breath.
“My name is Grace Olivia Blakely, and I am a lost princess of Adria.” The murmurs grow louder just as, at the back of the cathedral, doors open. “And I’m not the only one.”
My heart is in my throat when I see the boy who is now walking down the center aisle toward me. His back is straight and his steps are strong—only a faint trace of a limp remains. And I want to cry because my brother is alive and well and here and so handsome he is like the sun and it almost hurts to look at him.
But, most of all, my brother is not alone.
A parade of men and women follow. Some are teens like us. Some are small children. Most are grown men and women in the prime of life. I’ve never met them, but I know them. And I know exactly why they’re here and what they want.
Freedom.
We don’t want the throne. We don’t want fame or fortune or the responsibilities that come with a kingdom.
“There are sixty-three of us,” I say into the microphone. “Sixty-three living, breathing descendants of the king and queen who we lay to rest today.” Megan inches up beside me and slips me a stack of papers. They’re cool and almost heavy in my hands as I hold them up for the world to see.
“And I give you sixty-three signed documents, stating that we have, every one of us, chosen to abdicate the throne.”
A kind of gasp goes through the crowd—a ripple through the world. Then I find Thomas and his father where they sit on the front row. “Your father was a good man, Your Highness. A great king. And you and Prince Thomas deserve his legacy. The rest of us?” I can’t help myself. I laugh. “We want to earn our own.”
For a moment, I forget about the cameras and the crowd, and I think about the secrets that have brought us here.
Then I look at Thomas. I remember the one that’s set us free.
Winter doesn’t feel like it used to. After the fires of my life, I should never feel cold again. But I do. Jamie would warn that it’s because I’m too thin. Noah would tease and say it’s because I have a cold heart. But Alexei doesn’t say anything. He just puts his arm around me and pulls me close as we wait for the door.
Ms. Chancellor is there when it opens. I’m reminded of my first day back on Embassy Row, of the teasing, cautious look in her brown eyes as she studied me, like she couldn’t quite decide whether or not I was as crazy as advertised. I was more. And I was less. And so it shouldn’t be any surprise that I would end up here eventually.
“It’s time,” Ms. Chancellor says, her voice no louder than a whisper and yet it seems to echo when she leads us inside the cold, sterile room.
The walls are gray and cinder block. The light’s a harsh fluorescent glare. There is wire on the windows and stains on the ceiling, and just this room alone would be enough to make my palms sweat, my pulse race. Part of me wants to close my eyes and rock and pulse with the tension that is always thrumming inside of me.
But another part of me never wants to close my eyes again.
So I ease forward slowly. I choke out the word “Hello.”
The woman on the bed is in a hospital-issued gown that gaps in the back. The sheets are stiff; I know without even touching them. They’ve been bleached so much and for so long that they’ll be raw against her skin. She’ll itch but she won’t be able to scratch. The leather restraints that bind her wrists are too tight—the shearling lining is no doubt stiff and tough and rancid after years of other people’s sweat and blood and anguish.
For a second, I just stand here, slightly out of reach, rubbing my own wrists, fighting the force inside me that is always there, like an undertow, threatening to pull me back in time.
But the voice from the bed keeps me here.
“Let me loose,” the woman snaps. She sounds imperial despite the burns that have scarred her skin, the wild look in her eyes, and the rough, jagged edges of her hastily chopped hair.
I ease into the chair near the bed, try to soften my tone. “You should be careful, you know. You don’t want to hurt yourself.”
She jerks in her restraints. “I don’t belong here!” she is shouting as Ms. Chancellor steps closer. There’s a doctor at her side. The hospital is taking us very seriously, I know. This is a high-profile case.
“She appears to be overwrought,” Ms. Chancellor says to the doctor. “She may need something.”
The doctor nods and reaches into the pocket of his lab coat. “I agree.”
I don’t know what’s in the vial. I don’t care. They all feel the same on the inside. They’re supposed to feel like peace, like bliss. But to me they always felt like your heart was covered with frostbite. They made me so numb I actually burned.
I watch her face fill with terror as the doctor injects the drugs.
“What is that? No! No! Let me loose. Free me this instant. I’m the princess of Adria and I demand to be freed!”
Since the funeral, people all over the globe have been claiming a place as one of Amelia’s descendants. Lost princesses are a dime a dozen, and no one takes her seriously. The doctor never even bats an eye.
Ms. Chancellor’s mouth ticks up and she tries to smooth the woman’s hair. “Rest now, Karina. You’re in good hands.”
“My name is Ann!” the woman shouts. “I’m Princess Ann of Adria, and I command you to free me now!”
The doctor studies her, as if he’s starting to see the resemblance despite the burns that mar her face, but the scars are too much and we are all so sure. “She is clearly very troubled,” the man observes. But I must say, she and the princess do resemble one another. You say they were friends once?”
“Yes,” Alexei says. “As girls. Then they became estranged. My mother was always … spirited …”
Then the doctor leans down. “Your son has brought you to us and we’re going to take good care of you, Karina.”
Her eyes are wild. “Do you know who I am? My name is Ann! I’m Princess Ann and …”
The moment the drugs enter her system, the woman on the bed’s outrage starts to fade, replaced by an eerie, surreal kind of calm.
“Do you know who I am?” she asks again, and this time it’s really a question.
“Rest, Karina,” Ms. Chancellor says. Then she adds, too low for the doctor to hear, “You will never be able to hurt yourself or anyone else ever again.”
Her eyes are heavy. It’s like the drugs and the lies and the misery are trying to drag her under. Soon, she might even give up the fight and go, so Alexei leans down and looks into eyes that are nothing like his own.
“Good-bye, Karina. I think you’re exactly where you belong.”
The woman tries to fight again, to scream, but no sound comes and everyone shuffles quietly to
ward the door.
Everyone, that is, except me.
For a moment I’m alone inside a memory. A nightmare. I take a deep breath and remind myself that I’m a long way from being the girl on the bed.
“I didn’t do anything!” she yells to no one in particular. She struggles against her restraints, which is a mistake, I know. But she’ll learn for herself soon enough. “I didn’t do anything!” she yells again.
I ease close and lean down. My voice is a whisper.
“It’s okay, Ann,” I tell her. “It’s not your fault. It was an accident.”
Then I turn and walk away.
When I was twelve years old, I broke my leg jumping off the wall between Canada and Germany. I had something to prove then, some competition with myself that I didn’t even know I wasn’t winning.
Now years have passed and I’m back up here, high atop a wall that my ancestors convinced their husbands to build. It has kept Adria safe for a thousand years, standing guard against whatever enemies might float in on the tide.
I built my walls higher. Thicker. Stronger. But as I sit here watching the sun dip on the far side of the Mediterranean, I can feel them start to crack.
For the first time in a long time, I’d be content to let them crumble altogether.
When I hear a noise, I turn.
And for the first time in a long time, I am not afraid.
“I thought I’d find you here,” Alexei says, but he doesn’t even have to say that, really. He just gives me a look, and I know he knows what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling. He puts an arm around my shoulders, and I know he feels it, too.
“Here you are!” Rosie’s voice carries on the wind. Then she turns and shouts back to Germany. “She’s up here!”
And soon Rosie and Noah and Megan are climbing onto the wall and taking a place beside me. A moment later, Lila’s here, too, with Jamie following behind. He’s not as strong as he was, not as fast. But when my brother smiles and throws back his head and laughs at something Lila is saying, he’s more golden than the sun, and that feels right. Perfect. We sit with our legs thrown over the high balustrades that were made to shelter archers and lookouts and guards.
But we are the lookouts now, and our battle is over.
Only Megan dares to break the silence. “Hey, Grace, how’s Thomas?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “His mom’s gone and his dad is king.” Thomas saved my life, but he changed his world, and I know better than anyone how far and how fast those ghosts can chase you. “I don’t think anyone knows how Thomas is and probably won’t for a really long time.”
“Uh … about that.” Rosie actually stumbles. I never thought I’d hear timidity in her voice, but she sounds almost afraid as she admits, “He and I … talk. Sometimes.”
Now it’s Noah’s turn to laugh as he turns to Rosie and raises an eyebrow.
“What?” She shrugs. “People like me. I am very likeable. And he’s kind of freaked out because … well, because of everything. And also because his dad wants him to be more in touch with the people from now on, so he’s going to start at the international school tomorrow.”
“Just like Gracie,” Alexei says, taking hold of my hand.
I hope the world never knows exactly how much Thomas and I have in common. I hope Thomas never knows, either. Maybe his ghosts will stay locked up in the middle of nowhere. I wish for him only the very best kinds of crazy.
Ms. Chancellor is inside, returning phone calls and briefing my grandpa, who is back to work part-time. I have a school uniform laid out on my bed. A stack of brand-new notebooks and pens. This is my new normal, and I know I’m supposed to eat something, start getting ready for bed. But I’ve spent so much of my life looking back that I can’t waste this chance to look forward for just a little while longer.
The sun is at the horizon now, and the sky streaks with reds and golds. The whole world seems to be wearing a halo, and for a second I let myself savor it.
I let myself believe.
Alexei’s arm is warm around my shoulders and a cool breeze blows in off the sea. Between us, we speak seven different languages, but not a one of us says a word.
We sit in silence as the sun sets, marking the end of the day.
Marking the beginning of everything else.
ALLY CARTER is the New York Times bestselling author of All Fall Down and See How They Run, the first two books in the Embassy Row series, as well as the Gallagher Girls and Heist Society series. Her books have been published all over the world, in over twenty languages. You can visit her online at www.allycarter.com.
Copyright © 2017 by Ally Carter
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available
First edition, January 2017
Cover design by Yaffa Jaskoll
Cover art © 2017 by Kenneth Choi
Cover photography by Michael Frost
e-ISBN 978-0-545-65498-2
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Ally Carter, Take the Key and Lock Her Up
(Series: Embassy Row # 3)
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