Take the Key and Lock Her Up

  I can see straight into her soul.

  “Mom learned the names of Amelia’s descendants.”

  Ann shifts and glances back at the guards who linger at the mouth of the bridge. She’s starting to shake in frustration. It’s something that happens a lot to the grown-ups who have to deal with me, but with Ann there’s something more.

  “Grace, the last time I saw you, your brother was bleeding all over the palace floor. Now tell me, is Jamie okay?” She’s not quite shouting, but her voice carries on the wind.

  My words are almost a whisper. “Did you know that Mom found Amelia?”

  Ann shakes her head. Frustration comes off of her in waves.

  “Grace, your mother and I were obsessed with that as girls. We hadn’t talked about it in ages. I haven’t thought about it in—”

  “Stop lying. I know she told you what she found. She probably couldn’t wait to call her best friend. Were you surprised? Was she? Or did my mother always think she might be Amelia’s descendant?”

  “Your mother and I hadn’t really spoken in years. We were very close as girls. And even in adulthood for a while, but then I became … but then I married, and she had you and your brother, and life took us in different directions. It was nothing specific. It was just life. It is simply something that happens. I wish I had known what she was doing. I wish I could have stopped her or helped her or—”

  “Stop lying to me!”

  People don’t shout at princesses. I can tell as soon as the words are free, but I don’t want to take them back. They are out. And they are almost magic.

  It’s like a spell is broken. Ann is still smiling, but her expression is morphing somehow. It’s more a smirk when she asks, “Have you been to the tomb? Have you seen it?”

  Numbly, I shake my head. They took my mother’s body to Adria, but I’ve never been able to bring myself to visit her grave.

  “Answer me, Grace!”

  “I … I’ve never been there!” I snap, and I don’t have to act confused and clueless. Lately, that’s my natural state.

  “Don’t play coy, Grace. Tell me what you know so I can help you.”

  This whole conversation must be another figment of my messed-up mind—like a dream where your English teacher keeps asking you why you didn’t bring a rhinoceros to the picnic. It doesn’t make any sense.

  People change. I know it. I’ve seen it. I have changed, that much is true. But people don’t change this quickly. In a matter of minutes, she’s morphed from meek to worried to outraged.

  Something isn’t right with her.

  No.

  Something isn’t right.

  The people who are looking at the touristy knickknacks on the vendor’s cart haven’t made a decision since we’ve been talking. They haven’t moved.

  The policemen who were wandering through the crowds haven’t wandered on. There’s a woman with a baby in a stroller. But that baby is too quiet—its mother too still.

  No one on this bridge is as they seem. Especially the woman before me.

  Now I don’t even try to hide it. I ease away, moving until my back hits the rail.

  “Who did you tell?” I demand of her. I’m tired of playing pretend. “Who knew you were meeting me here?”

  Ann shakes her head. She actually takes off her dark glasses, looks me in the eye. “No one. My husband doesn’t even know where I am. Or who I’m with.”

  “What about your father-in-law, the king?” I ask.

  Ann shakes her head, her eyes impossibly wide. “No, Grace. No one knows. I’d never tell …” She trails off, thinking. Recognition seems to dawn. “Grace, do you think the royal family would try to harm you?”

  I shrug. It’s all I can do not to laugh. The whole thing is so preposterous—too crazy even to be a dream.

  “Who else has so much reason to make Amelia’s heirs disappear?”

  “The Society!” she shouts, as if she’s held it in too long. “Sweetheart, there is so much that you don’t know. Your mother and I … They didn’t want her to dig into it. They wanted Amelia lost. They needed her to stay lost. Please tell me they don’t know where you are.”

  I don’t know what to say—who to trust—so I don’t say anything at all, and my silence is enough to make Ann panic.

  “Grace, come with me. I have Dominic’s men. I can keep you safe. Tell me where Jamie is so I can send some guards to help him. Grace?” She inches closer and closer.

  Closer.

  “Tell me!”

  “Like I said,” I say, moving along the railing toward the center of the bridge. “He died. Someone stabbed him outside the palace that night. You saw him. He was bleeding so much. I tried to stop it, but … he’s gone.”

  Ann squints against the sun. “I wish I knew if you were lying,” she says.

  “That’s okay.” I shrug. “I know you are.”

  And then the mask is gone completely, thrown away. It might as well be floating down the river below because the illusion is never, ever coming back.

  “You need to come to the palace, Grace.” Ann is pleading. “You’re one of us. You belong with us.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you!”

  “I can help you!” she cries. “Maybe something can be done. The royal family has vast resources. You could—”

  “No.”

  “Grace, your mother was my best friend. You know you can trust me.”

  At this, I finally do laugh, but there is no joy in it, no love or happiness.

  “No.” I shake my head. “I really don’t know that.” Then I stop laughing. I am just as serious as the situation when I say, “But there was one way to find out.”

  A cloud passes over the sun and for a split second there is shadow as Ann speaks, seemingly to no one.

  “Get her.”

  Everything happens at once. The clouds shift. In the distance, a siren sounds. And the guards at the ends of the bridge start toward Princess Ann and me. She doesn’t even try to stop me as I bolt away. That’s not her job. She has people for that, and the people don’t look happy. Two of the men are tall and strong. Even in their dark suits I can practically see their muscles rippling. I know they could sprint five miles without even breathing hard. I know because they’re like Dominic. Like my dad. Like Jamie.

  Or like Jamie used to be.

  With that thought I feel a fresh rush of anger and adrenaline. I don’t want to run away anymore. I want to turn and fight—to kick and claw until the whole world bleeds as much as my brother did.

  A few tourists are being ushered from the bridge, and the woman with the fake baby has left the carriage behind and is easing closer. She’s trained, I know. She wouldn’t be here—have this job—if she weren’t. But I’m trained, too, in my own way. I grew up wrestling on the living room floor with an Army Ranger, and I have the advantage of surprise and sheer unadulterated rage.

  The man who couldn’t choose a souvenir is on my other side. When the woman reaches for me, I sidestep and grab her arm, spin and whirl her toward the man who has no choice but to catch her.

  And then I run. I’m almost to the center of the bridge when I realize that the men on my right are no longer moving toward me. There is a blur of action—fists and kicks. Someone is spinning, yelling, “Gracie!”

  And then Alexei is here. Alexei is free. One of the men is falling over the edge, landing in the water below, and Alexei’s almost to me.

  He grabs my hand and yells, “Come on!” But I don’t move.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask him.

  Alexei turns on me, disbelief in his eyes. “What do you think I’m doing here?” He sounds like someone who is perfectly willing to fight me, too, but he’d rather not have to.

  The guards are closer now. I can feel the bridge getting smaller and smaller, almost like it’s burning from both ends. I’ve burned bridges before; I should know what it feels like.

  “Come on,” Alexei says, tugging me in the direction he’s just come fro
m.

  “No,” I say, pulling back and holding on.

  “Grace, we’ve got to get you out of here!” he shouts.

  But I just calmly drop his hand and step closer to the center of the bridge that arches high over the water. I’m almost to the highest part. To my right, I can see two guards charging toward us. To my left, I see more men coming and, of course, Alexei, who stands dumbfounded, as if wondering if the pressure has finally broken me. If maybe I’m crazy after all.

  “Grace!” he yells again, but I just hold out my hand.

  “Do you trust me?”

  This is it, I can tell. The big moment. I can hear the guards’ cries on the wind. There is no one on the bridge but these people who would take me away and this boy who only wants to protect me from anything—everything—especially myself.

  My hand is still outstretched, and I can almost read Alexei’s mind as he looks at me. Am I a screw-up? A kid sister? A killer.

  A princess?

  Am I someone he can trust, he wants to know.

  But time is running out, and I shake my outstretched hand. Instantly, Alexei takes it. I step onto the railing, and Alexei joins me, standing high above the water running below.

  His hand is warm in mine. So sure. So strong. For a second, I just feel it—feel him. He looks down into my eyes. Blue staring into brown. Neither of us blinks as we stand atop this bridge in the center of Paris.

  Maybe it’s the fatigue, the fear, or the sheer force of the adrenaline that is pounding in my veins, but I’m not thinking anymore. I just bring my free hand up and weave my fingers into Alexei’s dark hair, pull him close, and kiss him. Like maybe it’s the last thing I’ll ever do.

  And maybe it is.

  That’s the thing that this whole mess has taught me. My mother was a young woman, strong and healthy right up until the moment she died. My brother had most of his life in front of him, and he came within an inch of having it all slip away.

  I may never get off this bridge. I might die in Paris. Right here. Right now. But I won’t die alone, and for that I will always treasure Alexei.

  When we pull apart, there is a question in his blue eyes—fear and confusion and … hope? I don’t know. And it’s far too late to ask because there’s movement in the corner of my eye.

  The guards are almost here. Someone is yelling in French, words that feel like “Stop! Police!” My gaze is on the water. It ripples and flows like freedom, running out toward the sea. And then, I see it, the bow of a boat peeking out from beneath the bridge, running underneath us.

  It’s red and two stories, the boat equivalent of the bus that brought me here. I can actually hear a woman on the loudspeaker, explaining in rapid German the historical significance of the bridge they are passing under.

  They have no idea.

  And hopefully no one will ever know that this is the place where the rightful princess of Adria escaped from the usurper.

  I drop Alexei’s hand. When his eyes go wide, I say, “Thank you.”

  And then I jump, falling free, crashing to the roof of the ship below.

  A second later, Alexei follows.

  And then the boat is gone, too far from the bridge for anyone else to jump. As if anyone else would be that crazy.

  I barely catch my breath before I roll off the side of the little roof, grab the edge, and dangle for a moment, then drop lightly onto the deck below.

  Somewhere, the guide must have missed all the action, because she’s still talking. But the people on the deck gasp and scream at the sight of the windblown American girl who seems to have fallen from the sky. When a slightly confused Russian drops to the ground beside her, people scatter.

  “What was that?” Alexei practically screams.

  He doesn’t notice the tiny blond who is left standing alone on the deck once the tourists flee.

  “That was my plan,” Rosie tells him. “And it worked, I’ll have you know. My plans always work.”

  She’s got a cocky gleam in her eye. This is Rosie’s proudest moment, I can tell.

  She pauses for a second, listens to the woman on the speaker. “Okay,” she says. “We’re clear.”

  “Rosie,” Alexei says, trying to summon all of his calm, “what are you—”

  “Well, hello, stranger,” Noah says, and Alexei spins. “Enjoying Paris?” Noah asks as if we’ve all just bumped into one another outside the Louvre.

  Alexei looks at him and then glares at me. It’s a look that is the same in every language: I have some explaining to do. But I’m too worried to stop now.

  I turn to Noah. “Did we get it?”

  He shrugs. “There’s one way to know.”

  Then he and Rosie turn and start toward the stairs that lead to the lower levels. The steps are narrow and slick as I follow Noah, Alexei on our heels.

  Somehow, Alexei doesn’t seem surprised when we find Megan sitting by herself behind a laptop in the boat’s tiny café. Really, there’s just a couple of tables and a vending machine. No one else is here. The day’s too nice, and they didn’t pay good money to sit in a tiny room with only a sliver of a view.

  “We were right,” I say when I reach her. Megan barely looks up.

  Noah is tall enough to glance out the high windows, almost at the same level as the water. “Grace, what are the odds they’re going to follow us?”

  “Very, very good,” Alexei answers. He’s trying to control his worry and his anger. Trying. But failing.

  Megan has barely looked up from the laptop. Her fingers practically fly across the keys. “Did you get it?” I can’t keep the impatience—the fear—out of my voice.

  Megan pulls a cord out of the headphone jack. In the next instant, Princess Ann’s voice comes through the laptop’s speakers.

  “Grace, do you think the royal family would try to harm you?” Ann’s voice says. Then, a few moments later: “Get her.”

  It’s not a confession, but it’s not nothing. I’m not sure what this means. Is it leverage? Is it proof? Is this a recording that might guarantee my freedom and my brother’s safety?

  Not even close.

  But it’s a start. And it’s more than I had an hour ago. Most of all, now I know. Not everything, but the list of people I can trust just got a whole lot smaller. The good news is that the list of people I can depend on is growing, too.

  The train is almost empty. At least it feels that way as I sit in a forward-facing seat, looking out on the French countryside that is slowly going dark.

  The sun will be down soon, but it’s giving one last burst of light, and the countryside practically glows. It’s almost like the golden aura that is so well known in Adria.

  Almost.

  But not quite.

  I’m still hundreds of miles from Embassy Row, and I need for it to stay that way.

  I’m barely aware of movement, the feel of heat when Megan slides a steaming cup of tea into my hands. Only then do I realize that a woman is pushing a cart down the aisle, handing out fruit and coffee and bottles of water. I cup my hands around the warmth and start to thaw, but part of me feels like I will always be a little bit frozen.

  “Thank you,” I tell her.

  Megan shrugs. “It’s complimentary,” she says, but that’s not the point.

  “I wasn’t talking about the tea, you know.”

  “Yeah.” Megan slides a little container of honey in my direction. “I know.”

  My mom always took honey in her tea. Princess Ann knew that. She guessed that I would, too, when I went to see her at the palace last summer. Should I have known then what she was? What she would do? But Past Me has made so many mistakes that I can’t quite bear to add another one to the pile, so I force myself to look away.

  Megan also brought me a change of clothes. The jeans are soft, the sweater baggy and starting to fray, and I feel like maybe it’s her favorite—the comfortable, easy, carefree thing that she throws on for rainy afternoons when all a girl has to do is curl up in her favorite chair and rea
d. I know without asking that this is the sweater equivalent of macaroni and cheese—comfort food. I know my friend Megan somehow guessed that I would need it.

  “Thank you. For answering when I called. And for coming. And for … believing.”

  “Of course,” she says, as if it’s easy. Traipsing across a continent and setting up a sting operation on one of the most beloved women in the world. All on the say-so of a thoroughly messed-up teenage girl.

  “Thank you for believing me, Megan.”

  “Yeah, Grace.” She’s looking at me differently now. I think she can hear the tears I don’t dare cry. “Of course I believe you.”

  It’s a mistake, I want to say. I want to tell her how wrong I’ve been and for how long. For years, no one believed me. And the worst part is that they were right. I shouldn’t have been believed. Not then. Maybe not even now. There has been so much crazy inside of me for so long that I no longer have any sense about it. I’m the last person whose opinion on this subject should ever be trusted.

  But Megan trusted me. Trusts me still.

  And trust is like an invisible tightrope. Only a true friend dares to take a step.

  Megan is my true friend.

  I know that now. And I swear that I will never, ever forget it.

  “Are we really not going to talk about this?” Megan says.

  “Talk about what?” Rosie asks as she slides into the booth.

  Outside, it’s more dark than light now, and the countryside has all but disappeared from view. We could be anywhere. Anyone. In any time. It would be so very, very easy to get lost. But the people in this car won’t let me.

  I turn and stare out the window, but there is no missing Noah’s reflection in the dark glass, staring back. He catches my gaze and I know he never intends to let it go.

  “You disappeared, Grace,” he tells me.

  I look down at my hands, at the tea that’s growing colder by the second. In a moment it might freeze over. “I know.”