I dream of ghosts.
Some are floating on the waves and others lie in clouds of smoke, but all are just out of my reach. I’m far too late to save them. And yet I try, over and over, tossing and turning until my legs are tangled in my sheets and I’m covered in sweat.
I blame it on the chaos that’s filled the embassy for hours, on the meds that I’m not taking. It’s natural, I tell myself, to be haunted. But as I lie somewhere in that place between sleep and wake, it takes a while to realize that I’m not making up the voices.
“Ah, she looks so sweet.”
“Should we wake her?”
“Don’t touch her! I touched her once. It was a mistake.”
Slowly, the whispers penetrate the haze that surrounds me and pull me gently from the dream.
When I open my eyes, Rosie’s face is inches from mine. “Good morning!” Her voice is too chipper and entirely too loud. I don’t know what time it is, but the room is bright, and decidedly not empty.
“Good. You’re up,” Megan says, plopping down on the foot of my bed.
“Now I am.”
Slowly, I push upright, trying to hide my worry. Was I talking in my sleep? Did they hear me? What dream was it this time? I have to wonder as I look at my friends, hoping they didn’t hear enough to figure out any of my secrets.
“What are you two doing here?”
“Three!” a voice calls through the window.
I throw off my covers and go over to look out at Noah. He’s trying to ease his way onto one of the limbs of the tree outside, but he’s bigger than Megan and Rosie, and the limb is bending under his weight. He has a death grip on the tree trunk and all the color has drained from his face.
“Rosie, how do you make this look so easy?” he asks.
Rosie shrugs. “I’m little, but I’m strong.”
“Noah,” I say slowly, “why don’t you try coming in through the door?”
Noah shakes his head. He keeps his gaze on the ground. “Can’t.”
“Noah, you’re gonna get yourself killed breaking into the US embassy. And I’m pretty sure, diplomatically speaking, that’s frowned upon. Now climb down and come to the door like a sane person.”
I have no right to question anybody’s sanity, but my friends don’t know enough to say so.
“That’s the thing, Grace …” Rosie looks up at me. “We had to climb over from Germany because the main gates are kind of busy.”
I’m just starting to say something when the limb cracks. Noah winces, and I turn and yell, “Are you coming in or aren’t you?”
“I’m good out here. You guys just … talk loudly.”
“Talk about what?” I’m still half asleep, and I really need to go to the bathroom. I want to eat something and go back to bed and wake up when I can convince myself that the last twenty-four hours were a dream. But they weren’t. I can tell by the looks on my friends’ faces. “What are you guys doing here?”
Megan and Rosie share a glance, and then Megan steps slowly forward.
“Grace, we have a problem.” That’s when I notice she’s holding her phone.
There’s a video paused on the screen, and Megan presses PLAY. At first, the screen is too small for me to make out the moving image. For a second, I don’t know what I’m watching.
“What is it?” I ask.
Megan turns up the volume and instantly the audio fills my silent room. Only then do I recognize the flickering light of the bonfire, hear the sickening sounds of the hits.
And when Alexei shouts, “Touch her again, and I will kill you,” the words are as clear as a bell.
“There were four different versions from four different angles uploaded the morning after the party,” Megan says. “You can hear him say it on every one.”
“That’s online?” I ask, panic rising. “Who put it up? We’ve got to get it taken down. Now.”
But Megan is shaking her head. “You don’t understand, Grace. It’s on the Internet. It’s everywhere.”
I remember that night on the beach, the panic I felt as I saw people were recording the fight, and I realize that a part of me always knew this was going to happen. But no part of me ever guessed that Spence would be dead when it did.
“There are millions of videos online. I mean, nobody’s gonna see it, right? Megan, tell me nobody will see it!”
“Grace …” Megan starts.
But Rosie has already picked up the remote control and is turning on the little TV I never watch. One of the perks of embassy life is that we get pretty much every station. All the ones in Adria. A lot of the news outlets covering Europe and Asia and the Middle East. And, especially, the US.
I’m not sure which channel the TV is on, but as soon as the picture becomes clear, I recognize the fire, the hits, and the words of the boy next door.
“I will kill you.”
I grab the remote control and click to the next station. And the next. And the next. On every one, the footage is the same — a constant loop of violence mixed in with the droning of “experts,” none of whom actually know Alexei. But that doesn’t stop them from talking. Words like diplomatic immunity and Adria and murder fill my room like a fog. Like smoke.
And on the bottom of every screen scrolls the same clear message: Murdered West Point Cadet Brutally Attacked and Threatened by Russian Ambassador’s Son.
We live in a twenty-four-hour news cycle, and as I slept, the world started to care about a stupid fight at a stupid party. About two stupid boys who just had to lash out at each other.
Because of me.
“Where are you going?” Rosie says when I bolt from my room. I can feel her behind me, keeping pace at my heels, but I don’t slow down.
“Grace, where are you going?” Megan calls.
“To fix it.”
“You can’t fix it!” Megan says, but I’m not listening.
“Where’s my grandpa?” I ask her, barreling down the stairs of the residence, racing toward the offices. “Have you seen him? We have to issue a statement, or …”
It’s not until I reach the landing that I hear the noise — the yells. It’s different from the shouting on the beach. These aren’t cries of fear or terror. No, it’s lower somehow. A steady, rumbling hum on the other side of the big round window that looks out onto the street.
And then I see them. The entire street is blocked off, and where there are usually buses and pedestrians, at least a hundred people stand. They carry signs and American flags and chant, demanding justice. Russia’s gates are tightly closed against the mob, but their cries fill the street.
Rosie cuts her eyes at me. “It’s too late to fix it.”
My friends don’t follow me to my grandfather’s office, and I can’t blame them. Embassy kids are supposed to be good at blending into the wallpaper and making ourselves scarce. We’re not supposed to charge into the center of international drama. But I’m pretty sure we’re not supposed to cause any international drama either. That’s why I find myself pushing down the hall, rushing toward the big double doors that are almost always closed, especially to me.
But when I notice they’re open just a crack, I stop. When I hear voices, I can’t help myself. I listen.
“We will have to speak with her.” I don’t recognize the woman’s voice, so I risk creeping a little closer and allow myself to peek through the slim crack in the open door.
“Now, I just don’t think that’s gonna be possible.” Grandpa’s tone is hard, but the Tennessee is heavy in his voice. Whatever he wants, he’s trying to get it with his own special cocktail of charm and determination.
“You may posture and complain all you like, Mr. Ambassador. But Adrian officials must be allowed to interview the girl.”
“Absolutely not,” my grandpa says, and I don’t have to wonder what girl they might be speaking of.
The girl who is too fragile.
The girl who is too weak.
The girl who is too broken.
“Why don??
?t you question the boy?” From Grandpa, it isn’t a question. It’s a challenge. And my first thought is my brother. Grandpa sees no reason to hide Jamie.
But then the woman says, “The boy is here on a black passport. Of course we haven’t questioned him.”
Now I know they’re speaking about Alexei.
I’m not surprised to hear the Russians are playing the diplomatic immunity card, but I wish they weren’t. After all, Alexei doesn’t have anything to hide. Alexei isn’t me.
I hear the clicking of high heels, watch a white-haired woman walk across my grandfather’s office, admiring the art on the walls as if she has all day to answer the US ambassador’s questions.
“I have come as a favor, Mr. Ambassador.”
“Are we really going to be so formal, Madame Prime Minister? You used to call me Bill. Or William when you were angry.”
“And you used to be a better flirt,” the woman says. “I didn’t have to come to you myself, you know.”
“I do know.” Grandpa nods. “And I thank you.”
“I could step outside right now and tell the world that the US is refusing to cooperate with this investigation. Would you prefer I do that?”
“Threats, Alexandra? And here I thought we were having so much fun.”
“I am here because we want a resolution.”
“As do we,” Grandpa says.
“We cannot have this spiraling into something more of a spectacle than it already is.”
“You call the death of a West Point candidate a spectacle?”
“With all due respect, Mr. Ambassador, there are approximately two hundred people and two dozen television cameras outside at this very moment who are proving my point for me.”
“A United States citizen is dead and —”
“Alexei didn’t do it!”
When I push open the doors and step inside I see them look around as if wondering whether or not their discussion might have conjured me. Well, now I’m in their midst, and I can tell that neither of them is entirely sure what to do about it.
“Gracie,” Grandpa snaps. “Go to your room. I’ll speak to you later.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, Grandpa. Is this a bad time?”
I grin and turn to study the woman in my grandfather’s office. I look from her white hair worn in a sleek, chic bob all the way down to the tips of her designer heels. She’s so polished she reminds me of … Grandpa. But the Adrian Lady version. She is diplomacy personified.
Something in my look must tell Grandpa that he’d have to summon the marines to drag me from this room, so he finally gestures in my direction.
“Madame Prime Minister, would you do me the courtesy of allowing me to introduce my granddaughter, Grace? Grace, you have the privilege of meeting Adria’s acting prime minister, Ms. Alexandra Petrovic.”
The last time I was this close to an Adrian prime minister I was at the wrong end of a gun. But I guess a week can change things. A week can change everything.
“Hello, Grace,” the woman says.
“Isn’t it your first week on the job?” I ask her.
“It is,” she says with a laugh. “It seems I’m going to have to — what is it you Americans say? — hit the ground running.”
The smile she gives me never quite reaches her eyes. This isn’t a chat, a friendly visit. I have to wonder what she’s heard about me. Does she know I’m the reason the man who had the job before her is in a coma right now and probably isn’t going to make it?
Well, I think, remembering, I’m part of the reason.
There’s a small door that separates my grandfather’s office from Ms. Chancellor’s. It doesn’t look like a door, though — the red wallpaper and white wainscoting simply swing forward on a nearly invisible hinge. As a kid, I thought it was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. My very first secret passage.
The very first of many, I have to think as the door swings open and Ms. Chancellor steps inside.
“Oh, good. Here you are,” Grandpa says, gesturing her closer. “Madame Prime Minister, you know my chief of staff, Eleanor Chancellor?”
Ms. Chancellor steps forward and takes the prime minister’s outstretched hand. “Madame Prime Minister, so nice to see you again. Please forgive me. If I’d known you were coming I would have met you downstairs myself.”
But the prime minister pushes Ms. Chancellor’s worries away. “That’s quite all right. It was an unexpected stop. I’d prefer to keep this visit … informal.”
That prime ministers don’t just pop by to visit foreign ambassadors is something nobody in the room says but everyone in the room knows.
“To what do we owe the pleasure?” Ms. Chancellor asks, and I can feel the air start to turn. Grandpa can flirt and cajole, thicken his accent and lay on the charm. But that’s not going to work on the new prime minister of Adria, and Ms. Chancellor knows it. Probably because she knows it wouldn’t work on her either.
I look from Adria’s new prime minister to the woman who shot the old one, and for a second my heart begins to pound and my mouth goes dry. I forget about Spence and Alexei and the protesting crowds outside, and I think about what would happen if the truth about that night ever came to light, if the Society and their cover-up failed.
If that happened, there would be no end to the shouting.
I’m looking at Ms. Chancellor, trying to keep the panic from my eyes, when Ms. Petrovic says, “We would very much like to ask Grace some questions.”
“Absolutely not,” my grandfather interrupts. “Grace, you —”
I don’t let him finish. I just tell her, “I don’t have anything to hide.”
I have everything to hide.
“We have found ourselves in a bad situation at a very bad time.”
Ms. Chancellor raises an eyebrow. “When exactly is a good time, Madame Prime Minister?”
“I simply meant that —”
“I know what you meant,” Ms. Chancellor says. “The Festival of the Fortnight begins tonight and the streets will be overrun with tourists. The death of an American citizen is bad for business.”
“Tourism is Adria’s largest industry. I won’t apologize for that fact. I can’t have Americans making speeches on television and calling for Russian heads on spikes. We haven’t done that in Adria for two hundred years, I’m happy to say.”
“Yes. Well, the last time it didn’t end so well, did it?” Grandpa challenges, finally getting into the fight.
The prime minister studies him, a glint in her eye. “No. It did not. And I believe we shall all spend the next two weeks remembering.”
“Irony is an amazing thing, is it not?” Ms. Chancellor says.
The women stare each other down with cool indifference that has to be anything but. Does she know the truth about Ms. Chancellor and her predecessor? Does Grandpa? How deep and how far does this conspiracy go?
But the adults around me are so calm. I half expect my grandfather to smile and say By the way, Alexandra, did you know Eleanor is the one who shot your predecessor and then had her secret society librarian friends orchestrate a massive international cover-up? Would you like some tea?
It’s Ms. Chancellor’s voice that finally breaks through my foggy brain. “Grace went to the party at about nine. She was home by ten-thirty. She and her brother would have passed at least two dozen surveillance cameras between here and the city gates, and you are welcome to check ours if you would like.”
“Mr. Spencer stayed at the party?” the woman asks me.
“Yes.”
“And the fight?”
“You’ve seen the video.”
“Yes. I have.” Her smile is so cold that I can’t help but remember that the last man who held her job wanted me dead. I start to wonder if that’s one of the responsibilities that comes with the position.
“There. Was that so hard?” the prime minister says. “However, I do also need to ask you to control your people, Mr. Ambassador. These things do have a tendency to turn ugly.”
br /> “They are not my people. And they are not out of control.”
The woman laughs. “There is a mob outside, sir, who would disagree with you.” She pierces my grandfather with a glare and reaches for the door. “Valancian police will monitor the crowds and keep the peace on our side of the fence. I strongly urge you to do what you can from your side.” She shifts her gaze onto me. “Grace, it has been so nice to meet you. Now, I’m afraid I should be going.”
“Of course,” Grandpa tells her. “It’s a busy day. I appreciate you taking the time.”
When she reaches the door she stops and looks back. “We’ll reach a solution, William. And the US will be happy with it.”
As soon as the prime minister is gone, I look at Grandpa. I’m pretty sure he’s already noticed that it wasn’t a question.
After I leave my grandpa’s office I lie on my bed for hours, wondering what’s worse, the chanting of the mob outside or the pounding that fills my head. Over and over and over. I know that it can’t kill me, and yet I think it might. Maybe a part of me wishes that it would. Anything to make the pounding stop.
I have to make the pounding stop.
Before I realize it, I’m bolting from my room and down the stairs at the back of the building. They’re only used by staff, so no one sees me as I push out into the courtyard, chasing the pound, pound, pound that beats like a telltale heart, reminding me over and over that something is terribly wrong. After all, it’s not the first time I’ve found Jamie shooting hoops behind the embassy. It’s just the first time I’ve ever found him here alone.
“Jamie!” I yell, but it’s like he doesn’t even hear me.
“Jamie!” I shout again, but my brother keeps dribbling the basketball, bouncing it hard against the pavement. He doesn’t even look in my direction.
At the back of the embassy, the noise from the mob is softer, but I can still hear the chanting — the steady roar that rages, demanding justice be done. But no one asks for the truth.
When I walk closer, Jamie stops dribbling long enough to take aim at the basket. The ball swooshes through — nothing but net — and my brother grabs it, starts dribbling again. Pound, pound, pound. It makes me want to scream.