On the street below, people are pushing through the crowds, going somewhere. There is a charge in the air, and even inside I can feel it. The sun begins to dip below the horizon and the shadows come to Embassy Row.
“You know Alexei didn’t do it,” I tell her, but I’m still surprised to hear her say, “Of course.”
“Do you know who did?” I ask.
I don’t know what I’m expecting her to say, but I’m disappointed when she shakes her head. “No, dear. I do not.”
I think about the secret rooms and tunnels and the memory of Ms. Chancellor in a nearly abandoned street, holding a smoking gun.
“Ms. Chancellor, about the prime minister …”
“Alexandra Petrovic is acting prime minister, dear.”
“I wasn’t asking about her.”
Eleanor Chancellor isn’t a cold woman. But the look she gives me might turn the Mediterranean to ice. But I can’t stop — not now.
“About what happened … did I ever say thank you?”
For being there. For believing in me. For saving my life.
“Really, Grace.” The smile she gives me is almost blinding. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
But she does know. Of course she does. But the truth is one more thing that I know she’ll never say.
“Now go on,” Ms. Chancellor tells me with a playful push toward the stairs.
“Go where?” I ask.
“Out. The Festival of the Fortnight begins tonight, you know.” She looks at me over the top of her glasses. “Oh, Grace, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. It’s a very important part of Adrian history. And a very big party.” There is an uncharacteristic twinkle in her eye. I think for a moment that she might be teasing. Then I think better of it. Eleanor Chancellor does not tease.
“I’m not in a partying mood,” I tell her.
“I’m not asking, Grace. You need to get out of this building and enjoy yourself for a little while.” She points toward the stairs. “Now go. Your guests are waiting.”
Is she speaking as my grandfather’s chief of staff or as my surrogate mother? Or maybe this is part of the Society. Maybe I’m not supposed to know.
Then I wonder, What guests?
When I reach the entryway, Megan and Noah are already there. She is leaning against his shoulder as they both look at her phone. His cheek touches the top of her head. Their embrace is so comfortable, so easy, that I almost feel guilty for having seen it.
“Hey,” Noah says when he sees me. He doesn’t pull immediately away from Megan, though — as if they’ve been caught. They aren’t doing anything wrong, I guess. Technically, there’s no shame in being happy.
“Awesome. You’re here,” Megan says, and Noah reaches for the door. “I told you not to underestimate Ms. Chancellor,” she tells him before stepping outside.
“Come on,” Noah almost yells over the chants of the protestors. “Let’s go.”
I haven’t seen him this excited in ages. Not since the night we met, when he took me to Lila’s party on the cliffs. It was only a few weeks ago, but it seems like a lifetime. It was Before.
Before my brother came and his friend died. Before the streets were filled with protests and cries. Before I knew the truth about my mother and what I did.
Before I figured out that I am the villain of my own story.
I want to pull away from Noah, go back inside. But his grip on my hand is too strong as he loops an arm around Megan’s shoulders and leads us out beyond the gates.
Dusk is settling over Valancia, and the crowd is smaller. But barricades still line the sidewalk, keeping the protestors in the street. Adrian police officers rush toward us, ushering us farther from the embassy, away from the chanting mob.
We walk through the bright lights that shine upon the reporters who stand in the street with US and Russia over their shoulders, the embassies spotlighted in the glare. It’s the middle of the day in the States, I have to remind myself. And cable news isn’t going to let this story die. Not yet. We live in a twenty-four-hour news cycle and this story has only begun.
When we reach the edge of the crowd I know I’m safe, but I have to look back — like Lot’s wife. I’m almost afraid I’ll turn to salt. But I don’t see the city burning. No. I see a boy with black hair and blue eyes standing before a second-story window of the building next door.
Alexei raises his hand in something that isn’t quite a wave but isn’t a salute. It’s more like he’s pushing me away, telling me to save myself.
So I look straight ahead. I swear I won’t look back again.
When we reach the Israeli embassy we turn and start up the street that rises steadily to the palace and the center of town. The farther we get from Russia, the more the city seems to change. The angry cries grow fainter, but the streets are anything but empty, and the closer we get to the palace, the rowdier the crowd becomes. We are surrounded by laughter and talking, big raucous groups of tourists and older couples who walk together, hand in hand. It’s like all of Adria is heading toward the palace.
Then I think about Alexei — about Jamie.
Well, almost all of Adria.
“So what is all of this, exactly?” I ask.
Noah turns, walking backward for a moment, shocked indignation on his face. “You spent every summer of your childhood here and you don’t know what tonight is?”
It’s like I’ve just told him that I think all puppies are evil.