I do my best curtsy. I try out my most serene smile. I don’t trip or fall or knock anyone down, but I’m certain I’ve done something terribly, terribly wrong because the princess is staring at me, stunned. And it looks like she might be crying.
“You look like your mother,” she says softly, then turns her gaze to my grandfather. “She is exactly like Caroline.”
Grandpa’s hand is at my back. “I know.”
Then the princess’s hands are in mine and she is leaning close to me, kissing both of my cheeks, saying, “Hello, Grace. I am so glad to see you again.”
Again? Her wedding was on the cover of every magazine in America. When she finds a new favorite designer, it actually affects the stock market. She is one of the most famous women in the world. And, even with all my issues, I’m pretty sure if I’d met her I would remember.
But Princess Ann merely tilts her head and says, “But perhaps you don’t recall. It has been a long time, after all. Not since you were perhaps three? Maybe four? We all went to the beach one day. You and your brother rode the carousel. Your mother and I lay on a blanket and laughed for hours. It was a happy day.” The woman smiles the same smile I’ve been seeing on the covers of magazines for years. But then the smile fades. “I never go to the beach anymore.”
I wait for the memory to wash over me, but it doesn’t come.
“Your mother, Grace —” I can feel the line growing behind us. We should have moved on by now, but Princess Ann still holds my hands. “I miss her so. I am very glad to see you.”
“I live here now,” I somehow manage to blurt.
She smiles. “Then perhaps we will ride the carousel together sometime soon.”
Moving down the line again, I feel half a step behind my body. I no longer think about my sore feet or my tight dress. My mind is too busy imagining Princess Ann and my mother sliding down the embassy’s banister and lying on the beach. I finally realize why the girl in my mother’s pictures looks so familiar.
I curtsy when my grandfather is greeted by Ann’s husband, the prince. His mother. And finally the king himself, but in my mind I’m on the carousel. I’m waiting to hear my mother laugh.
“Mr. Ambassador,” the king says, taking my grandfather’s hand.
“Your Majesty,” Grandpa says with a low bow. In his free hand, Grandpa carries a very formal-looking scroll of paper. It is secured by a red ribbon and sealed with wax. “Please allow me to present my papers of appointment on behalf of the president of the United States.”
Solemnly, the king takes the scroll and carefully hands it to an aide.
“It is my pleasure to accept these credentials and welcome you back to Adria, my friend.”
When the two men shake hands again, they really do look like friends.
Then Grandpa bows again. I curtsy. And both of us walk away.
“Are we done?” I’m asking as Ms. Chancellor approaches.
“Cakes are done. People are finished,” she says in the singsong tune I’m coming to know quite well. But she’s not angry. If anything, she’s beaming. “You were wonderful.”
“I just stood there,” I point out.
“And you did it very well.”
“Do you feel like pushing your luck?” Grandpa asks.
“Not exact —”
“Mr. Prime Minister!” Grandpa says it with such gusto he’s almost shouting. There is a small group of men standing in a circle, talking, and Grandpa walks straight toward them. I don’t have a second to object before he says, “Allow me to introduce my granddaughter, Grace.”
“Hello, Grace,” the man in the center of the group says, turning to take me in. He’s tall, his tuxedo classic. I watch the way he glances from my grandpa to me.
Is this the one I’ve heard about? the prime minister’s look says.
Yes. Go easy on her, Grandpa’s smile replies.
“Welcome to Adria. How long will you be with us?” the prime minister asks.
“Grace is here to stay,” Grandpa tells him, beaming.
“Excellent. You know, I’ve been saying for ages that we need someone to keep this old man in line,” the prime minister jokes.
“I think she’s up to the task,” Grandpa says.
I know he and the prime minister are talking about me, but at no point do I get the feeling that they are talking to me. I might as well be a statue. A work of art. I am simply something to be commented upon.
I see Alexei and his father only a couple of feet away. I smile but Alexei just walks on, as if he doesn’t see me at all.
“So, Grace, how do you like our little nation so far?” the prime minister asks.
“It’s very nice,” I say and risk a glance around the massive room. The ceiling is at least fifty feet high and the walls are lined with portraits, many of which are older than my own country. “I’ve never been to the palace before.”
“Oh, really? Well, there’s a lot of history here, Grace.” He walks to one of the oldest portraits and points up at a portly man in a crown. “Fredrick the First. He was a knight who stopped here on the way home from the Third Crusade at the end of the twelfth century. But it seemed that Fredrick was not yet finished fighting, because he landed on our shores and won Adria from the Mongols who ruled it then. Before the Mongols, for a short while there were the Turks. Before the Turks, the Byzantines and the Romans. But Fredrick built the wall, so Fredrick and his heirs got to keep it. Unless you consider …”
The prime minister walks down the long line of paintings and points at another portrait. This one is of a woman.
“Queen Catalina. She was the eldest daughter of the king of Spain, but she was betrothed to King Fredrick the Third when she wasn’t much older than you are. She married at seventeen, I believe. Her husband died in his sleep five months later, and Catalina ruled for sixty years.” He leans closer. There’s a glint in his eye as he adds, “If you ask me, she killed him.”
We walk silently down the gallery, the portraits looming large over us — kings and queens still keeping a watchful eye over the land so many people had died for.
“What about them?” I ask, pointing to the only portrait in the room that shows an entire family.
“Oh, well, in many ways, they are our most famous royals.” The prime minister laughs, but it is not a joyful sound. “That is King Alexander the Second, his wife, and their two sons. There was a daughter, too, but she was just a baby at the time — so young they hadn’t even commissioned a portrait of her yet. Alexander ruled during a terrible famine. The wells were dry. The crops were dead. And almost the entire region was at war. The people were hungry and frightened, and they grew to distrust the monarchy. One night, the royal guard rebelled. They left their posts and threw open the gates. The people stormed the palace and dragged Alexander and his family from their beds.”