“It’s not going to come to that,” he tells me.
I nod but don’t dare speak.
“Grace —” Alexei’s hand is on my arm, warm and comfortable.
I hear a woman’s laughter. I see my mother walking across the balcony that wraps all the way around the room.
“Grace, is there something wrong?” Alexei asks, genuinely concerned. But I don’t dare tell him the truth. Instead, I say, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For the other night. For dragging you into this. For —”
“Hey.” Alexei cups my face and finds my eyes.
“I’m sorry you promised Jamie that you’d keep me out of trouble.”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m here,” he says in a way that sounds like he’s not agreeing with me at all. “Because I promised Jamie.”
“That night at the palace, where did you go?” I don’t know where that question came from, but I’m not trying to take it back. Somehow it’s been there, in the back of my mind, for days. “I saw you go upstairs after we danced. Why?”
“My father and I were arguing. I needed to get away and clear my head.”
“What were you arguing about?” I ask.
It takes a moment, but eventually Alexei lowers his gaze. He grips the railing and says, “You.”
Something in Alexei’s eyes keeps me quiet as he talks on.
“Adria has always been important, you know. Strategic. It was once the main trade route between Europe and the Far and Middle East. It has always mattered.”
I know what Alexei is saying, but I have no idea what he’s getting at.
“The United States and Russia, we have our own complicated histories. Our countries will never be true allies, Grace. And there are those who feel that, because of that, you and I can never be friends.”
Then, as if the words have conjured him, Alexei’s father appears in the center of the party. There’s no mistaking the look in his eyes as he sees his son standing with me.
“You should go,” I tell him.
“I’m okay here,” he says.
“No. Don’t make your father mad just to keep me company. Go. Circulate. I’ll be here.” Alexei turns away. He takes two steps, then stops and turns back to me. “You should go, too,” he says, and jerks his head to the bottom of the stairs.
To Noah.
I don’t realize I’m running down the stairs until I hear the rustling of crinoline. This is the part where Noah is supposed to laugh, to mock me and my puffy dress. But he just turns away, starts pushing through the crowd of people.
“Noah?”
He stops and stares at me. It’s like looking at a stranger.
“Noah, wait.”
When I reach for his hand he pulls away and I don’t try again. I just say, “The Scarred Man was meeting someone in the US embassy. That’s where he was. And now all the world leaders are here and …”
“So what, Grace?” Noah raises his arms briefly then drops them to his sides. It is the universal gesture for What do you expect me to do about it?
He has a point. Of course he does.
“I just wanted you to know that. And that I’m sorry. For lying.”
“You think I’m mad because you lied to me?”
“Well, aren’t you?”
Noah rolls his eyes and then admits, “Yeah. I am. But it’s not just that. I didn’t just believe you. I believed in you. I told you about my parents and Lila. I let you in. But you didn’t let me in. You didn’t trust me.”
“I did trust you. I just …”
“What?” Noah snaps.
“I couldn’t tell you.”
“Why?”
Because telling him would mean changing him. Changing us. Because how could I trust Noah when I couldn’t even trust myself?
Because I’m crazy.
“Because … I just couldn’t, Noah. I just couldn’t say it.”
Noah doesn’t soften. His expression doesn’t change.
“Good night, Grace.” Noah gives a formal bow. “Nice party.”
I watch Noah walk away, realizing that, even in this crowd of people, I am utterly, completely alone.
I’m standing at the top of the stairs an hour later when I see Rosie down below, her blond head moving back and forth, scanning the room. She walks with hurried, frantic steps. Pacing. Searching.
Panicking.
I hear the band stop. My grandfather walks onto the stage, his white hair shining in the spotlight.
“Well, hello, out there!” he says with a chuckle as he brings a hand up to shield his face against the glare. “And welcome. Welcome to the US embassy. And welcome to Adria, my home for the last forty-five years. I may still have Tennessee in my voice, but Adria is in my heart.”
The crowd gives a collective awww. My grandfather, make no mistake about it, is a charmer. But I can’t take my eyes off of Rosie.
My grandfather keeps talking, but I don’t hear a single word. Soon the string quartet begins to play again. Not the boring music they’ve been playing all night. This is a song I know. A song that makes everyone in the room stand a little straighter. And, in unison, we all turn toward the door as “Hail to the Chief” fills the room.
The spotlights shift and soon the president enters, smiling and waving through their glare. He shakes hands and pats backs as he makes his way toward the stage.
“Rosie, what happened?” I say when I see her climbing the stairs toward me.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I lost him. I was following him and then he was just … gone.”
The quartet is still playing. The president is still walking — waving through the parting crowd. And, suddenly, I feel like a fool.
What if Megan was right? What if he wasn’t meeting someone from the US embassy when I followed him? What if he was meeting someone in the US embassy? What if — instead of smuggling in a weapon tonight — he brought one in days ago?
It’s hot in the ballroom, with the lights and the crowd of bodies, and yet I feel my blood turn cold.
“It’s tonight,” I say, not caring whether or not anyone can hear me. “It’s right now!”
Down below, I see the president walking up the steps to the stage.
And then I hear Rosie gasp. “Grace, I found him.”