He just isn’t for the likes of me.
“Grace.” Ann’s voice cuts through the fog that fills my mind. “Grace, what do you think?”
The prince is gone and Ann is no longer in my bedroom. I start toward the open door into the hall but stop when I realize that another pair of double doors has been thrown open and Ann stands inside this other room. Except it’s not a room. It’s a …
“It’s your closet!” she exclaims, as if something like that matters to someone like me.
Megan should be here. Or Noah’s twin sister, Lila. Or Ms. Chancellor. The closet is twice the size of any bedroom I ever had on any base. It’s full of dresses and neatly folded sweaters, row after row of shoes. But it’s all lost on me. I know I’ll just rip them, stain them, ruin them like I ruin everything else.
“See?” Ann sounds almost giddy. “I told you you wouldn’t need your own clothes.”
I walk to one of the racks of sundresses, finger the soft cotton and look at the pretty colors. I walk slowly past shoes with heels so high I’m pretty sure it’s just a matter of time until I fall and break my other leg.
“I hope you like them.” Ann actually sounds nervous, and I realize that she never questioned the order to have my mother’s line exterminated, but choosing her future daughter-in-law’s shoes seems to be keeping her up nights.
“They’re beautiful,” I say.
“I wasn’t sure of your size, but we can always send them back. Or get more. The designers will love working with you. And the palace has a seamstress. Well, actually, I believe it has an entire staff of seamstresses and tailors. We can have anything altered—anything at all. It’s really no—”
“You didn’t tell him, did you?”
Ann doesn’t even slow down.
“I want you to feel comfortable here, Grace. If these clothes don’t suit, then we can get you more. Any designer will work with us. We will cultivate the perfect style for you. Soon—”
“What does Prince Thomas know?” I shout.
Finally, Ann turns to me. “He knows what everyone knows. You are the daughter of my best friend. You are troubled and alone and desperate for safety and some degree of stability. He knows the truth, Grace.”
I wish I could tell her that she’s lying—that she’s wrong. But it is true, I have to admit. Every single word.
“It’s going to be fine, Grace. You will adjust. You will accept this.”
The scary thing isn’t that Ann believes it. The scary thing is that, deep down, I think she might be right.
“Do try on some of the clothes. Good clothes are like armor, I’ve found.”
“So I’m going into battle?”
Ann smirks and raises one eyebrow. “Women are always in battle. Your mother knew that better than anyone.”
“Don’t talk about my mother.”
Ann stops fingering the dress in front of her and turns on me. “Why not? It was her idea.”
Something about this stops me. It spikes my guns and tempers my rage.
“What was her idea?” I ask, my voice like ice.
“For Amelia’s heir to marry the prince. Your mother was the one who first thought of this solution.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I’m not surprised that you don’t believe me, but it’s true. The only problem is … well … we got the heir wrong. It should have been her who married the prince.”
“So you killed her.”
“No.” Suddenly, Ann’s voice is hard. She’s not the smiling, waving paragon of virtue anymore. She’s anything but a princess as she steps closer. “I’ve never killed anyone. Can you say the same?”
I know that Ann walks away. From the corner of my eye I can see her at the closet’s big double doors. I want her to close them, to lock me in here like a cell. Like a tomb. I want to do whatever time—whatever penance—I have to do to move on. But my mother doesn’t get to move on. Not ever. So why should I?
“Grace?” Ann finally gets my attention. “We want this to work. We need this to work. You are the solution to a two-hundred-year-old problem, and I assure you your safety is our top concern.”
“Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”
“That’s fine.” Ann smiles. She eases toward the doors. “But perhaps you’ll believe him.”
Ann steps away, but I don’t follow. I’m too busy staring at the man who stands behind her, at his dark suit and broad shoulders, the all-too-familiar scar that marks his face.
“Hello, Grace Olivia.”
As soon as Ann leaves and the door closes, the panic is the first thing to hit me. I fly toward Dominic.
“Where’s Jamie?” I practically yell.
“He is well.”
“Where is my brother?”
Dominic had one job, one responsibility. If he left Jamie to be hurt in order to come find me, then I will never forgive him. Never forgive myself.
“Where is he?”
“He’s safe, Grace.” The Scarred Man’s hands are on my shoulders, holding me tight before I can run away or lash out—hurt someone, especially me. “He is resting and recuperating with people I trust. He is fine. I swear to you. His only problem is that he is constantly worried about his little sister.”
Instantly, I feel guilty. I never thought that worry for me might keep Jamie from getting better. But it has. Of course it has. Jamie is a good person. Good people worry. And even when I try to help, I hurt.