Take the Key and Lock Her Up
Page 58“And you think he made my mom’s box?”
“No.” Megan’s eyes glow. “I think she made it.”
“It was a woman?”
Megan nods. “And when you search online, this is the only photo of her you can find.”
The picture on Megan’s phone really is quite daring. Black-and-white and no doubt taken in the late 1800s, the woman is wearing trousers and her gray hair is cropped short. She stands in a cluttered workroom, but behind her sits a gorgeous, ornate clock. It’s easy to zoom in, look closer, and see the symbol I know so well carved into the base.
I cut my eyes up at Megan. “She was with the Society.”
Megan nods her head. “I was thinking, if you want me to, I can work on your box while you do whatever you have to do now.”
“What box?” When the prince speaks, it takes me a moment to even remember that he’s with us.
“It’s nothing,” Megan says. She turns off her phone, slides it into her pocket.
I’m still looking at Megan, though, thinking about my mother and her secret lair—the work that killed her. And, suddenly the memories are too hot. I can’t risk anyone else getting burned. “No. I need it,” I say. “I want it. With me.”
But the prince is looking at me, as if wondering what kind of crazy person his mother is trying to fix him up with.
It is an excellent question.
“Come on, Your Highness,” I tell him. “We need to get you home.”
“What is this place?” the prince asks as we walk through the basement, and I have to give him credit. For a boy who just broke out of a palace and found out his family is trying to kill the girl they want him to marry, he seems to be taking it all in stride.
“Iran,” I tell him. “Technically, this is the Iranian embassy. I know we shouldn’t be here, but …” I don’t bother to explain. I just wait for the usual cries of outrage and disbelief, but the future king of Adria just shrugs.
“Come on,” I tell him as I head into the tunnel.
If it weren’t for the sound of his footsteps, the occasional deep breath, I wouldn’t know he’s still behind me. I don’t look back. Not now. Not ever. There are too many dragons in my past. Looking back only helps if they’re no longer back there. But I know in my gut they are. Looking won’t do anything but slow me down.
“Where are we now?” Thomas asks after a while.
“I don’t know for sure,” I tell him. “Probably somewhere under Egypt or maybe Australia.”
He catches up to me and makes me stop, gestures to the tunnels that stretch out before us and behind. Sometimes they branch and twist, but I know my way now, even without the little flashlight that lives inside my pocket.
“Tunnels,” I say. I don’t mean to sulk—really, I don’t. But all the things I’ve seen and heard—what I know and will never in a million years understand—these facts are swirling inside of me. Too fast. It’s going to make me sick.
“What kind of tunnels?” The prince sounds patient. He’s not on the verge of a royal hissy fit. No, that honor is reserved for me.
“Old ones,” I snap without really meaning to. It’s not his fault. None of it. So I go on. “Really old. Like probably since-the-time-of-the-Romans old. For sure older than the wall.”
“The wall?” the prince asks, sounding impressed.
“Yes.”
He eyes the rough walls again with new appreciation. “Were they carved?”
“I don’t know. I think so. But in some places they look natural. There are catacombs and stuff all over the city. Or under the city, I guess I should say. They even go out beneath the sea in places. But I think these were carved out. Sometimes you can see chisel marks. See?” I shine the light to a place on the wall where the line is too straight to be anything but man-made.
“I never knew there were tunnels,” the prince says in disbelief. It’s a tone I know. It’s one that asks, What else haven’t they told me? Then he meets my gaze and whispers, “Who?”
“I think the Romans. Maybe the Byzantines or the Mongols, but it doesn’t really seem the Mongols’ style, you know. So that’s why I think it was—”
“Who wants to kill you?”
Oh.
I stop babbling, but the words don’t come. I feel calmer than I should as I readjust my grip on my mother’s puzzle box, then turn and start walking. I don’t say a word as I lead Thomas through the tunnel, all the way to the ladder that I know will take us to a small alley behind the Israeli embassy.
When we’re outside, the air feels cooler, and I’m suddenly chilled by the wind.
“Who wants you dead?” he asks again.
“We need to get you back to the palace before you’re missed.”
“Have there been attempts on your life, or is this just theoretical?”
He sounds so calm, so matter-of-fact. He’s going to gather all the information and form a rational, informed opinion. He’s not going to run off half-crazy and half-cocked.