The king takes a breath and the prince eases closer.
“Oh, I told myself that the historians were right,” the king says. “I assumed the box had been stolen—that it had been smashed or destroyed and the key removed. I was certain that explained it. But …”
“But if the box wasn’t destroyed …” I fill in.
“Then it was opened, wasn’t it?” he says. “By one of the two men in the kingdom who knew how.”
The king draws a deep breath, as if telling this story means also tempting fate.
“Do you think Alexander the Second gave the guards this key, Ms. Blakely? Do you think he threw open the gates and let in the mob that would massacre his family?” The king shakes his head. For the first time, he looks old. “No. Of course he didn’t. And so I have to think it was Alexander’s brother who opened this box and turned over the key that stood between him and the throne.”
“But that would mean …” I start, but I’m too afraid of the answer.
“It means my great-great-great-grandfather was a killer, Ms. Blakely. It means I am descended from a traitor, a usurper. It means I sit upon a stolen throne. But what I don’t know is …” The king hardens now. His gaze is so hot it almost burns. “Why are you here, Ms. Blakely?”
“Thomas,” I say. I’m backing away and running on instinct. “I was looking for Thomas.”
“No.” The king shakes his head. “Why are you here?”
“I …”
Lies swirl inside my head, options spiral. I need Dominic or Ms. Chancellor—an embassy full of marines and every trick my big brother ever taught me to keep the bullies at bay. I need to run or fight, and I might do both if the king’s gaze doesn’t soften.
“Amelia lived, didn’t she?” He’s smiling now, and almost eerily calm. I look at Thomas, and I don’t know what to say. The king doesn’t seem like a villain in this moment—not the mastermind of my terrible fate. Is it possible he’s as innocent as he seems? Is anyone? Ever?
“Amelia lived and her descendants live, and … and now I sit upon your throne, don’t I, Ms. Blakely?” he asks, but he doesn’t wait for an answer.
Instead, he does the strangest thing. He bows. To me.
“Get up! What are you doing?” I look up and down the hall, panic filling me. “You’re the king of Adria.”
“Am I?” he asks.
“Yes! I don’t want to be a princess. My brother doesn’t want to be king. We just want …”
Justice.
Revenge.
But I can’t say any of that, so I just shake my head. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know what I want anymore.”
There’s a window seat nearby, and the king eases me toward it. “Sit, Grace. Breathe.”
I don’t cry and I don’t scream, but I don’t run, either. I’m just so tired of running. Sometimes, Dr. Rainier says, your only job is to breathe, and so that is what I do. In and out. Until the king of Adria takes the seat beside me and says, “Now, Grace, I believe it’s time you tell me a story.”
So I do.
I tell him everything. About my mom and the Scarred Man and the fire. I tell him about the comatose PM and the night Jamie lay on the embassy’s dining room table, his blood covering the floor.
I look up at the man I’ve been hating for weeks and say, “You didn’t know any of this, did you?”
“No.”
“You didn’t try to kill me?”
“No. Though I would understand if you choose not to believe me.”
I can’t help myself. I look at Thomas, then back to his grandfather. “I believe you,” I say, and the crazy thing is that it might even be true.
When the king stands, he pats my back. “Now why don’t you go get some rest? You must be tired.”
I stand, suddenly shaking. “But … what happens now?”
The king smiles and pats me on the back again. “Now you leave everything to me.”
I bristle involuntarily and pull back. He already knows me too well and can read me too easily because he says, “Trust is hard, isn’t it?”
“You have no idea.”
“You can trust me,” the king says. And as he does, Dominic appears over his shoulder.
“Yes, Grace Olivia,” the Scarred Man tells me. “You can.”
The king pushes me back toward my rooms. “Go, rest. I’ll take care of everything. This fight isn’t yours anymore.”
He hands me my mother’s box and his great-great-great-grandfather’s key, and the prince and I start silently down the halls.
I can’t read his tone when Thomas asks, “So does this mean you’re not going to marry me anymore?”
“I don’t know. Does it?”
He gives me a cocky smile, but neither of us says another word.
Hope is a delicate thing.
A dangerous thing.
I had it once, back when I thought we were going to live in that little army town and I was going to graduate high school, maybe travel around Europe with my mom before I left for college. I thought I’d grow up, maybe meet a nice guy.
I thought I’d get a happy ending.
Those are the only endings anyone ever talks about, after all. What the world doesn’t tell you—what you don’t see in the movies and in books and on TV—is that not everybody gets one. And no one ever thinks they’re going to be the very unlucky exception to the rule.