“Ambassador William Vincent of the United States of America!”
The small man has a huge voice. It booms through the ballroom, over the low din of chatter and the faint sound of the string quartet playing in the distance. He wears a red jacket with military medals I don’t recognize, a rank and regiment I don’t know.
Grandpa and I have been standing in line for ten minutes. I’ve already lost the feeling in both of my big toes. But now that we’ve been announced, I’m expected to walk. And smile. I can see Noah on the far side of the room. When I catch his eye, he gives me a low, exaggerated curtsy just like Ms. Chancellor made me practice.
I want to laugh, but it’s not funny. Falling flat on your face in front of seven hundred people rarely is.
Slowly, Grandpa and I make our way down the very long receiving line. Shaking hands. Repeating names. Smiling. It feels like my jaw might fall off. I wish my lips were as numb as my toes.
“Your grandmother used to do this with me, Gracie,” Grandpa whispers while we’re waiting to be introduced to the royal family. “And after your grandmother passed, your mother took this walk with me every year.”
“I know,” I say as we ease slowly down the line.
“No matter where your father took her, she always came back and held my arm for this night.”
“I know,” I say again.
“What I’m trying to say is that it’s nice to, once again, have the woman in my life by my side.”
He means it. I can tell. And for one second I forget about the women in tiaras, the crowds that are watching the procession. I’m looking only at the old man with the white hair. For the first time in Adria, I don’t feel entirely alone.
“Your Royal Highness.”
It takes a moment for me to realize that my grandfather is no longer speaking to me — that he isn’t making a joke, mocking me and my princess-cut gown. But then I see her and I forget everything I was thinking.
Her dark hair is pulled back in an elegant pile of curls that are topped by a diamond tiara. Her dress, I note, is not a princess cut, but I don’t stop to comment on the irony. I’m too busy staring at the woman in front of me, wondering if she might be the most beautiful person that I have ever seen.
When my grandfather bows, I remember to curtsy. I lower my eyes and my head. My job in this moment is simple: Don’t fall down. I’m doing pretty well, but I know better than to get cocky.
Then the princess reaches out and takes both of my grandfather’s hands in hers.
“I’m still not used to hearing you call me that, Mr. Ambassador,” the princess says.
Grandpa laughs — actually laughs — and tells her, “It would have been a strange thing to yell when I was telling you girls to stop sliding down the banister.”
Then the princess laughs, too. My grandfather takes her gloved hand and kisses it. And the moment is so strange — so surreal — that I almost forget what I already technically know: that Princess Ann wasn’t always the wife of the future king of Adria. Once upon a time she was just a regular girl in Valancia. And she was my mother’s best friend.
Then Grandpa seems to remember I’m beside him. “Your Royal Highness, may I present my granddaughter, Grace?”
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.