“Are we done?” I’m asking as Ms. Chancellor approaches.
“Cakes are done. People are finished,” she says in the singsong tune I’m coming to know quite well. But she’s not angry. If anything, she’s beaming. “You were wonderful.”
“I just stood there,” I point out.
“And you did it very well.”
“Do you feel like pushing your luck?” Grandpa asks.
“Not exact —”
“Mr. Prime Minister!” Grandpa says it with such gusto he’s almost shouting. There is a small group of men standing in a circle, talking, and Grandpa walks straight toward them. I don’t have a second to object before he says, “Allow me to introduce my granddaughter, Grace.”
“Hello, Grace,” the man in the center of the group says, turning to take me in. He’s tall, his tuxedo classic. I watch the way he glances from my grandpa to me.
Is this the one I’ve heard about? the prime minister’s look says.
Yes. Go easy on her, Grandpa’s smile replies.
“Welcome to Adria. How long will you be with us?” the prime minister asks.
“Grace is here to stay,” Grandpa tells him, beaming.
“Excellent. You know, I’ve been saying for ages that we need someone to keep this old man in line,” the prime minister jokes.
“I think she’s up to the task,” Grandpa says.
I know he and the prime minister are talking about me, but at no point do I get the feeling that they are talking to me. I might as well be a statue. A work of art. I am simply something to be commented upon.
I see Alexei and his father only a couple of feet away. I smile but Alexei just walks on, as if he doesn’t see me at all.
“So, Grace, how do you like our little nation so far?” the prime minister asks.
“It’s very nice,” I say and risk a glance around the massive room. The ceiling is at least fifty feet high and the walls are lined with portraits, many of which are older than my own country. “I’ve never been to the palace before.”
“Oh, really? Well, there’s a lot of history here, Grace.” He walks to one of the oldest portraits and points up at a portly man in a crown. “Fredrick the First. He was a knight who stopped here on the way home from the Third Crusade at the end of the twelfth century. But it seemed that Fredrick was not yet finished fighting, because he landed on our shores and won Adria from the Mongols who ruled it then. Before the Mongols, for a short while there were the Turks. Before the Turks, the Byzantines and the Romans. But Fredrick built the wall, so Fredrick and his heirs got to keep it. Unless you consider …”
The prime minister walks down the long line of paintings and points at another portrait. This one is of a woman.
“Queen Catalina. She was the eldest daughter of the king of Spain, but she was betrothed to King Fredrick the Third when she wasn’t much older than you are. She married at seventeen, I believe. Her husband died in his sleep five months later, and Catalina ruled for sixty years.” He leans closer. There’s a glint in his eye as he adds, “If you ask me, she killed him.”
We walk silently down the gallery, the portraits looming large over us — kings and queens still keeping a watchful eye over the land so many people had died for.
“What about them?” I ask, pointing to the only portrait in the room that shows an entire family.
“Oh, well, in many ways, they are our most famous royals.” The prime minister laughs, but it is not a joyful sound. “That is King Alexander the Second, his wife, and their two sons. There was a daughter, too, but she was just a baby at the time — so young they hadn’t even commissioned a portrait of her yet. Alexander ruled during a terrible famine. The wells were dry. The crops were dead. And almost the entire region was at war. The people were hungry and frightened, and they grew to distrust the monarchy. One night, the royal guard rebelled. They left their posts and threw open the gates. The people stormed the palace and dragged Alexander and his family from their beds.”
“They were murdered?” I ask.
The prime minister nods grimly. “Power has always corrupted, my dear. Even the promise of power. It is a hard thing to look at through a fence for hundreds of years without wondering what it would be like on the other side.”
“But Adria still has a royal family?” I say, confused.
“We do indeed,” the prime minister says. “That great tragedy began what is known as the War of the Fortnight. In the end, the rebels surrendered and the king’s brother took up the throne. The monarchy was restored — this time with a house of parliament and a prime minister.” He gives a slight bow, as if the tale had conjured him out of magic.
“So just like that it was over? The rebels just gave up?”
“Yes, dear.”
“But why?” I ask.
For a long moment the prime minister looks at me as if the answer should be the most obvious thing in the world. When he speaks again, his voice is soft.
“It rained.”
I look back at the painting of the dead king and queen and the two little princes who were dragged from their beds. For the first time I realize how perilous peace can be. I appreciate the tightrope that my grandfather has spent his whole life trying to walk. And now, more than ever, I grow terrified that I am going to make us all fall down.
“Now, Grace, if you’ll excuse us for a moment, I need to borrow your grandfather. Official business,” the prime minister says. “Man stuff.”
Before I can say anything else, Ms. Chancellor takes my arm. “I believe it’s time for us to go powder our noses.”
“He said man stuff,” I tell her as we walk away.
“He did indeed, dear.”
“Are you okay with that? Tell me you are not okay with the phrase man stuff.”
“I am not,” she says through a too-bright smile.
“But —”