The carpet on the stairs is rich and red, and so lush that it feels like running through a forest covered with moss as I chase after Alexei. He doesn’t look back, and by the time I make it to the landing he is nowhere to be seen. So I hold my billowing skirt in both hands and dare to run a little faster down the long corridor.
The ceiling is at least twenty feet high. The stones are a dark gray, and I know even without reaching out that they will be cold to the touch. Outside, the sun is finally down and the lights of the city shine like fireflies through the darkness. Beyond the wall, the sea stretches out, dark and vast, and I know why — once upon a time — it would have been easy to think the world was flat.
The music is so faint it’s like someone left a radio on somewhere in the depths of the palace. I am so alone in that wide hallway that it’s easy to forget there are hundreds of dancing, laughing people just a floor away.
Alexei, I want to call out, but I do not dare. I can feel eyes upon me as I walk past even more portraits of the kings. A few queens. They are practically life-sized, the frames towering over me, filling every inch of the wall. I almost expect them to speak and tell me to go back to the party or at least point me in Alexei’s direction. But they stay silent in their frames. Whatever secrets they are hiding, they do not say a thing.
The hall leads to another massive room. Formal furniture and a fireplace so large that I could walk inside it without even bending over. There are more portraits and chandeliers, but no Alexei. So I step back into the hall, turn, and keep going.
The music is gone now. The party all but forgotten. There is a force I cannot name that is pulling me forward. I want to call out for Alexei. And I’m afraid he’ll hear me. Both.
When I turn another corner, I hear a door creak open, but it does not close.
I freeze and lean against a large piece of antique furniture, pressing myself and my enormous dress against the wall, suddenly all too aware of how far I’ve wandered, the trouble I will be in if I get caught.
But I do not move. I cannot leave. I just slow my breathing and listen.
“I need to talk to you,” someone says in Adrian. And in my mind I feel cold and wet, like my dress is an ocean and I’m drowning inside it.
“Not now,” the second voice spits back.
Someone is in the hallway. Someone is coming closer. “This isn’t the end of this!” the first voice says. The second man laughs.
It is a cruel sound, high and haunting. And I am certain of one thing: I have heard it before.
“Of course it isn’t,” the man says at last. “If I’m right, then it is only beginning.”
I’m not sure when I started shaking, but I’m terrified they’ll hear me. I’m terrified they’ll see me. Just like when I overheard them in Iran.
Because if there is one thing I’m sure of, it is that these are the same voices that I heard in Iran.
I push myself farther into my little corner. I’m trying to disappear, willing myself to become one with the stone and the wood. And maybe the palace hears me and grants my wish because the wall behind me starts to move, pushing slowly inward as I push slowly back.
It’s a closet, I think as the blackness envelops me. I move into it as quickly as I can. The hem of my train catches and snags as I push the door silently shut behind me. There is still enough light coming in through a crack in the door for me to see movement in the hallway.
I shift and peek out. The floor creaks.
The dark figure outside spins and looks. “Who’s there?” he asks.
My breathing is so heavy I bring a hand up to cover my mouth. A slice of light cuts across my face, and the man is so close I can smell his cologne. He turns and looks up and down the hallway, as if somehow he knows that he is not alone.
He stops and opens the door of the cabinet I had been leaning against. His shadow crosses my face.
And that is when I see him — really see him.
He is no more than a foot away this time. Unlike the Iranian basement, the palace hallway is well lit. I will never again be able to convince myself that it was a trick of the light, a figment of my mind.
No. The man has dark hair speckled with gray. He wears a well-cut tux with gold cufflinks, an expensive watch, and a long black tie. His profile is handsome and perfect and strong with the exception of the jagged scar that runs from his eyebrow to his jaw.
The scar that is very real.
The scar that is perfectly clear.
The scar that has haunted my dreams every night since the moment my mother died — from the moment the Scarred Man killed her.