“Come on,” Noah almost yells over the chants of the protestors. “Let’s go.”
I haven’t seen him this excited in ages. Not since the night we met, when he took me to Lila’s party on the cliffs. It was only a few weeks ago, but it seems like a lifetime. It was Before.
Before my brother came and his friend died. Before the streets were filled with protests and cries. Before I knew the truth about my mother and what I did.
Before I figured out that I am the villain of my own story.
I want to pull away from Noah, go back inside. But his grip on my hand is too strong as he loops an arm around Megan’s shoulders and leads us out beyond the gates.
Dusk is settling over Valancia, and the crowd is smaller. But barricades still line the sidewalk, keeping the protestors in the street. Adrian police officers rush toward us, ushering us farther from the embassy, away from the chanting mob.
We walk through the bright lights that shine upon the reporters who stand in the street with US and Russia over their shoulders, the embassies spotlighted in the glare. It’s the middle of the day in the States, I have to remind myself. And cable news isn’t going to let this story die. Not yet. We live in a twenty-four-hour news cycle and this story has only begun.
When we reach the edge of the crowd I know I’m safe, but I have to look back — like Lot’s wife. I’m almost afraid I’ll turn to salt. But I don’t see the city burning. No. I see a boy with black hair and blue eyes standing before a second-story window of the building next door.
Alexei raises his hand in something that isn’t quite a wave but isn’t a salute. It’s more like he’s pushing me away, telling me to save myself.
So I look straight ahead. I swear I won’t look back again.
When we reach the Israeli embassy we turn and start up the street that rises steadily to the palace and the center of town. The farther we get from Russia, the more the city seems to change. The angry cries grow fainter, but the streets are anything but empty, and the closer we get to the palace, the rowdier the crowd becomes. We are surrounded by laughter and talking, big raucous groups of tourists and older couples who walk together, hand in hand. It’s like all of Adria is heading toward the palace.
Then I think about Alexei — about Jamie.
Well, almost all of Adria.
“So what is all of this, exactly?” I ask.
Noah turns, walking backward for a moment, shocked indignation on his face. “You spent every summer of your childhood here and you don’t know what tonight is?”
It’s like I’ve just told him that I think all puppies are evil.
“You never came to the Festival of the Fortnight?” He gapes.
“No,” I say.
“Never?” Noah asks, not letting it drop. “Little Grace never crawled out of her window and ran away to see the bonfire?” he teases. “Or set the bonfire … or tossed petrol upon the bonfire …”
“No,” I say, sounding almost defensive of Past Me. “Mom would have killed me.”
There’s a huge group of people coming up behind us, singing songs I’ve never heard. Noah and Megan and I step aside to let them pass, but one of them knocks into me anyway. He mumbles something, slurring his words, and his breath smells like liquor.
As the drunk moves along, I look at Noah. “Mom said it wasn’t exactly ‘kid friendly.’”
Noah nods. “I can see her point.”
When we reach the streets that surround the palace, the crowds grow thicker, heavier. Somehow hungrier. We are tossed and pushed and shoved. Noah holds both of our hands, keeping us lashed together, until we finally find a place beside one of the barricades, right in front of the palace. I turn and look up at the tall iron fences, the almost impenetrable facade.
“You do know about the War of the Fortnight, don’t you, Grace?” Megan asks me.
I look at the palace and try to recall the night last month when I accompanied my grandfather to an official state function. I remember walking through the ornate ballroom, studying the walls that were covered like patchwork with priceless paintings of kings and queens. That night, the prime minister told me the story of one of those kings. But at the time that same prime minister was also trying to kill me, so, in hindsight, I’m not exactly eager to take his word for it.
“Remind me,” I say, and Megan and Noah share a look.
Noah rubs his hands together, trying his best to be dramatic.
“Okay,” he says. “Picture it! Adria. Almost two hundred years ago. A terrible drought has crippled the land. Rivers are dry. Crops have failed. The people are hungry — literally starving for revenge. And since they can’t take it out on God, they go after the next best thing …”
Reverently, Noah turns, and we all look at the palace. I can feel his countenance change. He isn’t teasing; no one’s laughing anymore.