Ms. Chancellor lowers her candle. “Now, it’s important to understand that Adria had never known peace. Not really. It was too important, too pivotal — every great empire wanted it for its own. And so as the knights of Adria ruled, their wives watched and listened and whispered in their husbands’ ears ways to keep their homeland from being pulled once more into war and chaos.”
She takes another step and lets her light fall upon the image of a great stone wall beginning to rise around the city.
“They told their husbands they would feel safer behind a wall. They suggested who the new country should trade with and why. And, most of all, these women remembered what their mothers and grandmothers had learned from the Romans, the Byzantines, the Turks, and the Mongols: that history almost always repeats itself. And it is almost always written by men.”
She’s right, of course. There’s a loop in my life — a pattern of violence and death and heartbreaking sorrow that I would give anything to stop. To rewrite. To end. But my walls are not yet high enough, not strong enough. What Ms. Chancellor doesn’t know is that I never will stop building.
“So that is how Adria was born, Grace. Sir Fredrick became King Fredrick the First. The knights who led the other six ships were given lands and riches and a place at the king’s side as his most trusted advisors. Years passed, and their sons became princes and lords and the leaders of Europe.”
She pulls the candle farther from the wall. Its gentle glow lights her face, and somehow I know this moment matters. My heart is pounding, my hands sweating as Ms. Chancellor turns to me.
“We are what became of their daughters.”
Three years ago the prime minister of Adria called his chief of security into his office and ordered him to kill my mother.
I don’t know why.
When I started asking questions, the same prime minister ordered the same man to kill me.
And now the prime minister is in a coma and my mother is dead, but the mystery lives on. The look on Ms. Chancellor’s face tells me that she thinks the answers are here, in this dimly lit alcove and centuries-old story. But I don’t see it. So I look up at the angel, willing her to guide me to the truth.
“What did the daughters do?” I ask. I can’t meet Ms. Chancellor’s gaze.
“They did the only thing women could do a thousand years ago: They stayed in the shadows. But shadows are the perfect place from which to watch, to see. And make no mistake, my dear, the women who founded Adria saw everything. We still see everything.”
“My mother was a part of this?”
Ms. Chancellor nods. “And your grandmother. And your grandmother’s mother, and so on for a thousand years. Every girl born to one of the Society’s members was observed and, if she seemed an appropriate fit, she was introduced to the Society in her sixteenth year. In time, we grew. Our reach expanded. And through it all we watched and recorded history, gently guiding it on occasion.”
I think about the gunshot wound that miraculously became a heart attack. I remember the room full of dusty, ancient books and weapons.
“So you’re a secret society … of librarians?”
Ms. Chancellor laughs. “Among other things,” she says. But in my mind I’m remembering how she held the gun, how calm she was when she fired. “Every army in the world knows that knowledge is power — information, the world’s most lethal weapon. The women keep the secrets, my dear. We have always kept the secrets.”
“Did one of these secrets kill my mother?”
The lights are flickering, off and on. Ms. Chancellor glances behind us then reaches for me. “Come along, dear. I’m afraid our time is up.”
When Ms. Chancellor takes my arm and leads me away, I realize we’re going back the way we came.
“Stop,” I snap, jerking free of her grasp. I know how I look, how I sound. Ancient secret societies don’t have room for petulant children, but it’s too much, too fast. And it isn’t nearly enough. I want to stomp my foot, to scream, to cry. I need to curse my predecessors for their club and their secrets because they led to what happened to my mother. I hate this Society and every one of its members. Even the one who is standing right in front of me.
“You said someone wanted my mom dead because of her job.”
“I did say that.”
“So what was her job?”
“She was an antiques dealer,” Ms. Chancellor says.
“What was her job here?” I ask, my frustration boiling over.
“She was an archivist, Grace. An antiques dealer. Her job was collecting and retrieving rare and valuable artifacts that pertain to Adria or the Society.”
“Were these artifacts valuable?”
“Yes.”
“Were they dangerous?”
Ms. Chancellor brings her hands together. “Anything of value can be dangerous if given the right conditions.”
“What did she find?”
Ms. Chancellor studies me, as if weighing which will harm me more, the truth or yet another lie. She’s too calm, too poised as she studies me. I have no idea whether or not to believe her when she says, “Honestly, I have no idea.”