When we reach Israel we turn and start up the steep incline toward the city center. I expect her to turn into the narrow alley that leads to one of the entrances to the tunnels, but Ms. Chancellor keeps walking, higher and higher, faster and faster.
Her heels don’t get stuck in the cobblestones. Her breath doesn’t come even a little bit hard. She’s practically floating up the hill, and I follow right behind, but I refuse to ask any questions that I don’t think Ms. Chancellor will answer, so I don’t say anything at all.
When we reach the palace, Ms. Chancellor walks up to the gates. I half expect them to swing open, to welcome both of us inside. But the gate stays closed, and Ms. Chancellor stays silent.
Until, finally, the silence is too much.
“Tell me,” I say.
Ms. Chancellor draws her hands together. It’s almost like a prayer.
“You’re probably wondering why we’re here and not down in the tunnels, aren’t you, Grace?” I nod. “The truth is, the answer to your questions are here. The stories Spence heard from his grandmother, they all started here. Because of this.”
Her voice is distant, like she’s remembering a dream, but I don’t understand.
“Because of what?”
“The festival,” she tells me. “No. That’s not true. The war. The rebellion.”
Slowly, Ms. Chancellor turns and stares through the wrought-iron bars of the fence. Guards in ornate uniforms with bright gold buttons stand, unblinking, at the gates. The sun shines and a light wind blows. Tourists snap pictures all around us. But in the center of the square the bonfire still burns. A hint of smoke taints the air. I think I’m going to be sick.
“You know the story, Grace. Everyone knows the story. There was a drought and a coup and a massacre. For eight hundred years the Society had been here, watching history, guiding fate. But two hundred years ago we didn’t see the rebellion coming. And we should have. Truly. We should have known. Trouble such as that does not happen overnight, doesn’t come out of the blue. The drought was severe and the people were restless, and we should have understood that a mob was forming.”
I think about the crowds that are filling Embassy Row, blocked by barricades and still pushing toward the scene. Two hundred years have passed, but I can’t help but see the truth.
A mob is always forming.
Ms. Chancellor places her hands in her pockets. She doesn’t face me as she says, “But by the time word left the palace it was too late. Some of our sisters reached these gates only to find them open and the royal family …”
Ms. Chancellor raises her hand to point, as if looking back in time.
“They were already hanging the bodies, Grace. From those windows. There. In the center of the palace, see? The king and queen and the children, too. They were in their nightclothes, or so the story says. Snow-white muslin practically glows in moonlight except … except when it is stained with blood.”
Ms. Chancellor’s hand was steady as she shot the prime minister, but her voice trembles as she tells this story. It happened centuries ago and yet it feels like her mistake, her failure, her burden, I can tell.
“We were too late to save the family, and the palace was in chaos. But the Society knew the building well, so as quickly and carefully as possible we went inside and gathered all the artifacts and relics that we could. Looters were everywhere, and more were filing in by the minute, so we collected the things that mattered most. That night the Society did what we always do — we guarded Adria’s history.”
She turns back to the windows where, two hundred years ago, the royal bodies hung. “I only wish we had done a better job of guarding Adria itself.”
Ms. Chancellor shakes her head, as if trying to wake up from a dream.
“Three of our elders took responsibility for guarding the things we salvaged. Some say they were taken from the country for safekeeping. Some say they were tucked away in the hills or in the tunnels or catacombs beneath the city. Personally, I like to think they were hidden in plain sight. But whatever the case, the people who knew the location were killed during the War of the Fortnight, and the truth died with them.”
“So the treasure … it’s real?”
“Quite real. But also quite lost. And almost forgotten.”
“You think Spence was looking for it, don’t you?”
“I think he probably heard stories about it from his grandmother, yes. For a thousand years Adria has been whispering about us, as if we are angels. As if we are ghosts. I have no doubt his grandmother delighted in telling her grandchildren the story. But, Grace, that story had nothing to do with his death. It’s just that. A story.”