“My what?” It says a lot about me that I don’t even notice the ache of a stab wound anymore, that a part of me is so utterly immune to pain. “It’s fine. I mean, it hurts. But I’m used to that.”
Then, as if on cue, a wave of tourists passes by us, jostling me closer to him. “You should never have left the embassy. It was foolish to come.”
Now that Dominic has mentioned it, my side starts to ache. I feel out of breath. Aware.
“What were you thinking, leaving the embassy tonight of all nights? Are you listening to me? You aren’t safe here!”
“I am safe! I’m fine.”
I’m not fine, and standing before me is one of the few people on the planet who really knows it — who will ever know why.
As the sky grows darker, the crowds grow thicker. People push recklessly toward the palace, too close. Too strong. It’s different from the first night somehow, and I’m not the only one who feels it, because Dominic reaches for me, tucks me protectively under his arm.
“Masks are dangerous things,” he says. “They make people feel anonymous, immune. They give people license to act as they otherwise wouldn’t dare. This is no time to be out of the embassy.”
“That’s okay,” I say, “you’re here to protect me.”
I’m not being flippant. This isn’t my idea of a joke. It is the truth, and I know it. I watch him move — see how strong he is — and even as I know that I am safe, another thought is coming to me. My brother’s words come rushing back.
It’s hard to break somebody’s neck, Jamie said. It would take someone strong. And fast. And trained.
It would take someone like Dad.
The Scarred Man is about as much like my father as one man could possibly be. I suppose my mother had a type.
And with that realization, a cold sense of dread bubbles up within me. A realization dawns.
“You.”
It’s easier than it should be for me to pull myself free of the Scarred Man’s grasp. I think he’s too shocked. But he, of all people, should know better than to underestimate me and all of my crazy.
“You were there. You saw us that night, when Jamie and I got back from the island.”
“Grace, this isn’t the time.”
When he reaches for me I pull away. “No. I saw you! And you heard us fighting about Spence, didn’t you? You knew he tried something. You said you’d always keep me safe.”
“I will.”
“Did you kill him?”
The look on the Scarred Man’s face chills me to the bone. “If I had killed a man who hurt you, Grace Olivia, they would have never found the body.”
He’s not joking, and that’s what scares me. Dominic could kill, would kill — no doubt has killed. But he wouldn’t hurt me, I know it in my soul, and I realize something strange: I’m the only person in Adria who actually trusts the Scarred Man.
Maybe this makes me even more of a fool.
Or maybe it just makes me safe.
“You belong in your embassy,” Dominic says, and nudges me forward.
The crowds are growing thicker, the sky darker. Someone must have lit more bonfires because the smell of smoke carries on the wind.
“I’m going to get you to tell me, you know,” I say, but I don’t glance back as I start down the hill. “About my mom and the island and whatever it is you think you can’t tell me. I’m going to get it out of you. I’m …”
The Scarred Man is silent. Too silent.
And when I turn back, he’s already gone.
I stand for a moment, wondering what to do. But the current is too strong, and soon I’m pushed with the crowd. Even though the embassy is in the other direction, I can’t fight it. I am surrounded by people in masks and capes and long white dresses draped in red.
The sun is down, but it’s not dark. Not exactly. Not yet. The gaslights are growing brighter, though, and the bonfire still burns.
Firecrackers erupt in the street, and I jump. It sounds like gunfire, and I find myself pressed against the brick of one of the buildings, rocking.
“Hush, little princess …”
Maybe it’s the smoke, but I feel my eyes begin to water. I will not allow myself to cry. I will not crumble. I will not turn to ash and blow away like the tiny sparks and embers that fly up from the bonfire and float like fireflies out to sea.
“Dead and gone …”
The words come to me through the darkness, and I want to scream.
“No one’s gonna know you’re coming home …”
“Grace!” I hear my mother’s cries.
“Grace!” my mother screams, and I find it harder and harder to breathe because I’m surrounded by smoke and masks and the sky is the color of fire.
“Hush, little princess, wait and see …”
“Grace!” the word comes again, and I know these women in white dresses are each my mother’s ghost.
When I feel a hand on my arm I want to fight and run, but the man in the mask is gripping me too hard. It’s too dark and I’m too tired. I lash out, pushing and fighting with all that I have. I grab the offending hand and step to the side, spinning. But then the voice calls again, “Grace!”
With his free hand, Noah removes his mask. He leans down and looks into my eyes.