I have to find my friends and divvy up the city.
Rosie and I can take the tunnels; Noah and Lila can scour the area around Embassy Row. It’s possible Megan might be able to access some of the city’s street-level surveillance cameras—maybe they caught a glimpse of the runaway prince.
It’s not too late to find him, I tell myself.
It’s going to be okay, I lie.
But as soon as I set foot on the first floor I know nothing is okay. The palace is alive, swarming with guards and uniformed members of the staff. It is a whirl of hushed words and hurried, frantic footsteps. For a second, I think I’m too late. That they know. Or, worse, that something has happened. This is what tragedy looks like, life has taught me. The palace is never supposed to be in disarray.
Everywhere I turn there are guards and workers and … florists.
I stop on the stairs and look down at the big room where I first met the royal family. Suddenly, I realize that this is a different kind of chaos.
“The party,” I tell myself as I remember the king’s coronation and the anniversary and the gala. I didn’t think it was possible, but it’s suddenly a whole lot harder to admit I might have lost their prince.
When the butler starts toward me, though, I know what I have to do.
“Good morning, miss,” he says with a bow. “Is there anything you might require this morning?”
I stay silent a little too long, but the butler doesn’t move. My tells are too obvious, too automatic. I’ll never lose them now, I think as I realize my hands are shaking and my heart has started to pound.
“Miss?” he says.
“Prince Thomas …” I start. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen him?”
“Why, yes, miss.”
“Because I didn’t ask him to—Wait. What?”
“His Highness is in the south corridor, miss. Is there anything else you might need?”
I’m too numb to speak. It’s not until the butler turns and starts back up the stairs that I ask, “How do you get to the south corridor?”
I’ve found the prince, but as I rush through the crowded halls of the palace I realize I have no idea what I’m going to say when I reach him. Do I explain? Do I pander or condescend?
Some might tell him that he’s crazy—that he didn’t see what he saw or hear what he heard. But I could never do that to another human being, so I make up my mind to do the craziest thing of all: tell him the truth.
I don’t know what to expect. Maybe the prince is rallying the troops, alerting the media, running away? Maybe he wants to get as far from the crazy new girl as possible. I certainly wouldn’t blame him. I’d love to run away from me, too, most of the time.
This is a boy who has just learned that he has no actual claim to the throne he’s been promised since birth, that his spouse has already been chosen for him, and that everyone he loves might want me dead.
Maybe he’s decided to agree with them.
I may be running into anything, I realize, and still, as I turn the corner, I’m utterly surprised by what I see. Because not only is the prince standing in the corridor, looking out the massive windows, but he is not alone.
“Hello, Ms. Blakely,” the king says. “We’ve been expecting you.”
For a moment the whole thing is so surreal that I forget where I am—who I’m talking to. But then Thomas gives me a silent signal and I drop into the world’s most awkward curtsy before the king.
Before the man whose family wants me dead.
As I slowly rise, it’s all I can do to keep myself rooted—to make myself calm. The prince should be screaming for the palace guards, but it is just another morning as far as anyone could tell.
They don’t look like king and heir, surveying their kingdom. They look like a grandson who has sought out his grandfather, needing a little advice.
My anxiety turns to full-on panic.
Then I see the object in the prince’s hands, and my panic turns to rage.
“What is that?” I shout, but I already know what it is. I recognize the color and the shape and now, in hindsight, the brief recognition in the prince’s eyes last night when Megan mentioned my mother’s puzzle box and pulled it from her backpack.
“You got that out of my room? How dare you? That’s mine! I’ve given up my life for you people. The least you can do is leave me a sliver of privacy.”
“I didn’t go into your room,” Thomas says, defensive.
“That was my mother’s—give it to me.” I lunge for the box, but the prince steps back, out of reach.
I don’t care that I sound like a petulant, spoiled child. I still snap, “Give it to me now!”
But when I lunge for the prince again, I find a seventy-year-old monarch standing in my way.
The king’s voice is kind but strong. He doesn’t sound like a killer when he tells me, “This box was not your mother’s, Ms. Blakely.”
For a second, I’m so stunned that I recoil. That’s one of the curses of being me. I’m never really sure that I’m not lying.