It would save his children and grandchildren and …
But the palace is hundreds of years old, ancient and weathered, and it has natural gas running through almost every room.
Maybe the fire wouldn’t spread and grow and consume all it touches.
But maybe not.
The fire hasn’t reached the bodies, and so far it’s still contained. It’s not too late. Yet.
“Ann, stop!” I shout. “Listen.”
“I am through listening to you, Grace Blakely.”
“Lighting a fire here is suicide.”
Behind me, I can hear shelves spark and crack. Cases of wine crash and shatter on the stone floor, and the smell of the lamp oil fills my lungs. It’s seeped into the cloth around the bodies and the wood of the old trap door. It’s covering my hands and pooling at my feet.
“The heir has to return,” Ann says. She sounds like Karina. Like me.
Then there are noises on the stairs—footsteps and running and—
I know the moment when Ann hears him. She jerks her head toward the stairs, and for the second time in my life, I see the Scarred Man through the smoke. He’s strong and fast, and I’m not the only one determined to change how the story ends this time.
But he doesn’t know that Ann’s down here. He probably can’t see her or the gun, and this my chance, so I leap up and rush toward her.
Ann’s hand is outstretched. There’s a scream—a cry full of terror, and I realize too late it’s coming from me.
“No!” I yell, and throw myself across the room, but it’s too late, and Ann’s firing. Bullets slam into Dominic’s chest, and he drops to the ground.
His gun crashes, then slides across the floor, and the truth hits me: It’s far too late for anyone to save me.
The lamps are sparking, and I know the moment the second pool of oil on the floor catches. There’s a great whoosh as the fire grows and spreads.
The smoke is rising, filling the room, and I know I could turn and run for the stairs. I could make it to fresh air and freedom.
I could save myself. But some things aren’t worth saving.
I’ve spent months chasing freedom, and now it lies before me, just a few feet away, cold and dormant on the floor.
What I want is to be free of this place and this world and this curse that will haunt me for the rest of my life.
What I need is revenge.
Before me stands the woman who ordered my mother’s death, who chased my brother and bargained with my future.
I reach for the gun.
I see the Scarred Man through the smoke, rising from the ashes. And I hear my name.
“Grace, no!”
It’s my mother’s voice, and I know what this is: my chance to do it differently.
To go back and let it burn.
Ann is walking to the grave. There’s a torch in her hand, and even through the smoke I know it’s almost over. She just has to drop that torch into the pool of oil that surrounds the bodies, and the DNA will be gone. The proof. The lifelong mission that doomed my mother.
But my mother’s not dead because of those bodies. She’s dead because of the woman who stands over them, and so I close my eyes for a moment. I try to block out the smell of smoke and the color of fire and the voice that keeps shouting, “Grace, stop! Grace, no!”
I squeeze my eyes closed and I hear the shot. I smell the smoke, and I know that I can’t end it. That it’s too late and I’m too lost. I’ve done it. I know. I’m in a room with a two-hundred-year-old secret, letting history repeat itself.
I look down, but my hand shakes. Empty. And nothing makes any sense.
“Grace?”
The voice is not my mom’s this time, and I turn to look at Thomas. The gun is tumbling from his hand as his mother crumbles, blood-soaked, to the floor.
I spend the night in the embassy. In my mother’s bed and my mother’s room, but my mother’s ghost isn’t here when I wake up.
No.
That honor goes to Noah.
“It’s about time!” he tells me.
“Is she up?” Rosie says from the corner. “Good.”
Soon I’m surrounded by my friends, but it’s Lila who has my full attention.
She isn’t smiling. She’s no doubt heard all about the fire and the rumors of the shooting. My mere presence in this bed is enough to tell my friends that it’s over, but it’s not. And Lila and I are the only ones who know it.
Her brother looks at her. “What’s wrong with you?”
She hands me a sweater. “Get dressed. It’s time.”
When we reach the headquarters of the Society, it doesn’t look like it did the day Ms. Chancellor first brought us down here. Chairs have been assembled and the big tables have been pushed to the sides. Once again, the women all sit in a circle. Some of them I recognize from Paris. Some I’ve seen at the palace or meeting with Ms. Chancellor. No one makes introductions, and the truth is no one has to. They all know who I am: Grace Olivia Blakely, the not-so-lost princess of Adria.
When Lila and I step onto the little balcony that overlooks the big room, every head turns.
“It’s good of you to join us, Ms. Blakely,” the Englishwoman from Paris tells me.