I don’t want the world to see me, know me—to have verified once and for all that I am exactly as crazy as advertised.
“The day before the king died, he and I had a conversation. He was a really nice man. A good man. And when he found out I was in trouble, he wanted to help me, and …” I choke back a sob and try to find the words. “I suppose everyone knows now that the king isn’t alone here today. You’ve all no doubt heard the news that we recently found the lost tomb of King Alexander the Second and his wife and sons. What you might not remember is that he had a daughter, too. And the daughter’s remains aren’t here because … well … the daughter lived.”
A shocked murmur goes through the crowd, but I can’t stop now. If I stop, I may never start again, so I keep talking.
“For generations, some people have believed that there would always be a threat to Adria so long as Amelia lived. As long as her descendants lived. But the king never believed that. No. He knew there would always be a threat so long as Amelia’s descendants remained a secret. And so I stand before you today …”
I take a deep breath.
“My name is Grace Olivia Blakely, and I am a lost princess of Adria.” The murmurs grow louder just as, at the back of the cathedral, doors open. “And I’m not the only one.”
My heart is in my throat when I see the boy who is now walking down the center aisle toward me. His back is straight and his steps are strong—only a faint trace of a limp remains. And I want to cry because my brother is alive and well and here and so handsome he is like the sun and it almost hurts to look at him.
But, most of all, my brother is not alone.
A parade of men and women follow. Some are teens like us. Some are small children. Most are grown men and women in the prime of life. I’ve never met them, but I know them. And I know exactly why they’re here and what they want.
Freedom.
We don’t want the throne. We don’t want fame or fortune or the responsibilities that come with a kingdom.
“There are sixty-three of us,” I say into the microphone. “Sixty-three living, breathing descendants of the king and queen who we lay to rest today.” Megan inches up beside me and slips me a stack of papers. They’re cool and almost heavy in my hands as I hold them up for the world to see.
“And I give you sixty-three signed documents, stating that we have, every one of us, chosen to abdicate the throne.”
A kind of gasp goes through the crowd—a ripple through the world. Then I find Thomas and his father where they sit on the front row. “Your father was a good man, Your Highness. A great king. And you and Prince Thomas deserve his legacy. The rest of us?” I can’t help myself. I laugh. “We want to earn our own.”
For a moment, I forget about the cameras and the crowd, and I think about the secrets that have brought us here.
Then I look at Thomas. I remember the one that’s set us free.
Winter doesn’t feel like it used to. After the fires of my life, I should never feel cold again. But I do. Jamie would warn that it’s because I’m too thin. Noah would tease and say it’s because I have a cold heart. But Alexei doesn’t say anything. He just puts his arm around me and pulls me close as we wait for the door.
Ms. Chancellor is there when it opens. I’m reminded of my first day back on Embassy Row, of the teasing, cautious look in her brown eyes as she studied me, like she couldn’t quite decide whether or not I was as crazy as advertised. I was more. And I was less. And so it shouldn’t be any surprise that I would end up here eventually.
“It’s time,” Ms. Chancellor says, her voice no louder than a whisper and yet it seems to echo when she leads us inside the cold, sterile room.
The walls are gray and cinder block. The light’s a harsh fluorescent glare. There is wire on the windows and stains on the ceiling, and just this room alone would be enough to make my palms sweat, my pulse race. Part of me wants to close my eyes and rock and pulse with the tension that is always thrumming inside of me.
But another part of me never wants to close my eyes again.
So I ease forward slowly. I choke out the word “Hello.”
The woman on the bed is in a hospital-issued gown that gaps in the back. The sheets are stiff; I know without even touching them. They’ve been bleached so much and for so long that they’ll be raw against her skin. She’ll itch but she won’t be able to scratch. The leather restraints that bind her wrists are too tight—the shearling lining is no doubt stiff and tough and rancid after years of other people’s sweat and blood and anguish.
For a second, I just stand here, slightly out of reach, rubbing my own wrists, fighting the force inside me that is always there, like an undertow, threatening to pull me back in time.
But the voice from the bed keeps me here.
“Let me loose,” the woman snaps. She sounds imperial despite the burns that have scarred her skin, the wild look in her eyes, and the rough, jagged edges of her hastily chopped hair.