Take the Key and Lock Her Up (Embassy Row 3)

“Oh.” Dominic laughs. “It’s no mere greenhouse. This house was one of the last acts of King Alexander the Second. It was built right before the War of the Fortnight. The gardens, too.”

For some reason, this is the fact that stops me.

“They built those gardens during a drought?”

Dominic’s raised eyebrow is his answer.

“The coup was not right, Grace Olivia. But that does not mean it wasn’t without cause.”

I’d never considered this, but I should have. Nothing happens in a vacuum. There is a cause and effect to everything.

“And it was all built for the king’s mistress.” Dominic walks around a massive fountain that stands in the house’s center. Once on the other side, he looks up through the wavy glass, and I realize that we are almost in the literal shadow of the national cathedral. “They say the king chose this place so that his mistress would be between his wife and the church. He liked the idea of mocking both simultaneously.”

I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. And I’m not entirely sure why.

“He kept his mistress in a glass house?”

“She was said to be the most beautiful woman in the world. Helen of Adria, they called her. Fitting for a walled city, don’t you think? And what’s the use of possessing the most beautiful woman in the world if the world cannot see her?” Dominic walks on. “Originally the glass house was not on the palace grounds, but as a sort of revenge, the queen had the land annexed, the fences moved, hoping to drive the woman out. But the king only laughed and thanked her for making his mistress’s house an official part of the palace.”

I stop. Turn to him. “Why are you telling me all of this?”

“The royals who died in the rebellion consisted of two innocent children but also a king who openly mocked his queen and his church and a queen who built gardens so grand that before they were even half-finished they had drained the city’s reservoir. I am not saying they deserved their fate, but the war, the parliament, the prime minister—these things all grew out of that tragedy. The results were not entirely bad.”

“What are we going to do, Dominic?” I snap, tired of history, of this walk down memory lane. “Are we going to look for evidence? Poison Ann’s tea? Please tell me you have a plan.”

“It’s important that you listen to me, Grace Olivia.” Dominic steps forward. He’s so tall he looms above me, ominous and omniscient. “We are not going to do anything.”

“But there has to be a way out. There has to be.”

“There is.” Dominic reaches for me, takes my narrow shoulders in his large hands and holds me steady. “There is a way out. There is only one way for it to end.”

“What is it?” I ask, but Dominic stays silent. It’s like he doesn’t want to tempt fate, like he knows that tempting me is the exact same thing. “Tell me! I’ll do it.” My voice cracks. My eyes water. “I’ll do anything.”

The whole world is a blur as the Scarred Man says, “You become a princess.”

I don’t remember sleeping. But that’s silly, isn’t it? No one ever does. Still, I’m surprised when I wake up, sun streaming through the tall windows of my pretty princess bedroom. I’m a little afraid to think that I might get comfortable here—that, someday, this might be routine. Normal.

I’m even more afraid to realize that I’m not alone.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness.”

When I bolt upright I see a maid at the foot of my bed. Her Adrian accent is strong, but her English is perfect. Her curtsy is sure and straight.

“I do hate to wake you, but you have a busy day ahead.”

“Oh.” I want to get out of the bed, but I’m so twisted in the covers that I struggle, trying to break free. It’s the story of my life, I have to think, but this girl doesn’t want to hear it.

“Will you be wanting tea, Your Highness? Or coffee? The kitchen can prepare whatever you wish to have.”

“I’m not …” Hungry. Thirsty. There are a lot of words that could fill in that blank, but I say, “Your Highness. I’m not … I’m just Ann’s goddaughter. I’m not a member of the royal family.” Yet.

I expect the girl to curtsy and apologize, go about whatever business brought her to my room. But she just drops her gaze and her voice.

“I don’t believe that’s true … Your Highness.” The girl leans over as she curtsies again, deeper this time, then pulls a gold chain out from the neckline of her uniform. She lets a small medallion dangle. It’s the same symbol I followed through the streets and down into the tunnels last summer—the same image that’s been haunting me for months. She isn’t just a maid, I realize. She’s a member of the Society. And I’m suddenly grateful she didn’t try to smother me in my sleep.

“My name is Clarice, Your Highness. I am to let you know that you are not alone.”

“Is that supposed to be a threat?” I blurt, and I mean it. “If the Society sent you to keep me in line, then tell them I get it. I made my bed. Now I’m sleeping in it.”

I expect the girl to smirk like the PM, to scowl at me like the women in Paris. But she continues to look at me with something approaching reverence.

“There are those among the Society who have longed for this day—for Amelia’s heir to finally claim her rightful place. Please consider me your loyal servant, Your Majesty.” This time she doesn’t act like I’m a princess; she’s treating me like a queen as she bobs one final curtsy and dashes toward the door.