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

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.

“I’m happy to be here. Alive,” I say.

“Grace.” It’s Ms. Chancellor who eases toward me. “How do you feel?”

“How’s Dominic?” I ask because it’s all that really matters.

“He’ll be fine. And Thomas. He’s …” I know what Ms. Chancellor can’t say. It might be years before anyone knows how Thomas is.

“If we might have your attention, Ms. Blakely …” Prime Minister Petrovic signals that the women are growing restless. “We have asked you here today to discuss recent developments.”

“You mean how I found an ancient, hidden tomb and got attacked by a lunatic princess while this noble Society didn’t do a darn thing to help me?”

“We had a bargain, young lady,” the British woman tells me.

“Yes. Well, I’m pretty sure all bargains are voided once one of the parties tries to set the other party on fire. Isn’t that correct, Ms. Chancellor?”

“Yes, that does seem like legal precedent to me.”

But the women of the Society aren’t as happy I’m alive as I am.

“I know you wanted me to marry Thomas. I know you wanted me to have little royal babies so that no one ever found out Amelia survived. And I get it. I do. This”—I gesture to the ancient headquarters around us—“is secret. We are secret. Two hundred years ago Amelia needed to be kept a secret to keep her safe. But now …

“‘Hush little princess, it’s too late. The truth is locked behind the gates. Hush, little princess, pretty babe. Sunlight shines where the truth is laid.’”

When I stop singing, Ms. Chancellor studies me, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

“Our ancestors wrote that song. Our mothers and grandmothers have been singing that song to us for generations because they wanted the bodies to be found. Amelia was never meant to be a secret forever.”

I watch the words sweep over the room, but no one nods. No one speaks until the PM leans closer.

“As tragic as yesterday’s events were, the fact remains that we face a crisis,” the PM says. “The very thing we have longed to prevent is inevitable. The king, queen, and two princes have now been recovered … without Amelia. Now there is DNA, and … I do not know how much longer we can keep it a secret. We are all at risk.”

“You’re right,” I say. For once, I agree with her. “As long as there’s a secret, there’s a risk. So it cannot remain a secret.”

“Ms. Blakely, we cannot take a chance with Adria’s future!” says a woman with a French accent who I last saw in Paris.

“I’m not saying we have to risk Adria’s future. I’m asking you to have faith in mine.”

The women seem to consider this. It takes a moment for the PM to speak again.

“The king left you a legacy, Ms. Blakely. You are mentioned specifically in his will.”

“I don’t want my legacy. I don’t want anything from him. Whatever it is, you can give it to Thomas.”

“Oh, I assure you, Grace,” the prime minister says, “you want this.”

There are five coffins at the front of the church. Two kings. A queen. And two little princes, both under the age of ten.

It’s caused quite a stir, of course. The finding of the bodies, literally unearthing a secret.

There are those who think Thomas’s grandfather should have had his own service—one final moment in the spotlight all alone. But I know better. He spent his whole life looking for the people who now lay in the coffins on either side of him.

It’s too much to hope that people won’t notice who isn’t here. The official story is that Princess Ann, prostrate with grief, has been taken ill and is unable to be by the sides of her husband and son. The unofficial stories vary. None of them come close to the truth.

When the prime minister finishes her remarks, she looks at me, as if wondering if I’m really going to go through with this. She smiles at me, and I’m so shocked it takes me a moment to realize that she’s giving me one last chance to chicken out. I probably should. This is probably a harebrained scheme. A foolish mistake. So of course I stand when she introduces me, and then I make my way slowly to the front of the cathedral.

There are hundreds of people looking at me, not counting the millions watching on TV. My palms sweat and my blood burns, but I keep my gaze on the coffin of the king. I have to say what he’d have said if only he’d had a little more time.

“I’m not much for public speaking,” I choke out, then add, almost to myself, “for public anything, really. I’m here today because, evidently, the day he died, the king made some changes to his will. He asked me to do this in the event of his death, so I’m not up here for me, you see. I’m up here for”—my voice quakes—“for the people who can’t be up here themselves.”