Take the Key and Lock Her Up (Embassy Row #3)(15)

“Exactly!” the British lady cries. She’s leaning over the railing now, practically standing. “Following the coup, Adria was safe! King Alexander’s brother was on the throne, and Europe was stable. To bring Amelia back from the grave would have disrupted the peace then. It would shatter it now.”

“No.” Ms. Chancellor is shaking her head. She looks like a child refusing to eat her vegetables. “I’m not saying that we need to put the Blakely children on the throne. I’m saying we need to keep them alive!”

The words are desperate, and they echo around the room.

Hushed silence descends until the woman in the sari says, “For many, there is no difference.”

Nods of agreement and murmurs of ascent follow.

I can see Ms. Chancellor’s hands shaking, her body radiating with rage.

“They won’t stop until she’s dead. Until they’re both dead.”

“The boy is not one of us,” says a woman in the back—I can’t tell which one.

“The boy will die if we don’t help,” Ms. Chancellor shoots back.

“Everyone dies eventually,” says the British lady with a shrug. “The boy is not our concern.”

They’re talking about my brother—about me—as if we are characters in a play, pieces in a chess set. Should we live or die? Should they order in Chinese food or pizza? There’s really not much difference.

Now I’m shaking. I’m stepping forward. I’m about to do something stupid—which is, of course, what I do best—when the British woman looks Ms. Chancellor up and down again and asks, “The question, Eleanor, is what do we do with the girl? And with you?”

For some reason this stops me. I realize what I’m seeing now. Ms. Chancellor doesn’t look like a lawyer addressing a jury. Ms. Chancellor looks like the accused.

“You don’t deny that you were the one who brought Grace Olivia Blakely into the Society?” the British woman says.

Ms. Chancellor pulls her shoulders back. “I do not.”

“And you told her our secrets?”

“I did.”

The British woman shakes her head, as if the truth should be so simple, but Ms. Chancellor is just too stupid or too stubborn to see it. “And yet you did not properly explain to her the essence of a secret sisterhood?”

The women in the risers sneer. Some actually snicker. It’s like the British woman has made an excellent joke, but it’s not really funny, and that part is obvious.

“Eleanor?” she says, prompting.

“Circumstances mitigated,” Ms. Chancellor says.

At last, the woman grows angry. “There is no excuse for—”

“For murder!” I finish for the British woman. “For arson?” I try again. I can’t help it. I’ve been too silent for too long. It’s practically encoded in my DNA. My mother couldn’t leave well enough alone either, so I push through the small break in the risers and go on.

“For hunting innocent people across continents? Really, ma’am, please finish. I’m dying to know what you are going to say.” I stop, then look at the women who fill that lovely, round room. If it weren’t so ironic, I would cry. “Or maybe I’m just dying …”

Dust dances in the streams of multicolored light. It’s like I’ve wandered into a kaleidoscope, a fun house. But this isn’t fun at all.

That’s when I see the prime minister rise. She was seated just out of my sight before, but now it’s impossible to miss her. This time, she’s dressed all in red. Her suit is stark against her snow-white hair.

“Esteemed elders,” the PM says, “it seems our guest is awake. Allow me to introduce Grace Olivia Blakely.”

For a moment, they just study me. In the back, someone whispers, “Just like her mother …”

I want to think she’s talking about my light hair and brown eyes. But more likely she means that I am trouble.

The British lady is no longer scowling at Ms. Chancellor. Her gaze has shifted onto me. “Welcome, Ms. Blakely.”

“Yeah …” I say, not even trying to hide the cynicism in my voice. “I don’t really think you mean that.”

Ms. Chancellor cuts me a warning glance.

“Where am I?” I ask.

The British woman looks around, as if gauging the temperature of the room.

“You are before the Council of Elders.”

“The what?” I ask, but now that I’m used to the room, I’m able to focus on the faces. Many of them I’ve seen on the news. There’s the prime minister of France in the front row—she dined with my grandfather and Ms. Chancellor not long ago. I recognize the Canadian ambassador to Adria, and another woman who was on the cover of a magazine that was on Ms. Chancellor’s desk last month. I think she’s some sort of CEO. There’s a former candidate for president of the US. A movie star. A talk show host. I’m suddenly all too aware of my jeans and T-shirt—the old cardigan that wasn’t exactly pristine before I was knocked unconscious and transported who knows where. I don’t even want to think about my hair.

But even though the women in this room all carry the same gorgeous, effervescent grace, it’s not a beauty contest. And I’m not a crowd favorite.

“Do you know why you’re here?” the British woman asks me.