Take the Key and Lock Her Up (Embassy Row #3)(24)

The train is almost empty. At least it feels that way as I sit in a forward-facing seat, looking out on the French countryside that is slowly going dark.

The sun will be down soon, but it’s giving one last burst of light, and the countryside practically glows. It’s almost like the golden aura that is so well known in Adria.

Almost.

But not quite.

I’m still hundreds of miles from Embassy Row, and I need for it to stay that way.

I’m barely aware of movement, the feel of heat when Megan slides a steaming cup of tea into my hands. Only then do I realize that a woman is pushing a cart down the aisle, handing out fruit and coffee and bottles of water. I cup my hands around the warmth and start to thaw, but part of me feels like I will always be a little bit frozen.

“Thank you,” I tell her.

Megan shrugs. “It’s complimentary,” she says, but that’s not the point.

“I wasn’t talking about the tea, you know.”

“Yeah.” Megan slides a little container of honey in my direction. “I know.”

My mom always took honey in her tea. Princess Ann knew that. She guessed that I would, too, when I went to see her at the palace last summer. Should I have known then what she was? What she would do? But Past Me has made so many mistakes that I can’t quite bear to add another one to the pile, so I force myself to look away.

Megan also brought me a change of clothes. The jeans are soft, the sweater baggy and starting to fray, and I feel like maybe it’s her favorite—the comfortable, easy, carefree thing that she throws on for rainy afternoons when all a girl has to do is curl up in her favorite chair and read. I know without asking that this is the sweater equivalent of macaroni and cheese—comfort food. I know my friend Megan somehow guessed that I would need it.

“Thank you. For answering when I called. And for coming. And for … believing.”

“Of course,” she says, as if it’s easy. Traipsing across a continent and setting up a sting operation on one of the most beloved women in the world. All on the say-so of a thoroughly messed-up teenage girl.

“Thank you for believing me, Megan.”

“Yeah, Grace.” She’s looking at me differently now. I think she can hear the tears I don’t dare cry. “Of course I believe you.”

It’s a mistake, I want to say. I want to tell her how wrong I’ve been and for how long. For years, no one believed me. And the worst part is that they were right. I shouldn’t have been believed. Not then. Maybe not even now. There has been so much crazy inside of me for so long that I no longer have any sense about it. I’m the last person whose opinion on this subject should ever be trusted.

But Megan trusted me. Trusts me still.

And trust is like an invisible tightrope. Only a true friend dares to take a step.

Megan is my true friend.

I know that now. And I swear that I will never, ever forget it.

“Are we really not going to talk about this?” Megan says.

“Talk about what?” Rosie asks as she slides into the booth.

Outside, it’s more dark than light now, and the countryside has all but disappeared from view. We could be anywhere. Anyone. In any time. It would be so very, very easy to get lost. But the people in this car won’t let me.

I turn and stare out the window, but there is no missing Noah’s reflection in the dark glass, staring back. He catches my gaze and I know he never intends to let it go.

“You disappeared, Grace,” he tells me.

I look down at my hands, at the tea that’s growing colder by the second. In a moment it might freeze over. “I know.”

“Seven weeks,” Noah says. “Seven weeks! Do you know how long that is?”

“Yes. It’s just longer than six weeks—not quite as long as eight.”

Noah slides into the seat across from me. The train is smooth and sleek and modern, but this car seems to vibrate with Noah’s rage. “Do you know how long it is when you have no idea if your best friend is dead or alive?”

He’s got a point, and I hate it.

I hate everything.

“I’m sorry, Noah. We couldn’t tell anyone. We—”

“We?” he asks.

“Yes.” Without meaning to, I glance at Alexei. “We.”

Noah says his favorite Portuguese swearword and pushes out of the chair again. He puts his hands on top of his head, long fingers threading through jet-black hair as he paces down the aisle of the train car.

“Noah, we had to leave. No. That’s not quite true. Jamie and Alexei and I … we had to run.”

My voice breaks and he hears it, turns very slowly, and says, “Why?”

This is it, of course. They have the right to know. More than a right. They need to know. But I can’t …

“He kinda has a point, Grace,” Rosie says, as if she thinks I’m getting ready to argue. What can I say, she knows me well. Rosie shrugs her small shoulders and goes on, “You disappear for weeks and then call Megan out of the blue and the next thing we know you’re acting like James Bond and having secret meetings with princesses. Not to mention that none of the stuff that Ann said on that recording made any sense.”

“It makes sense. I mean, it will make sense,” Alexei tries to explain.