Take the Key and Lock Her Up (Embassy Row #3)(59)

I can feel the prince easing away as Karina comes closer. I don’t know if he’s afraid of me or the truth or this too-thin woman with the haunted eyes, but I can tell he hasn’t just gone over the palace fences; he’s gone through the looking glass and his world will never be the same again.

“‘Hush, little princess, pretty babe,’” she sings again.

“Yes,” I tell Karina. “That’s nice.” I try to soothe, but her eyes are growing wilder, her face paler. When her hands start to shake, Alexei lunges toward us.

“Come on,” Alexei says, his voice soft. “Karina, come with me.”

But his mother keeps looking in my eyes, and when she speaks again, the word is almost a whisper. “Caroline?”

“Caroline died,” I tell her. “She’s gone.”

For a second, her eyes focus. Her gaze clears. It’s like she heard me, understands. Knows. But then she sees the prince and spins on him, slaps him hard across the face and starts kicking and clawing. It takes both Alexei and Lila to pull her off while Noah shoves the prince behind him and tries to keep Karina away.

But no one can keep me back. Not ever again.

“What is it, Karina?” I ask, moving closer even as I should be pulling away. “What is going on in there?” I lean down, look into her eyes.

“They never knew.” She sounds panicked but oddly lucid.

“Who, Karina? What didn’t they know?”

It’s like she’s trying to find the words when the dreamy gaze descends again, falling across her face like a veil as she softly starts to sing. “‘The sunlight shines where the truth is laid.’”

“Karina, what are you talking about? Did my mother come to see you? What did you tell her?” Is that why she’s dead? I want to scream but Alexei is shouting, pushing me toward the door.

“Stop! Leave her alone. Go home.”

“But—”

“Just get out, Grace. You’re upsetting her. Just go.”

I could argue and I could fight, but even I know better than to stay where I’m not wanted.

Still, it’s harder than I’d like to admit when I take my future husband’s arm and give a gentle tug toward the door. We’re almost to the stairs when I hear Megan call, “Grace, wait up a sec.”

“What is it?” I hope I don’t sound as frazzled as I feel.

Megan glances at the prince, who is waiting for me at the end of the hall, then drops her voice. “I’ve been doing some research into your mom’s puzzle box. Turns out, there was this really famous Adrian carpenter-slash-inventor back in the 1800s. There are whole clubs that devote themselves to solving those boxes. There are desks, too. And chests and … lots of stuff.”

“And you think he made my mom’s box?”

“No.” Megan’s eyes glow. “I think she made it.”

“It was a woman?”

Megan nods. “And when you search online, this is the only photo of her you can find.”

The picture on Megan’s phone really is quite daring. Black-and-white and no doubt taken in the late 1800s, the woman is wearing trousers and her gray hair is cropped short. She stands in a cluttered workroom, but behind her sits a gorgeous, ornate clock. It’s easy to zoom in, look closer, and see the symbol I know so well carved into the base.

I cut my eyes up at Megan. “She was with the Society.”

Megan nods her head. “I was thinking, if you want me to, I can work on your box while you do whatever you have to do now.”

“What box?” When the prince speaks, it takes me a moment to even remember that he’s with us.

“It’s nothing,” Megan says. She turns off her phone, slides it into her pocket.

I’m still looking at Megan, though, thinking about my mother and her secret lair—the work that killed her. And, suddenly the memories are too hot. I can’t risk anyone else getting burned. “No. I need it,” I say. “I want it. With me.”

“Okay.” Megan sounds surprised and disappointed but goes to get her backpack anyway. My mother’s puzzle box is nestled safely inside, wrapped in an old sweatshirt. She hands it to me without another word.

But the prince is looking at me, as if wondering what kind of crazy person his mother is trying to fix him up with.

It is an excellent question.

“Come on, Your Highness,” I tell him. “We need to get you home.”

“What is this place?” the prince asks as we walk through the basement, and I have to give him credit. For a boy who just broke out of a palace and found out his family is trying to kill the girl they want him to marry, he seems to be taking it all in stride.

“Iran,” I tell him. “Technically, this is the Iranian embassy. I know we shouldn’t be here, but …” I don’t bother to explain. I just wait for the usual cries of outrage and disbelief, but the future king of Adria just shrugs.

“Come on,” I tell him as I head into the tunnel.

If it weren’t for the sound of his footsteps, the occasional deep breath, I wouldn’t know he’s still behind me. I don’t look back. Not now. Not ever. There are too many dragons in my past. Looking back only helps if they’re no longer back there. But I know in my gut they are. Looking won’t do anything but slow me down.