Take the Key and Lock Her Up (Embassy Row #3)(60)

“Where are we now?” Thomas asks after a while.

“I don’t know for sure,” I tell him. “Probably somewhere under Egypt or maybe Australia.”

“I mean, what are these?”

He catches up to me and makes me stop, gestures to the tunnels that stretch out before us and behind. Sometimes they branch and twist, but I know my way now, even without the little flashlight that lives inside my pocket.

“Tunnels,” I say. I don’t mean to sulk—really, I don’t. But all the things I’ve seen and heard—what I know and will never in a million years understand—these facts are swirling inside of me. Too fast. It’s going to make me sick.

“What kind of tunnels?” The prince sounds patient. He’s not on the verge of a royal hissy fit. No, that honor is reserved for me.

“Old ones,” I snap without really meaning to. It’s not his fault. None of it. So I go on. “Really old. Like probably since-the-time-of-the-Romans old. For sure older than the wall.”

“The wall?” the prince asks, sounding impressed.

“Yes.”

He eyes the rough walls again with new appreciation. “Were they carved?”

“I don’t know. I think so. But in some places they look natural. There are catacombs and stuff all over the city. Or under the city, I guess I should say. They even go out beneath the sea in places. But I think these were carved out. Sometimes you can see chisel marks. See?” I shine the light to a place on the wall where the line is too straight to be anything but man-made.

“I never knew there were tunnels,” the prince says in disbelief. It’s a tone I know. It’s one that asks, What else haven’t they told me? Then he meets my gaze and whispers, “Who?”

If the tunnel wasn’t so narrow … if we weren’t so close, I might not hear the question, but I do.

“I think the Romans. Maybe the Byzantines or the Mongols, but it doesn’t really seem the Mongols’ style, you know. So that’s why I think it was—”

“Who wants to kill you?”

Oh.

I stop babbling, but the words don’t come. I feel calmer than I should as I readjust my grip on my mother’s puzzle box, then turn and start walking. I don’t say a word as I lead Thomas through the tunnel, all the way to the ladder that I know will take us to a small alley behind the Israeli embassy.

When we’re outside, the air feels cooler, and I’m suddenly chilled by the wind.

“Who wants you dead?” he asks again.

“We need to get you back to the palace before you’re missed.”

“Have there been attempts on your life, or is this just theoretical?”

He sounds so calm, so matter-of-fact. He’s going to gather all the information and form a rational, informed opinion. He’s not going to run off half-crazy and half-cocked.

If opposites do attract, then Prince Thomas might really be my soul mate.

But he’s a soul mate I’m not going to answer.

“You shouldn’t sneak out, you know,” I say, then start the steep climb toward the palace. I don’t stop and examine the irony of my giving someone else this advice. I don’t stop and examine anything.

“You have to tell me,” he says.

“It’s not my place.” I keep walking until I realize that the prince is no longer behind me.

He’s standing, staring up the hill and then at the buildings that surround us. You can see the wall from here. And, beyond that, the inky-black waters of the sea. The moon is almost full as it climbs higher in the sky, and the gaslight burns atop the lampposts, lighting our way.

Thomas will be king of all of this someday—this and much, much more. But it looks very much as if he’s seeing it all for the very first time.

“Are you in danger, Grace?” he asks me.

“At the moment? No.”

“But you were. Is that why you moved into the palace?”

I don’t answer. Which, I guess, is answer enough.

“Who tried to kill you?” He takes a step closer.

“Who do you think?” I practically shout. The words reverberate off the cobblestone streets and down the hill, echo out toward the sea. “My brother should be king. Who do you think wants us dead?”

I expect outrage or anger—for someone to strap me to a bed and pump me full of meds until I stop talking crazy. Nothing could surprise me more than when he looks down at the bundle in my hands and asks, “Where did you get that box?”

I’m so shocked that for a second I don’t answer. “It’s … It was my mother’s.”

“Where did she get it?”

“From her mother,” I snap. If we’re going to fight, I’d really like to get it over with.

“They told me about you,” he says, but it’s almost like a threat. “They said you had issues. I’m not supposed to believe you.”

“That’s a very solid game plan. But it doesn’t mean I’m lying.”

“No.”

“Fine. Believe me. Don’t believe me. I don’t care. And, for the record, I don’t want to marry you and have your babies either, but it’s that or be hunted until I die, so …”

“That’s a lie.”