Take the Key and Lock Her Up (Embassy Row #3)(67)

“You’re smiling,” Megan says.

“I can smile!” I tell them. “It’s allowed.”

“Yeah. Sure,” Noah says. “It’s just … unusual.”

I want to tell them that the status quo is changing, that this is who I’m going to be from here on out. But Rosie is scowling at me and shaking her head.

“Yeah. You look happy. Why are you happy?”

I’m not thinking. Really. It’s not a conscious thought. But with the words I can’t help myself—I glance in the prince’s direction. He’s in a group of people, but he’s looking right at me.

I’m so excited to tell my friends about the box and the key and the king’s promise to bring it all to an end, but Alexei follows my gaze. When Thomas gives me a wink, Alexei sees it, and bristles. He actually turns.

“Alexei, wait.” I reach out and grab his arm. His tux is smooth and soft beneath my fingers.

“It was a mistake to come here. I should never have left Karina alone.”

“How is she?” I ask before he can leave, before all my happy seeps away.

“Better.” Alexei glances around the room, distracted. “She is better.”

Noah and Megan share a look. Then Megan says, “She was lucid for a little while today. They must have had her super drugged up at the hospital. I really think that might be most of her problem. Maybe once all the drugs are out of her system …”

But Alexei isn’t like Megan. Alexei is like me. He has long been immune to hope, so he just shakes his head. “I should not have left her alone.”

“Wait.” I grab his hand and pull him back, then look at all my friends in turn. “Something happened yesterday morning. I think … Well, I mean, if everything works out, then I think it might be over.”

At first, my friends are stunned and silent. Confused. They’re as afraid to hope as I am, and before any of them can start to wonder if this is just another aspect of my messed-up mind, the band begins to play the Adrian national anthem, and everyone in the ballroom turns. For a second, I think they’re looking right at me, but then I realize, no, they’re looking higher, to the balcony above.

A uniformed man with a booming voice stands at the top of the stairs. As soon as all eyes are upon him he steps to the edge and yells, “His Royal Highness, the king!”

Almost as one, every soul in the ballroom drops into a bow or a curtsy when the king appears on the balcony overhead. Princess Ann and Thomas’s father are beside him.

A murmur is moving through the crowd, a wave of whispers that seem to say that nothing is as it seems. As I rise, I realize that someone has set a microphone stand on the top step. The king moves toward it, and the whispers get louder.

“What’s going on?” Megan asks. “The program didn’t say anything about the king giving a speech.”

I can feel my friends’ gazes burning into me, but I can’t take my eyes off the man at the top of the stairs.

“Friends, family, distinguished guests,” the king begins.

And there it is, deep inside of me, that tiny, fragile bubble that feels a lot like hope. I can feel it start to rise in spite of my best intentions.

“I am the luckiest of men to have worn the crown of Adria for fifty years. It has been my honor to be your king. But …”

The king falters. It’s like he’s going to cry—and maybe he is. At least that’s what I feel like doing.

“But I come to you tonight and admit …” Again the king stumbles. Sweat covers his brow. And that bubble inside of me …

It bursts.

At the top of the stairs, the king of Adria reaches for the microphone stand, but he can’t seem to grasp it. It tips and falls, crashing down the stairs. On the dance floor, the king’s subjects are quiet. A stunned disbelief fills the crowd as the man takes a hesitant step, but it’s like his legs can’t hold him—like he is an hourglass and a crack has appeared, sand rushing out, as the king stumbles.

He sways, then pitches awkwardly forward and crashes down the massive staircase.

It is a long, long way to fall.

Gasps and cries fill the ballroom, but the people of Adria are stunned. Frozen. I can see Thomas pushing through the people who stand like statues, trying to get closer to his grandfather, who has landed, limp and broken, on the polished parquet floor.

I’m not surprised when Dominic is the first to reach him. It seems like all of Adria is holding their breath as he reaches for the king, presses a hand gently against his neck even as he yells in Adrian for someone to bring a stretcher, for the crowd to make some room.

But then he goes silent. He hangs his head for a moment and pulls his hand away.

It seems to take forever for the Scarred Man to find the words.

“The king is dead.”

Then he looks to the top of the stairs, where Thomas’s father stands, Princess Ann beside him.

The king’s eldest son—his heir—is deathly pale as Dominic finishes. “Long live the king.”

“Long live the king,” a shocked crowd echoes, their gazes shifting. But I don’t speak. I just stare at the woman who has hunted me and my brother for months, who wanted my mother dead.

Ann is the only person in the ballroom who doesn’t seem the least surprised.

I don’t know how she’s done it, but I know what a killer looks like. I’ve been seeing one in the mirror for years, after all, and a part of me wants to rise up and point at the new king’s wife, shout murderer for all to hear.