Take the Key and Lock Her Up (Embassy Row #3)(68)

But the truth is the king was well—the king was safe—until I told him.

I knew the rules. I broke the rules. And the king paid with his life.

The king is dead, I think. And it is all my fault.





People don’t run, don’t scream. It’s more like two hundred and fifty formally clad strangers are struck silent at the same time, and yet beneath it all there is an undercurrent of panic. Of disbelief.

This isn’t happening, the good people of Adria are thinking. Things like this don’t just happen—not in public, not out of the blue. But it’s not a dream. The guards who are coming in and urging the crowd toward the doors prove that. It’s as real as the paramedics who rush inside with their gurney and their bags, everyone knowing they’re too late.

Thomas’s cries echo through the ballroom—too loud and too familiar. That’s what shocked disbelief sounds like.

Shocked disbelief and fear. And rage. And guilt.

It’s a sound I know better than anyone.

I’m starting to pull away—to go to him—when something passes across my field of vision, and for some reason I turn and watch as the prime minister rushes away, her movements calm, her mood cool. And I realize that it wasn’t just Ann’s deal that I broke when I told the king my story.

Alexei’s hand is on my arm. He’s trying to drag me away, into the flow of the crowd. But when have I ever gone with the flow?

So I break free, pushing against the grain, away from the chaos, following the woman in white, who is going down a smaller, more inconspicuous hallway. I know it leads to a private entrance and exit. It’s the one the royal family uses. I guess the prime minister, too.

“Did you do this?” My voice echoes in the long, narrow space, and the PM stops.

We’re alone, I realize. I guess her guards are getting the cars, blocking the corridor. I don’t know. Don’t care. I’m too busy studying the woman who stands before me, slowly turning.

“Do what?” the PM says.

“Don’t lie to me. Stop treating me like I’m an idiot—like I’m a child.”

“You are a child!” The PM is practically yelling. It’s as if this is the point that’s been haunting her—taunting her—for ages. I should have been squashed months ago. That I’m still here, a thorn in her side, makes her want to rage.

And in that moment, her walls go down. I can see right through her.

“He told you tonight, didn’t he?”

“What?” she snaps and draws back.

“He told you he was going to help me, didn’t he? Of course he did. You’re the prime minister. He’d have to let you know he was going to do something. But what is it you and your council like to say? ‘Adria is a pivotal cog in the wheel of the world, and we cannot have it destabilized’? You knew. And you had to stop him.”

I don’t like what I can’t help thinking.

“Did you kill him?”

The PM tries to act indignant. “The king’s heart was bad. Everybody knows this.”

“He was going to stop it!” I shout because I want to—I want to scream. “He was going to fix it!”

“It has been fixed!” She holds her long skirts in her hands and leans toward me. It’s like she’s getting ready for a fight. “There is one solution that doesn’t end with anarchy—with chaos and an economic ripple that could turn into a tsunami sweeping across the globe. And that is the solution that we have. That is the solution we agreed to.”

I back up, eye her. “Did you kill him?”

My voice is too calm, too even. It makes the PM realize how far down the rabbit hole of rage she’s already chased me.

She straightens and drops her hem. “The Society does not murder monarchs, Ms. Blakely.”

I don’t know why, but a part of me actually believes her as she goes on.

“I learned of this madness not ten minutes before the king fell. I would have tried to talk him out of it. I would have … If the infernal man hadn’t been in such a hurry …”

“It’s your fault,” I tell her. “If you and your Society would have just helped. If you’d listened. It’s your fault!”

“No.” The PM shakes her head. “The king’s death isn’t our fault, Ms. Blakely.

She looks like a queen as she gathers up her skirts again and pivots. “It’s yours.”

I always knew I could break anything. Everything. And now I guess it’s official.

One conversation with me can kill a king.

I know it’s true. My words are poison, my mere presence a fire. A part of me wants to run as far and as fast as I can before I spread like an epidemic.

Another part of me wants to stand right here and let the palace burn.

When I make it back to the ballroom, the king’s body is gone. The crowds are, too. But the ghost of the party still lingers in broken glasses and spilled food, overturned chairs and a dull, haunting ache that fills the ballroom like a pulse.

There’s a painting overhead of King Alexander II and his queen and the little princes. They’re my family, I have to think, as I look up at the painting with fresh eyes, trying to see some kind of resemblance. But it’s no use. Even their ghosts have probably moved on.