“They were murdered?” I ask.

The prime minister nods grimly. “Power has always corrupted, my dear. Even the promise of power. It is a hard thing to look at through a fence for hundreds of years without wondering what it would be like on the other side.”

“But Adria still has a royal family?” I say, confused.

“We do indeed,” the prime minister says. “That great tragedy began what is known as the War of the Fortnight. In the end, the rebels surrendered and the king’s brother took up the throne. The monarchy was restored — this time with a house of parliament and a prime minister.” He gives a slight bow, as if the tale had conjured him out of magic.

“So just like that it was over? The rebels just gave up?”

“Yes, dear.”

“But why?” I ask.

For a long moment the prime minister looks at me as if the answer should be the most obvious thing in the world. When he speaks again, his voice is soft.

“It rained.”

I look back at the painting of the dead king and queen and the two little princes who were dragged from their beds. For the first time I realize how perilous peace can be. I appreciate the tightrope that my grandfather has spent his whole life trying to walk. And now, more than ever, I grow terrified that I am going to make us all fall down.

“Now, Grace, if you’ll excuse us for a moment, I need to borrow your grandfather. Official business,” the prime minister says. “Man stuff.”

Before I can say anything else, Ms. Chancellor takes my arm. “I believe it’s time for us to go powder our noses.”

“He said man stuff,” I tell her as we walk away.

“He did indeed, dear.”

“Are you okay with that? Tell me you are not okay with the phrase man stuff.”

“I am not,” she says through a too-bright smile.

“But —”

“But Queen Catalina bided her time and ruled for sixty years, my dear.”

“So you’re going to kill the prime minister in his sleep?” I ask.

She never softens her smile. “No. But that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the power of patience. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I see the Chinese ambassador and I need a moment of his time.”

I have new respect for the woman who is walking away from me. Her hips sway beneath her long black gown. Her blue wrap catches the light. She is a guest at the palace, but there is no doubt she is the belle of the ball.

I feel exceedingly glad she’s on my side.

I also feel very much alone as I stand in the crowd of people, looking up at a painting of two dead little princes, wishing that I could talk to Jamie.

I could call him, send him a text. But it’s not his voice or his words that I miss — it’s him. It’s not being alone. It’s having someone to step in between me and the strange looks, to change the subject and tell me that I’m doing fine.

But I shouldn’t miss my brother so badly. It’s almost like I’ve conjured him — or someone just like him — out of thin air because instantly I feel a hand on my arm. I hear Alexei say, “Hello, Gracie.”

Jamie is the only person I allow to call me Gracie. Sure, other people (like my grandfather) do it too, but Jamie is the only one who has my explicit permission. I’m tempted to remind Alexei of this fact, but as soon as I turn to face him, all I can think is that Alexei is here. Alexei is looking at me. And Alexei is wearing a tux.

“You look very lovely this evening.”

His accent is heavier as he says it. And being all slicked and shaved and tuxedoed like he is, a more gullible girl might be impressed — she might even swoon a little. But whatever swooning I’m doing is entirely tight-dress related. I swear it is.

“Hello, Alexei. I was just going to powder my nose, and —”

“Not so fast.”

I’m turning away when he catches my arm, pulls me to him. His arm goes around my waist. His other hand takes mine and before I realize what is happening, we’re dancing.

“I’m not talking to you,” I tell him. “And you’re not talking to me either if that look you didn’t give me a while ago is any indication.”

“Whatever you say.”

“In fact, I’m sick of you.”

“Okay.”

“I’m just —”

“You seem to be struggling with the concept of ‘not talking,’ aren’t you, Grace? Or perhaps my English is not as good as I think it is.”

We’re spinning, and I watch the ballroom pass. The royals in their receiving line, the musicians, the long tables filled with food. I know there are other couples around us, but they feel like distant blurs. Only Alexei is solid and sure. Between my tight dress and aching feet and swirling head, he may be the only thing keeping me steady.

And I kind of hate him for it. Or maybe I just hate myself.

“You do look nice tonight, Grace. Being clean and bruise-free seems to agree with you. Are you enjoying the party?”

True to my word, I stay silent.

Alexei gives a short laugh and talks on, his accent thicker.

“Most posts aren’t like this, you know. Embassy life is not usually so … glamorous. But Adria is different, my father says. It is like the old days here, with their balls and their beautiful embassies. Some say it is because it is good for tourism — that it is an act and they have an image to protect. But I do not know. In any case, you and I are very lucky that our families are posted here.”

“I’m not listening to you,” I say, looking over his shoulder and refusing to meet his gaze. “I don’t have to pay attention to you. Or mind you. Or care about your opinion.” Finally, I do find his eyes. I’m staring right into them when I say, “You are not my brother.”

I expect this to hurt Alexei, wound him in some way. But he just laughs at me like I’m hilarious with my attempts to be my own person.

“I am your brother’s proxy, Grace.” He pulls me tighter. “And in the diplomatic corps we take proxy responsibilities very seriously.”

Alexei has known me for most of my life. And he still sees me as a child. But it could be worse, I realize. He could see what I turned into.

The song ends and we stop moving, but Alexei is still holding me.

“Grace, I …” he starts, and then he drops me.