“You saw your mom die?” Noah’s eyebrows are raised. He can’t hide his surprise or his pity.

“It was late and it was dark, but yeah. I saw it.”

“That was … what? Three years ago? You were twelve?”

“Thirteen.”

“Wow.”

“Don’t start, Noah.” I walk around the white horse, take shelter behind a dancing bear.

“I’m not starting anything,” he says. “It’s just —”

“Yes, it was dark,” I snap back. “Yes, I was young, and it was traumatic. Yes, I have never been the most reliable girl in the world, but I know what I saw. And I’m telling you, I saw a man with a scar on his left cheek shoot my mother. I heard the bomb that burned her shop to the ground.”

My breath is coming hard, but this isn’t an attack. It feels different. I feel different. The shock is over and all that remains from the night before is my overwhelming anger.

“I saw his face that night, Noah. I have seen his face every night. And last night — I’m telling you that last night I saw him.”

“You saw him or you saw a man with a scar?”

I don’t give him a reply. I don’t dignify what he’s said with a response. I do not dignify him. I’ve already heard the speech so many times that I know it better than he does. I have no desire to hear it again. I’m off the carousel and strolling back the way we came almost before he can realize what he’s said and done.

“Grace, wait. Grace!” Noah calls after me. “I believe you!” he shouts, and that stops me. “I’ll go with you to tell your grandfather.”

“I already told him,” I say.

Noah nods, steps closer. “Good. Good. Now he and Ms. Chancellor can —”

“They don’t believe me. They think I made him up. They’ve always thought I was making him up, and now …” Noah gives me a look. “I’m not!”

“I believe you! It’s just … why doesn’t your grandfather believe you? I mean, it’s not like you make a habit out of accusing scarred men or anything, right?”

I must stand a little too still for a little too long because Noah asks again, “Right?”

“Of course not,” I snap. “It’s just easier to tell me I was seeing things. It’s easier for him not to believe me, but if you don’t believe me either, then —”

“I believe you!” Noah insists again. “I do. Okay?” He eases closer, places his hand on my arm. I shudder but don’t pull away. I get the sense that he’s probably trying to comfort me, but neither of us are sure how that is supposed to go, so he just keeps his fingers on my elbow, like a really distant, really awkward hug.

“I do believe you. But, Grace, what are we supposed to do?”

I didn’t sleep last night. Not because of the crying, or the trauma, or the flashbacks. Not even the humiliation of having Alexei witness one of my attacks could distract me from the thoughts that filled my mind once the shock and terror finally faded.

“Grace …” Noah starts slowly.

“We’re going to find him,” I say, certain and strong. I will tear the great walled city down stone by stone if that is what it takes. “You are going to help me find him.”

There are seagulls overhead. I can hear their cries and the breaking of the waves against the shore. Down the beach, a group of little kids is sitting in a circle on the sand. Even though they’re far away, the song they’re singing catches on the wind and carries toward us.

Wait, little princes, dead and gone

No one’s gonna know you’re coming home

Wait, little princes, one-two-three

No one’s gonna know that you are me

It is the Duck, Duck, Goose of Adria. I’d totally forgotten it until now, but the haunting melody comes back. I can remember our mother singing it as Jamie and I played in the yard. When the song ends the kids all stand and chase each other wildly around. I want to join them. Those words have always made me want to run.

Noah rubs his hand over his face, mumbles something that is a cross between Hebrew and Portuguese. Then he shrugs and gives the long sigh of someone who has learned not to argue. “Just tell me what to do. Wait … do we know what to do?”

He doesn’t look at me like Jamie or my father, like Grandpa or Ms. Chancellor. Noah isn’t looking at me like I’m seeing things, hearing things, too fragile and grief-stricken to live.

In short, for the first time in three years, I’m talking about the man who killed my mother with someone who isn’t looking at me like I’m crazy.

And that is why I trust him. That is why I say, “Come on.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Hello, Grace. Noah.” It’s clear from the way Ms. Chancellor is looking at us that she thinks her plan is working — that we’ve come to ask her to arrange the wedding, maybe be godmother to our child. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Ms. Chancellor is carrying a stack of files and walking through the embassy in a pair of impossibly high heels. I’ve noticed this about Ms. Chancellor: She’s almost always moving. And she’s almost always doing it while wearing shoes that would make me want to stay perfectly, utterly still.

“I was hoping you could help me,” I say, following her up the stairs.

She rests her left hand on the smooth rail but glances quickly back.

“Of course I will if I can.”

“After last night …” I begin.

This, at last, stops her. Ms. Chancellor pivots on the balls of her feet, looks down at me from two steps ahead.

“Your grandfather and I have already spoken about this, Grace, and I’m afraid I —”

“I’m not talking about that,” I hurry to say.

“You’re not?”

“She’s not,” Noah adds. Ms. Chancellor slides her gaze onto him. At least there’s someone on my side she can trust.

“No. Grandpa was right,” I say. “I’m sure I was just tired. This is all so new to me. I probably just got overwhelmed.”

“Yeah.” Noah moves to join me. “In fact, Grace and I were talking about how overwhelming it all can be. So many new people. Not to mention all the protocols and the rules and —”

“And the people,” I blurt. “There are just so many new people. It was —”