“Sure I did. Of course, the last time we saw each other they were scraping what was left of you off of the German courtyard, so I can see how your memory might be impaired.”

“Canadian,” I say. “I was in the Canadian courtyard. I’ve never fallen into Germany.”

I start to push past him, but the boy moves to block my path.

“How long are we going to play this game, Gracie?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Then allow me to introduce myself,” he says, playing along as he gives me a low bow. “Alexei Volkov, at your service. I live next door.” He nods out the window toward the Russian embassy.

Because that’s the thing about Embassy Row. The boy next door is probably Russian.

He is not supposed to be here.

“Then shouldn’t you be getting home?” I ask. “I’d hate for us to have an international incident. It’s only my first day back.”

“Actually, that’s why I’m here. You see, I’m the guy your brother put in charge of you.”

At this, I have to laugh. “Oh, he did, did he?”

“Yes. I am to … and I quote … ‘keep Grace from killing herself or anyone else.’ Especially me. He was most emphatic about that last part.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“That is not what I hear.” Alexei crosses his arms and leans against the wall, blocking my way. But there’s something in his eyes as he looks at me. “You grew up, Gracie.”

“People do that. Even little sisters.”

“You will always be Jamie’s little sister.”

“So he likes to remind me. But that doesn’t make me your problem.”

“I guess this is where we must … what is it you Americans say? Agree to disagree.”

Alexei has lived on Embassy Row since he was three. He’s attended the English-speaking international school since he was five. His English is as good as mine, but he likes to play this game. They all do. I don’t play any game that I can’t win.

“How have you been, Gracie?” he asks. His voice is too soft now. Too sincere. And I hate the sound of it. It makes me wonder: What does he know? What has Jamie told him?

For better or worse, I lower my head and say, “Alive.”

“Good,” Alexei says. Then a darkness crosses his face, and I can feel the words coming even before he tilts his head and says, “I was very sorry to hear about your mother. She was always very kind to me.”

“I …”

The doors to the formal living room are open, and when I stare through them I see blankets draped over chair backs. Somebody has built a fort.

“Jamie!” a little blond girl calls. “Alexei!”

But the boys are nowhere to be seen.

A woman sweeps into the room, takes the little girl in her arms. “Gracie, what’s the matter?”

“They left me.” The little girl’s voice quivers, full of tears she won’t let fall. “Jamie and Alexei left me!”

“Oh, Gracie.” The woman holds her tighter. “That’s why I’m here. I will never leave you.”

“Never leave me,” I whisper.

“Grace?” Alexei’s voice comes to me. But it’s deeper than it used to be. He and Jamie will never build a fort again. “Grace, did you say something?”

“I … I have to go.”

“Grace —”

“I have to go now!” I shout because he is too close. The past is too close. The emotions I keep bottled up inside of me are pushing to the surface. And, most of all, I am tired. I’m so, so tired. And if I have to stay inside this building one moment longer I might not make it. I might just crumble into ash and blow away.

There’s a small courtyard behind the embassy. It’s filled with rosebushes transplanted from the White House and secluded benches — a few meandering paths that crisscross the grounds.

As I reach for the door, Alexei says, “Grace, you can’t go that way.”

I spin, throw my arms out wide, and shout, “Watch me!”

Then I back into the door, pushing as hard as I can. But I’m bigger than I used to be. Stronger. And the doors open too easily against my weight. The stairs are slick and I lose my balance as soon as I’m through the door. I can feel myself slipping, falling.

A hand grabs me from behind, but it is the exact wrong sensation at the exact wrong time. I feel like a rope has been fraying inside of me, slowly unraveling until …

Snap.

I turn and lash out. A cry rises up in my throat, primitive and raw, and then I’m pushing and lunging. Falling. As I land in the rosebushes, I can feel the thorns of a rosebush tearing into my skin, clinging to my clothes. But I can’t stop. I have to get away, so I push to my hands and knees and try to crawl through the dirt, but my head is spinning. I see stars.

But … no. Not stars. The bright lights flash with quick clicks, rapid-fire. I brush my hair out of my eyes and look up at the international press corps that stands around me, cameras raised, capturing my every move. There must be at least fifty people in the courtyard. From the edge of the crowd I see Alexei’s father looking on, horrified.

“That’s why,” Alexei says so softly I barely hear him.

Only then do I realize I am not alone on the ground. The Russian ambassador spits and gags beside me. Blood runs from his nose and he brings a hand to his mouth as if he has been hit.

Because he has been hit.

I look down at my own hands. They’re shaking. And on my knuckles there’s a faint smudge of blood.

“Hello, Grace, darling.”

Instantly, I recognize the deep Southern drawl that even after decades in Adria he still hasn’t lost. I squint up through the sun. Vaguely, I make out a dark suit, a red tie, and white hair — a smile I haven’t seen in years.

I wipe the mud from my face and steal one last glance at the obviously upset Russian.

Then I turn back to the man offering me his hand and say, “Hi, Grandpa.”

CHAPTER THREE

I can hear the shouting, but I can’t make out the words. Maybe it’s because the doors to the ambassador’s office are practically soundproof. Maybe it’s because most of the shouting is in Russian.

There is a guard at the end of the hall. He wears camouflage and carries a semiautomatic. We are definitely not in the United States anymore, I realize as I sit on a hard chair, swinging my legs back and forth, trying not to bleed on Russia’s really nice rug.