“Up here!” I yell again. “Help! Help! Look up here!”

But no one does. Mine is just another voice in the city, another set of cries. Already the darkness is descending. I see the streetlights growing brighter, and I doubt that anyone will even be able to see this far up in the dark.

So no one will see me. No one will hear me. I will die in this tower alone, never being able to tell the world that I’m not crazy.

I sink to the ground. Broken. Defeated. And then I do what I always do. I lash out, kicking and screaming. I’m almost glad that no one can hear me. No one is going to tell me I’m behaving like a child. I kick so hard that my feet hurt. I stand and hurl myself at the window, banging against the stones.

But then the strangest thing happens:

One of the stones moves.

There is an upside, evidently, to being locked in a thousand-year-old tower, I realize as I examine the wall, the small sliver of fleeting sunlight that shines through the place where the mortar is cracked and split. The stone actually shifts when I touch it, so I push harder and harder until it falls free of the wall and tumbles into the sky, but I never hear the crash. There is nothing below to catch it — to catch me — but I push again and again. Stone by stone the hole in the side of the tower grows larger until, finally, I can stick my head out to see the stretch of grass beneath me. I’m in one of the touristy parts of the palace, but there are no tourists now. Everyone is on their way to the celebration. There is absolutely no one to see me, hear me, catch me if I fall.

Down below, there are no stairs, no landing. There’s nothing but a sheer wall. And me.

I want to yell again, but my voice fails me. In the distance, the music has started. In an hour, there will be speeches and photo ops and fireworks. And at some point during it all, I know, someone is going to die.

I spot a cable embedded in the stone above me and slightly to the right. I run my gaze along it until the cable disappears into the twilight. Maybe it goes all the way to the ground? Perhaps it runs between the tower and the other buildings of the palace? I’m not sure. I only know that it is barely within my reach and it is my only way out.

I take off my sweater, place my hands into the arms, and roll the sleeves over and over until my hands look like very puffy paws.

Carefully, I climb onto the ledge of the small hole that I’ve made in the side of the tower.

I don’t look down.

I don’t think about what will happen if I miss.

I focus instead on all the reasons I have to make it.

“I’m not crazy,” I say aloud, and then I leap as high as I can, stretching, reaching.

My hands latch onto the cable.

And I begin to slide.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

My first thought as I hit the ground is that I’m free. My second is that I am anything but safe. And I know the worst thing that Ms. Chancellor and the Scarred Man have taken from me. It wasn’t my freedom. It was my confidence. They made me doubt myself. And now the whole world doubts me, too.

I am the Girl Who Cried Wolf. And now I am the only one who can save the lambs.

My feet ache as I run down the hill toward the park. One lands between the cobblestones and my ankle turns. But I don’t fall. I just keep running.

The crowd is growing thicker now, the closer that I get to the bleachers and the grassy lawn. I can hear the music stop. The speeches are starting. Soon, the president and all the other world leaders will take the stage. The Secret Service will be there, yes, but they won’t be looking to protect the president from their counterparts from Adria. After what happened at the embassy, they probably won’t dare challenge the Scarred Man in any way, lest they risk another international incident.

So I run faster.

There are barricades. People fill the street. I push and claw, but I can’t get closer.

“Let me through!” I try. “I have to get through!”

But it’s no use. Even if I could fight the crowds, there would be no getting behind the barriers, no pleading with the Secret Service. I have to reach my grandfather. I have to warn him about Ms. Chancellor and the Scarred Man. I have to make him see. Somehow.

I know exactly where the nearest tunnel entrance is. I’m not afraid as I slip inside the darkness and feel my way along the tunnel, to a place that will probably be behind the barricades. There is an opening overhead. I have no idea what lies above me, but I know it’s my only way. So I climb and open it, peek slowly out, take a deep breath and try to get my bearings.

Even with the setting sun, it’s too dark here. I must be underneath the bleachers because there are rafters above me. I can hear the muffled sound of the prime minister’s amplified voice. To my right, there is something of a staging area in the distance. I can see cars coming and going, lots of big guys in dark suits. Everyone in that area either moves with incredible efficiency and purpose or stands perfectly still. No loitering. No lingering. This is where the Important People gather, and now I am among them.

There is some applause from the masses. When it dies down, I can hear the flags that line the promenade cracking in the breeze.

There is only one thing to do — one thing that matters. I will find the Scarred Man. I will find him and then —

I don’t let myself think about that.

“You shouldn’t be here, Grace.”

I feel the Scarred Man’s breath on my neck, hear his voice in my ear. And I know I haven’t found him; he’s found me.

I know it is far too late to run.

But somehow I’m not terrified. I don’t tremble with fear but with rage.

“You can’t kill me, can you?” I ask, proud that I have figured out that much.

“No.” I can feel him shake his head slowly. “I can’t kill you.”

“Because, if you could, I’d be dead already.”

“Yes. I’m afraid you would be.”

The words should sound menacing. Terrifying. They should make me want to run, but I just stand there, demanding answers. I feel that I have earned them.

But the Scarred Man doesn’t give me answers. Instead, he picks me up. Faster than Jamie, stronger than my father when he tries to teach me to punch and kick. The Scarred Man isn’t playing, and before I can stop him, I’m over his shoulder and he is carrying me away from the people who fill the staging area, from the Secret Service and the guards.

When I push up on his shoulder, I can see the stage getting smaller. I can hear the speeches getting softer. The Scarred Man is carrying me farther and farther from help.