I know better than to shout. There are always guards on patrol in the courtyard and by the gates. My grandfather’s suite is on this floor. And I’m fairly certain Ms. Chancellor probably has my room bugged, wired, and booby-trapped. Yelling is a bad idea.

“Sorry.” The boy holds out a hand. He has spiky black hair and dark eyes that catch the moonlight as he tells me again, “I’m Noah,” sounding only slightly annoyed. “Noah Miguel Estaban.”

“Noah Estaban?”

He shrugs. “Mom’s Israeli. Dad’s Brazilian. What can I say? I am Embassy Row personified. You really lucked out in the best friend department.”

“I didn’t realize one had been assigned to me.”

“Sure. My mom and Ms. Chancellor are sorority sisters or something. Anyway, I’m supposed to mold you in my diplomatic image. Now hurry up. We’ve got to go.”

“Ms. Chancellor asked you to break into my room in the middle of the night, then drag me out of the embassy and onto the dark streets of a foreign city?”

“Well, technically she asked me to show you around. Exactly when and how she left up to me. And I say there’s no time like the present. So come on. We’re late.” He looks at me impatiently. “Get dressed.”

I stare back and then something occurs to him.

“Oh, you need me to turn around? Here. I’ll turn around.”

Three minutes later, the embassy is dark and Noah and I are making our way down the halls. There are mosaics on the ceilings and gold-embossed angels by the stairs. I know that most modern embassies are more like fortresses — barbed wire and cement blocks, born out of the war on terror. But not in Adria. This country is like the land that time forgot, and even here, on what is technically US soil, it shows. The building was originally built by a spice baron in 1772. It became the US embassy at the end of World War I. And it was the only real home my mother ever knew.

As I follow the boy with the spiky black hair and dark brown eyes, I feel like a thief. A trespasser. And I’m a little afraid to admit that I like it. I even like Noah. But when we reach the side door, I stop.

He looks back at me. “What’s wrong?”

I can still hear my grandfather’s words rattling around in my head. I can feel the scathing glare of a few very ticked-off Russians. And I know that I have two options:

I can be the person everyone wants me to be.

Or I can be the person they all expect me to be.

“I can’t go,” I say. “I just got here. I can’t …”

“It’s okay,” Noah tells me. “Consider it part of your training. Besides, you’re with me.”

Then, as if to prove his point, Noah pushes out the door and marches toward the gates.

“Hey, Martin,” he says to the marine stationed there. The marine takes his hand and shakes it like Noah is his oldest, dearest friend.

“Be good, buddy,” the marine tells him.

“I always am,” Noah says. “Oh, this is Grace. She’s with me.”

“I’m the one who lives here,” I protest, but the marine just takes me in.

“Welcome back, ma’am,” he says.

“Thank you,” I say.

And then we are off, free … or so I think, right up until the point when Noah stops by the gate and holds up a finger.

“Okay,” he says. “First lesson.”

Noah broadens his stance, taking his place firmly on the embassy side of the threshold. “In the United States,” he says. Then, with both feet, he leaps onto the sidewalk. “Out of the United States.” Quickly, he jumps back toward me. “In the United States.” Another jump across the threshold. “Out of the United States. In. Out. In —”

“Is this the part where I hit you?”

Noah raises one finger. “You could. But you might want to do it while you are” — he leaps back to stand beside me — “in the United States.”

I put both hands on his chest and shove gently, pushing him out into the dark and empty street. Noah only laughs and catches his balance, then glances back at me.

“Diplomatic immunity, Grace. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

I join him on the other side of the fence and let the embassy gate slam behind me. Martin the Marine’s laughter is the only sound as we disappear into the shadows, walking uphill on a narrow street lined with mansions.

Noah is taller than me, with long, lanky legs that wobble like he’s a puppy that’s still growing. He practically bounces down the street, arms thrown out wide as he says, “This is Embassy Row!”

“I know,” I tell him, but it’s like he doesn’t even hear.

“Named for the rows of embassies that line the street.” He makes a gesture like a flight attendant pointing out emergency exits. “Newcomers to the city are often fascinated to learn that Valancia is actually laid out like a gigantic circle, ringed by the ancient wall that has protected our fair city from intruders for more than seven centuries.”

“I’m not a newcomer,” I say, but Noah talks on like the world’s most overenthusiastic tour guide.

“Embassy Row actually lies on the outer perimeter of the city circle, with many of the properties backing up against the wall itself. The land here was originally farmland that was supposed to help feed the city in the event of a siege, but eventually the wealthiest citizens of Valancia chose to build their estates here. At the end of the First World War, the homes were gradually bought up by the various nations with whom diplomatic relations in Adria are oh so important. Forty-seven in all — and that’s just on the row. There are a lot of other, smaller embassies and consulates within the city.”

One of the mansions is as white as the sand on the beach that stretches from the sea. It has high walls and reinforced gates. Noah points to the blue-and-white flag that flies from the highest tower as we pass.

“I live in that one.”

“Israel,” I say. “Not Brazil?”

“Only on the weekends.” Noah shoves his hands into his pockets. “Mom and Dad weren’t exactly suited to matrimonial harmony.”

Noah walks on. If there’s more to the story, then he isn’t in the mood to share it. At least we have that much in common.

“Each embassy is the sovereign ground of the country it represents. Each country is sacred.”