“It’s not her fault!” I say, ignoring Ms. Chancellor, speaking directly to the British woman and the others who seem least sympathetic to my cause. “Ms. Chancellor told me the situation. She warned me not to tell a soul. She did everything but tie me up and duct-tape my mouth shut.” I give a sad, involuntary laugh. “Even that probably wouldn’t have stopped me. I’m kind of hard to protect—even from myself, if you haven’t already figured that out.”

The woman in the sari leans toward me. “What do you know, Grace?”

I know I’m tired. I know I’m hungry. I know it feels like I’ve eaten roadkill and still have the taste in my mouth.

But, most of all, I know this started centuries ago.

I know it will never, ever be over, so long as my brother and I are alive. No wonder these women aren’t overly concerned about the people who want to kill me. They’re smart enough to know that’s probably the only way this nightmare ends.

That doesn’t change the fact that it’s my nightmare.

“I know there was a coup in Adria two hundred years ago, and a baby named Amelia was the only member of the royal family to survive. I know the Society hid her among their members and she grew up. And I know that my mom and her friends spent years trying to figure out who Amelia’s descendants might be. And when Mom figured out she was Amelia’s descendant—her heir—then someone ordered her murder.”

But I’m the one who pulled the trigger, I think and the memory comes in a wave, crashing over me. I bear myself up against it. Let it pass, and go on.

“I know whoever wanted my mother dead three years ago is hunting down her children now.”

“So you are aware, then, that your brother, James, is the rightful king of Adria,” the woman in the sari asks.

“He doesn’t want to be king!” I yell, the truth flying out of me. “And I don’t want to be a princess. I mean … I can hardly even say that with a straight face. Can you imagine?” I look down at my wrinkled clothes. I’d laugh if it weren’t so painfully sad.

“What do you want?” the woman in the sari asks, her voice soft and kind.

“I want my mother back,” I say without thinking. I shouldn’t let the elders see so far underneath my protective shell. But it’s too late. They’re all smart enough to know that I am broken. “Since that’s not possible, though, I guess I’d settle for not losing my brother, too.”

“But that’s not all, is it, Grace?”

I turn to the prime minister, who looks so sleek in her red suit. She knows me well.

“No.” I shake my head. “I want to make them pay.”

The PM smiles and leans back, her point made.

The woman in the sari looks at me. “The Society is not in the business of revenge, Ms. Blakely.”

“That’s okay,” I tell them. “I am.”

“The past was in the past!” The British woman seems to be on the brink of shouting or crying—I can’t tell which. “It would have been safely behind us all if your mother had simply let it be. If you had let it be.”

Now the hypocrisy is just too much.

“I thought you people wanted to chronicle history—to register the truth because it always repeats itself and it’s almost always written by men. I thought you were founded so that you could guide the world and keep it from doing things that are stupid.” I stop, take a breath. “I thought you were the good guys.”

“This Society has not endured for a thousand years by taking on the pet projects of every one of its members. We work toward the common good,” says a woman in the back. Murmurs fill the room. And then something hits me.

“Who knew what my mother found?”

My question silences them.

The PM is the one who answers. “We were unaware of the extent of her search. We—”

“Who knew what she found?” I shout.

“We don’t know,” the PM says.

The Society always seemed invincible, omniscient. I don’t believe for a second that there’s something they don’t know. I have an even harder time believing they’d admit it.

“Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe you’re just not willing to tell me.”

The PM straightens, bristles. “I do not appreciate being called a liar.”

“And I don’t appreciate being constantly lied to. I suppose we are both destined for disappointment.”

I expect her to lash back, to lock me in some kind of dungeon until I learn not to sass my elders. But the woman only laughs. “You have spirit, Ms. Blakely. I will give you that. You would have made a magnificent queen.”

“I will settle for being safe,” I say as I study the assembly of women—the compilation of power. And the truth seeps into my bones. “But you all don’t really care about that, do you?”

No one answers. But that’s okay because at least it means that no one lies.

“Where is it?” A woman in the corner is now looking at me. Tension radiates off her. She is tired of this little dance and thinks it’s time to get down to business.

“Where is what?” I ask, and look to the prime minister.

“Presumably, your mother had some kind of proof—something that would link your family to Amelia. Where is it?”

But I’m shaking my head. “No. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”