“Welcome home, dear,” Ann tells me.

She tries to pull me into a hug, but I recoil. It’s instinct now. I can’t help it. After all, home was wherever Dad was stationed. Home was wherever Jamie was in school. Home was where my mother was, but my mother is gone now and the woman before me is responsible. The thought makes me want to kill someone. Again.

But instead I just shudder and want to cry.

“Grace, may I present Henson. Henson is the butler for the family wing. He and his staff will take care of your needs, dear. Henson,” the princess says, turning back to me. There’s a sickly sweet smile upon her face. “This is my goddaughter, Grace.”

The butler speaks. I’m pretty sure he bows. But I’m too busy looking at Ann, wondering how I’m supposed to live here with a woman I hate.

“As you know, Henson, Grace’s grandfather, Ambassador Blakely, isn’t well, and so we agreed that it would be best if she were to live here for a while. With me. I’m sure you and the staff will do all you can to make her feel at home.”

At this, the butler bows again. “Of course, Your Highness,” the man says in Adrian. Then he turns to me and switches to English. “Ms. Blakely, if you ever need anything—anything at all—you have only to ask. The staff and I are here to serve.”

I’m supposed to say something, I know. But all I can do is mumble something like “Okay, sure,” and then follow Ann down the long line of servants. Maids and footmen bow and curtsy as we pass. And soon we are in a dim, quiet entryway that bears almost no resemblance to the grand, main doors of the palace.

“Do you think people are really going to believe you’re my godmother?” I say as Ann starts to climb the stairs.

“Your mother was my oldest, dearest friend, Grace. No one will question that.”

“I’m questioning it,” I say, and Ann stops. She’s standing one step above me, looking down.

“We had a deal, Grace.”

“The devil makes them all the time.”

Something in her eyes makes me laugh. It’s either that or cry.

“You have a choice, dear.” Ann steps down to my level, glares into my eyes. “Life here,” she says, then gestures up at the crystal chandelier, at the veritable army of servants who are filing in through the doors behind us, returning to their work. “Or a life out there, looking over your shoulder. No peace for you. Or your brother. Or whatever descendants either of you might someday have. Those are your options. Now choose one.”

In my head, I know she’s right—that this is true. But my mind has been too wrong about too much for too long. How am I supposed to trust it with something like this?

I think about my grandfather and my brother. I think about life on the run and the way Alexei held me close and said that I was home to him. But, most of all, I think about what Noah said—that whatever my mom found, she probably found it here. In Adria.

This was where she came. This was why she died. And if I’m going to find it, too, I’m going to have to stop running. It’s time to keep my friends close and my enemies closer, and you don’t get much closer than under the same roof.

Still, with every step, the reality becomes greater. Heavier. I stop and try to breathe, but there’s not enough air here in this massive building. My vision narrows and my heart pounds, and it’s not a beautiful day in Valancia; it’s the middle of the night outside my mother’s shop and my whole world is about to catch fire.

“I … I have to go back to the embassy.”

Ann eases closer. “I thought you understood, Grace. There is no going back.”

“I don’t have my bags or my clothes or …” My mother’s boxes and journals and papers. “I didn’t bring my clothes.”

“Is that the problem?” Ann asks, and then she throws back her head and laughs. It’s like I’ve just made the best joke ever. “Your clothes? Oh, sweetheart, you won’t be needing your clothes.”

“Why?” I snap. “Am I going to be chained naked to a radiator or something?”

“You watch too many movies, Grace.”

“I need to go back,” I say as my gut fills with some unknown, unnamed dread. “I want … I need to bring my things.”

“No,” Ann says. “You don’t.”

Then she turns and climbs the stairs. My following her isn’t up for debate or discussion. I have made my bed, I know. And now the most beautiful woman in Europe is going to go chain me to it.

“It’ll never work,” I call. “No one is going to believe that I belong here.”

“They will,” Ann says. “I do a great deal of charity work.”

“Great,” I say as I start to climb. I’m charity.

“This is your life now, Grace. And it can be a good life. Or it can be miserable. From this point forward, it is a choice. And the choice is entirely up to you.”

For a second, tears well in my eyes. My throat burns, and I can’t help it because, for a second, she sounds just like a mother.

Like my mother.

When Ann leads me down a long, wide corridor, I have no choice but to follow.

“The palace is comprised of many different spaces that serve many different functions. I believe you are familiar with the state ballroom and perhaps some of the more formal, public areas, but those are typically only used for functions of state. You’ve also seen the royal drawing room, if memory serves. As you might expect, there are a number of rooms dedicated to the royal family as well as individual apartments for those of us in permanent residence. In addition, there are guest quarters and entire floors reserved for servants. In total, there are, I believe, one hundred and seventy bedrooms inside the palace.”