the frame, I see Rosie standing on the wall, looking at me. Slowly, she raises one hand in something that’s not quite a salute, not quite a wave.
I wave back and close the window, then silently draw the shades.
W hen I wake, it takes a long time to remember where I am. Then I move my arms, trying to assure myself of where I’m not . The bed is soft and warm, so I know that last night I didn’t have an incident. But I also know that what happened wasn’t a dream. Oh how I wish it were a dream …
The Scarred Man was there .
I lie perfectly still, trying to control my breathing, desperate to convince myself that I could have been seeing things. I could have been hearing things. After all, I was jet-lagged and exhausted, compromised by adrenaline and subpar lighting. I try to tell myself there was no Scarred Man last night — that I have absolutely nothing to fear. But that’s before I roll over and kick the woman sitting on the end of my bed.
“Good morning, Grace,” Ms. Chancellor says. She’s wearing a purple suit today, but it’s almost a carbon copy of the same one she wore yesterday. “It’s time to get up, dear.”
“And what time is that?”
“Almost seven.”
I huff and roll over. I was sneaking into a hostile country just five hours ago. But I can’t tell Ms. Chancellor that.
“I’m jet-lagged,” I say, pulling my pillow over my head to block out the light that streams through the window. She must have opened the shades.
Ms. Chancellor pulls my pillow away. “The best way to combat jet lag is to put yourself on your new time as quickly as possible. Now, come on. Up. Up. Up.”
She’s laughing as she says it, teasing. She really wants to be my friend, I realize, and suddenly I feel sorry for her. She doesn’t know what a terrible thing it is she’s asking for.
“Is he up?” I ask, pushing myself upright.
“Your grandfather has always been an early riser. Well, he has been for as long as I’ve known him. I’m afraid he can’t join us for breakfast, though. He had an early meeting at the palace.”
“Well, if he was needed at the palace …”
Ms. Chancellor forces a smile. “Why don’t you get dressed, Grace? Come downstairs. There is something you and I need to discuss over breakfast.”
When Ms. Chancellor leaves, I go into the bathroom. My mother kept snapshots tucked inside the mirror’s frame. There are probably a dozen, and I have no choice but to study them as I brush my teeth.
Mom and the grandmother I never knew. My mother and her best friend, smiling on the beach. Mom as a little girl, sitting at Grandpa’s desk. Part of me wants to yell and scream and throw every piece of my dead mother out the window. But I just put my toothbrush in the cup beside hers. I pull my hair onto the top of my head and go downstairs.
When I reach the doors to the dining room, Ms. Chancellor is standing behind a chair at the head of a table that probably seats at least forty. Maybe fifty. I don’t stop to count. I’m too busy staring at the silverware, and then wondering if you can still call it silverware if it’s actually made of gold.
“Come in, Grace,” Ms. Chancellor tells me.
“I usually eat in the kitchen.”
“Come in,” she says again. “And close the doors.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I’m careful to do exactly as she says as I walk around the edge of the room, as far away from the ornately set table as possible.
None of our plates at home even match, I realize. One of the many downsides of moving every six to eighteen months of your life. I learned from an early age to never own anything I didn’t want to end up in a million pieces at the bottom of a box.
“I thought you were getting dressed,” Ms. Chancellor says, and I look down at the T-shirt I slept in, my yoga pants with a bleach stain on the hem. I bring my hand up to touch the ponytail that sits lopsided on the top of my head and regret every decision I’ve ever made. Ever. Which makes this a
I wave back and close the window, then silently draw the shades.
W hen I wake, it takes a long time to remember where I am. Then I move my arms, trying to assure myself of where I’m not . The bed is soft and warm, so I know that last night I didn’t have an incident. But I also know that what happened wasn’t a dream. Oh how I wish it were a dream …
The Scarred Man was there .
I lie perfectly still, trying to control my breathing, desperate to convince myself that I could have been seeing things. I could have been hearing things. After all, I was jet-lagged and exhausted, compromised by adrenaline and subpar lighting. I try to tell myself there was no Scarred Man last night — that I have absolutely nothing to fear. But that’s before I roll over and kick the woman sitting on the end of my bed.
“Good morning, Grace,” Ms. Chancellor says. She’s wearing a purple suit today, but it’s almost a carbon copy of the same one she wore yesterday. “It’s time to get up, dear.”
“And what time is that?”
“Almost seven.”
I huff and roll over. I was sneaking into a hostile country just five hours ago. But I can’t tell Ms. Chancellor that.
“I’m jet-lagged,” I say, pulling my pillow over my head to block out the light that streams through the window. She must have opened the shades.
Ms. Chancellor pulls my pillow away. “The best way to combat jet lag is to put yourself on your new time as quickly as possible. Now, come on. Up. Up. Up.”
She’s laughing as she says it, teasing. She really wants to be my friend, I realize, and suddenly I feel sorry for her. She doesn’t know what a terrible thing it is she’s asking for.
“Is he up?” I ask, pushing myself upright.
“Your grandfather has always been an early riser. Well, he has been for as long as I’ve known him. I’m afraid he can’t join us for breakfast, though. He had an early meeting at the palace.”
“Well, if he was needed at the palace …”
Ms. Chancellor forces a smile. “Why don’t you get dressed, Grace? Come downstairs. There is something you and I need to discuss over breakfast.”
When Ms. Chancellor leaves, I go into the bathroom. My mother kept snapshots tucked inside the mirror’s frame. There are probably a dozen, and I have no choice but to study them as I brush my teeth.
Mom and the grandmother I never knew. My mother and her best friend, smiling on the beach. Mom as a little girl, sitting at Grandpa’s desk. Part of me wants to yell and scream and throw every piece of my dead mother out the window. But I just put my toothbrush in the cup beside hers. I pull my hair onto the top of my head and go downstairs.
When I reach the doors to the dining room, Ms. Chancellor is standing behind a chair at the head of a table that probably seats at least forty. Maybe fifty. I don’t stop to count. I’m too busy staring at the silverware, and then wondering if you can still call it silverware if it’s actually made of gold.
“Come in, Grace,” Ms. Chancellor tells me.
“I usually eat in the kitchen.”
“Come in,” she says again. “And close the doors.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I’m careful to do exactly as she says as I walk around the edge of the room, as far away from the ornately set table as possible.
None of our plates at home even match, I realize. One of the many downsides of moving every six to eighteen months of your life. I learned from an early age to never own anything I didn’t want to end up in a million pieces at the bottom of a box.
“I thought you were getting dressed,” Ms. Chancellor says, and I look down at the T-shirt I slept in, my yoga pants with a bleach stain on the hem. I bring my hand up to touch the ponytail that sits lopsided on the top of my head and regret every decision I’ve ever made. Ever. Which makes this a
Similar Books
