All Fall Down

by Ally Carter

  “That’s a train, dear,” Ms. Chancellor tells me, and she and Megan share a chuckle at my expense.

  “You have to try it on,” Megan says.

  “I don’t have to do anything,” I counter.

  “Sure you do. It’s as easy as, say, jumping off a cliff.” Megan crosses her arms, and I know she’s got me, so I go behind a screen and try to wiggle into the contraption. But there are so many straps and zippers and hooks that Megan has to come help me.

  While I slip out of my clothes, she takes the dress off the hanger. It puddles on the floor like a pale-pink volcano.

  “So, how have you been?”

  Is she asking for Ms. Chancellor’s benefit or her own? I honestly don’t know, so I say, “Fine.”

  She helps me step into the dress then work it up over my hips.

  “I’m sorry about your mom,” she says as she finds the zipper.

  “Thanks.”

  “I thought I’d see you at the funeral, but …”

  “Yeah. Couldn’t make it. Got tied up.” If she hears the bitterness in my voice, she ignores it.

  “Suck in.”

  I do as she says.

  “Did you get my letters?” she asks.

  “Yeah. Thanks,” I say. “I was going to write back, but …”

  “It’s okay. I know.”

  And the scary part is that I think she really does.

  When Megan speaks again, her voice is a whisper. “So are you going to tell me what happened last night?”

  “You were there. You saw what happened.”

  “No. Last night … that wasn’t you.”

  “The last time you saw me I was jumping off the wall, Megan.”

  Megan’s gaze burns into me. She isn’t backing down. “You were always a daredevil, but you never had a death wish. The girl I knew was always running toward something. Last night … you were running away.”

  “Megan, I’m fine,” I say again, but Megan just shakes her head.

  “No, you’re not.”

  She pulls the zipper up. Smooths the fabric into place. And then she walks away. I hear the door open and close, and there is no doubt in my mind that she is gone.

  “Grace?” Ms. Chancellor calls over the screen. “Grace, let’s see the dress.”

  “No.” I shake my head, emphatic, as if she can see me. I can handle stressful situations. I am equipped. Prepared. Drop me into a war zone and I’ll be fine. But this is different.

  “Grace, tomorrow night is very important for your grandfather.” Ms. Chancellor’s voice is low. Her words sound mildly like a threat.

  “Then he should ask me!” I don’t mean to shout — but I can’t stop myself. The dress is too tight and I can’t breathe.

  “He should talk to me,” I go on. “He doesn’t want me here. And he really doesn’t need me at some fancy party where all I’ll do is embarrass him.”

  Ms. Chancellor doesn’t bite back. She doesn’t snap. She just steps calmly forward and pulls me from behind the screen. “He wants you here, Grace. He has been alone in his duties for a very long time. And he is going to want you with him tomorrow night.”

  She stops and steps back, points to the full-length mirror that someone has leaned against the opposite wall. I can see the girl who stands there. Long, billowing pinkness over very pale skin. The same shade of pink fills my cheeks.

  Ms. Chancellor smiles. “And he is going to want you wearing this.”

  The next day is a blur of dress fittings and dance lessons and trips to various salons with Ms. Chancellor. Some of her instruments of torture are hot. Some are cold. Some are hard and some are soft. All are dangerous, I decide. If the army knew about curling irons, basic training might look very, very different.

  It’s almost six when we make our way downstairs.

  “Stand up straight, Grace,” Ms. Chancellor tells me, as if I have any choice in the matter. My dress is so tight I couldn’t slouch if I wanted to. I’m pretty sure they’re going to have to tie me to the hood of the car to get me to the palace.

  “You look lovely, dear,” Ms. Chancellor tells me with a smile. Her dress is long and black. She wears a shiny blue wrap around her shoulders and has piled her auburn hair on top of her head. I can’t quite decide if her sapphire earrings are real or not, but then I know they must be. Ms. Chancellor is simply not the kind of woman to put up with imitations.

  “You look nice, too,” I tell her. I am gripping the rail too tightly. I really don’t want to fall.

  “Thank you, Grace.” She smiles at me and takes my free hand. “It’s going to be a wonderful evening.”

  And I know she means it — she really does. This is her world. Her domain. Politics and intricate back-alley deals, trade alliances formed over champagne and shrimp cocktail.

  “Well, there are my girls!”

  My grandfather has a big, booming voice that fills any room. It floats up the stairs and greets us.

  Then he throws open the door. “Let’s go.”

  They don’t tie me to the hood of the stretch limo that waits outside. But I wish they would. I half sit, half lean along the seat, my back to the driver. Grandpa and Ms. Chancellor sit across from me. They don’t touch. But there is an easiness between them, a comfort borne from twenty-five years of late nights and early mornings, good times and bad.

  “You clean up real good, kid,” Grandpa says, but he’s not looking at me. He slaps Ms. Chancellor’s hand. “Now, how about me?”

  “You look like a man who has never quite mastered the bow tie.” She takes his shoulders and turns him to face her. “Here.”

  As Ms. Chancellor goes to work on his tie, he shifts his gaze to me.

  “You, too, Gracie. I almost didn’t recognize you with the dirt washed off. No casts?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “Good.” He eyes my dress. “So how many people had to force you into that thing?”

  “Just her. But she’s stronger than she looks.”

  Ms. Chancellor pulls his tie tight. He grunts.

  “Tell me about it,” Grandpa says.

  “I’ll have you know, William, that Grace is very excited to be taking part in her first official function.”

  “Her first!” Grandpa sounds almost nostalgic. He turns and looks out the tinted window at the scene that is rolling by. Ancient buildings and cobblestone streets. Bicyclists and fruit stands. As we climb higher and higher toward the city center, we can glimpse more and more of the sea.

  “My first came six months after I got here. There I was, fresh off the boat, just a junior State Department employee at the time, and I was told to go to the palace. The king’s father was on the throne then. He was a big man, powerful. World-class polo player, they said, but if you ask me, so few people play polo, how hard could it be to be world-class, really?” Grandpa considers this for a moment and then talks on.

  “Anyway, the president was supposed to visit that day, but something came up at the last minute and he needed to cancel. And instead of calling on the king himself, the ambassador at the time sends me, hat in hand, up to the palace to make our apologies.”

  Grandpa laughs a little at the memory. I try to imagine him as a young man, insecure and frightened, but the mental picture simply doesn’t fit. I can’t see him as anything but a senior statesman.

  “So the palace officials put me in an elevator and take me down to the basement. I thought I was going to an office or a study or something — probably to see an aide. But no. It was the pool. Hot springs run underneath the whole city, you see. And there is the king himself, climbing out of the water. Naked as the day he was born. Ha!” Grandpa slaps his leg. Ms. Chancellor demurely covers her smirking lips. “Then His Royal Highness proceeds to stand there stark naked through the whole talk. Lots of bowing and apologizing on my end. And then the king — the naked king — says, ‘Oh well. I guess I have time to get back in. Why don’t you join me?’”

  “What did you do?” I ask.

  “What co
uld I do? I joined him!”

  “So you took a bath with the king of Adria?”

  “I did indeed, Gracie. I did indeed.” He gives a very mischievous grin. “So just keep that dress on tonight and you’ll be ahead of me.”

  “I promise I’ll try.”

  Those are the words that are still in the air when the limo slows and turns through the palace gates. When a uniformed man opens the limo’s door, I glance down at the red carpet that runs to the palace’s massive doors. Grandpa exits the car first and offers his arm to me.

  “You ready, Gracie?” he asks with a wink.

  I smile and look up at the white-haired man who, to me, is little more than a stranger.

  “Absolutely,” I lie.

  “Ambassador William Vincent of the United States of America!”

  The small man has a huge voice. It booms through the ballroom, over the low din of chatter and the faint sound of the string quartet playing in the distance. He wears a red jacket with military medals I don’t recognize, a rank and regiment I don’t know.

  Grandpa and I have been standing in line for ten minutes. I’ve already lost the feeling in both of my big toes. But now that we’ve been announced, I’m expected to walk. And smile. I can see Noah on the far side of the room. When I catch his eye, he gives me a low, exaggerated curtsy just like Ms. Chancellor made me practice.

  I want to laugh, but it’s not funny. Falling flat on your face in front of seven hundred people rarely is.

  Slowly, Grandpa and I make our way down the very long receiving line. Shaking hands. Repeating names. Smiling. It feels like my jaw might fall off. I wish my lips were as numb as my toes.

  “Your grandmother used to do this with me, Gracie,” Grandpa whispers while we’re waiting to be introduced to the royal family. “And after your grandmother passed, your mother took this walk with me every year.”

  “I know,” I say as we ease slowly down the line.

  “No matter where your father took her, she always came back and held my arm for this night.”

  “I know,” I say again.

  “What I’m trying to say is that it’s nice to, once again, have the woman in my life by my side.”

  He means it. I can tell. And for one second I forget about the women in tiaras, the crowds that are watching the procession. I’m looking only at the old man with the white hair. For the first time in Adria, I don’t feel entirely alone.

  “Your Royal Highness.”

  It takes a moment for me to realize that my grandfather is no longer speaking to me — that he isn’t making a joke, mocking me and my princess-cut gown. But then I see her and I forget everything I was thinking.

  Her dark hair is pulled back in an elegant pile of curls that are topped by a diamond tiara. Her dress, I note, is not a princess cut, but I don’t stop to comment on the irony. I’m too busy staring at the woman in front of me, wondering if she might be the most beautiful person that I have ever seen.

  When my grandfather bows, I remember to curtsy. I lower my eyes and my head. My job in this moment is simple: Don’t fall down. I’m doing pretty well, but I know better than to get cocky.

  Then the princess reaches out and takes both of my grandfather’s hands in hers.

  “I’m still not used to hearing you call me that, Mr. Ambassador,” the princess says.

  Grandpa laughs — actually laughs — and tells her, “It would have been a strange thing to yell when I was telling you girls to stop sliding down the banister.”

  Then the princess laughs, too. My grandfather takes her gloved hand and kisses it. And the moment is so strange — so surreal — that I almost forget what I already technically know: that Princess Ann wasn’t always the wife of the future king of Adria. Once upon a time she was just a regular girl in Valancia. And she was my mother’s best friend.

  Then Grandpa seems to remember I’m beside him. “Your Royal Highness, may I present my granddaughter, Grace?”

  I do my best curtsy. I try out my most serene smile. I don’t trip or fall or knock anyone down, but I’m certain I’ve done something terribly, terribly wrong because the princess is staring at me, stunned. And it looks like she might be crying.

  “You look like your mother,” she says softly, then turns her gaze to my grandfather. “She is exactly like Caroline.”

  Grandpa’s hand is at my back. “I know.”

  Then the princess’s hands are in mine and she is leaning close to me, kissing both of my cheeks, saying, “Hello, Grace. I am so glad to see you again.”

  Again? Her wedding was on the cover of every magazine in America. When she finds a new favorite designer, it actually affects the stock market. She is one of the most famous women in the world. And, even with all my issues, I’m pretty sure if I’d met her I would remember.

  But Princess Ann merely tilts her head and says, “But perhaps you don’t recall. It has been a long time, after all. Not since you were perhaps three? Maybe four? We all went to the beach one day. You and your brother rode the carousel. Your mother and I lay on a blanket and laughed for hours. It was a happy day.” The woman smiles the same smile I’ve been seeing on the covers of magazines for years. But then the smile fades. “I never go to the beach anymore.”

  I wait for the memory to wash over me, but it doesn’t come.

  “Your mother, Grace —” I can feel the line growing behind us. We should have moved on by now, but Princess Ann still holds my hands. “I miss her so. I am very glad to see you.”

  “I live here now,” I somehow manage to blurt.

  She smiles. “Then perhaps we will ride the carousel together sometime soon.”

  Moving down the line again, I feel half a step behind my body. I no longer think about my sore feet or my tight dress. My mind is too busy imagining Princess Ann and my mother sliding down the embassy’s banister and lying on the beach. I finally realize why the girl in my mother’s pictures looks so familiar.

  I curtsy when my grandfather is greeted by Ann’s husband, the prince. His mother. And finally the king himself, but in my mind I’m on the carousel. I’m waiting to hear my mother laugh.

  “Mr. Ambassador,” the king says, taking my grandfather’s hand.

  “Your Majesty,” Grandpa says with a low bow. In his free hand, Grandpa carries a very formal-looking scroll of paper. It is secured by a red ribbon and sealed with wax. “Please allow me to present my papers of appointment on behalf of the president of the United States.”

  Solemnly, the king takes the scroll and carefully hands it to an aide.

  “It is my pleasure to accept these credentials and welcome you back to Adria, my friend.”

  When the two men shake hands again, they really do look like friends.

  Then Grandpa bows again. I curtsy. And both of us walk away.

  “Are we done?” I’m asking as Ms. Chancellor approaches.

  “Cakes are done. People are finished,” she says in the singsong tune I’m coming to know quite well. But she’s not angry. If anything, she’s beaming. “You were wonderful.”

  “I just stood there,” I point out.

  “And you did it very well.”

  “Do you feel like pushing your luck?” Grandpa asks.

  “Not exact —”

  “Mr. Prime Minister!” Grandpa says it with such gusto he’s almost shouting. There is a small group of men standing in a circle, talking, and Grandpa walks straight toward them. I don’t have a second to object before he says, “Allow me to introduce my granddaughter, Grace.”

  “Hello, Grace,” the man in the center of the group says, turning to take me in. He’s tall, his tuxedo classic. I watch the way he glances from my grandpa to me.

  Is this the one I’ve heard about? the prime minister’s look says.

  Yes. Go easy on her, Grandpa’s smile replies.

  “Welcome to Adria. How long will you be with us?” the prime minister asks.

  “Grace is here to stay,” Grandpa tells him, beaming.

  “Ex
cellent. You know, I’ve been saying for ages that we need someone to keep this old man in line,” the prime minister jokes.

  “I think she’s up to the task,” Grandpa says.

  I know he and the prime minister are talking about me, but at no point do I get the feeling that they are talking to me. I might as well be a statue. A work of art. I am simply something to be commented upon.

  I see Alexei and his father only a couple of feet away. I smile but Alexei just walks on, as if he doesn’t see me at all.

  “So, Grace, how do you like our little nation so far?” the prime minister asks.

  “It’s very nice,” I say and risk a glance around the massive room. The ceiling is at least fifty feet high and the walls are lined with portraits, many of which are older than my own country. “I’ve never been to the palace before.”

  “Oh, really? Well, there’s a lot of history here, Grace.” He walks to one of the oldest portraits and points up at a portly man in a crown. “Fredrick the First. He was a knight who stopped here on the way home from the Third Crusade at the end of the twelfth century. But it seemed that Fredrick was not yet finished fighting, because he landed on our shores and won Adria from the Mongols who ruled it then. Before the Mongols, for a short while there were the Turks. Before the Turks, the Byzantines and the Romans. But Fredrick built the wall, so Fredrick and his heirs got to keep it. Unless you consider …”

  The prime minister walks down the long line of paintings and points at another portrait. This one is of a woman.

  “Queen Catalina. She was the eldest daughter of the king of Spain, but she was betrothed to King Fredrick the Third when she wasn’t much older than you are. She married at seventeen, I believe. Her husband died in his sleep five months later, and Catalina ruled for sixty years.” He leans closer. There’s a glint in his eye as he adds, “If you ask me, she killed him.”

  We walk silently down the gallery, the portraits looming large over us — kings and queens still keeping a watchful eye over the land so many people had died for.

  “What about them?” I ask, pointing to the only portrait in the room that shows an entire family.