With that thought I feel a fresh rush of anger and adrenaline. I don’t want to run away anymore. I want to turn and fight—to kick and claw until the whole world bleeds as much as my brother did.
A few tourists are being ushered from the bridge, and the woman with the fake baby has left the carriage behind and is easing closer. She’s trained, I know. She wouldn’t be here—have this job—if she weren’t. But I’m trained, too, in my own way. I grew up wrestling on the living room floor with an Army Ranger, and I have the advantage of surprise and sheer unadulterated rage.
The man who couldn’t choose a souvenir is on my other side. When the woman reaches for me, I sidestep and grab her arm, spin and whirl her toward the man who has no choice but to catch her.
And then I run. I’m almost to the center of the bridge when I realize that the men on my right are no longer moving toward me. There is a blur of action—fists and kicks. Someone is spinning, yelling, “Gracie!”
And then Alexei is here. Alexei is free. One of the men is falling over the edge, landing in the water below, and Alexei’s almost to me.
He grabs my hand and yells, “Come on!” But I don’t move.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him.
Alexei turns on me, disbelief in his eyes. “What do you think I’m doing here?” He sounds like someone who is perfectly willing to fight me, too, but he’d rather not have to.
The guards are closer now. I can feel the bridge getting smaller and smaller, almost like it’s burning from both ends. I’ve burned bridges before; I should know what it feels like.
“Come on,” Alexei says, tugging me in the direction he’s just come from.
“No,” I say, pulling back and holding on.
“Grace, we’ve got to get you out of here!” he shouts.
But I just calmly drop his hand and step closer to the center of the bridge that arches high over the water. I’m almost to the highest part. To my right, I can see two guards charging toward us. To my left, I see more men coming and, of course, Alexei, who stands dumbfounded, as if wondering if the pressure has finally broken me. If maybe I’m crazy after all.
“Grace!” he yells again, but I just hold out my hand.
“Do you trust me?”
This is it, I can tell. The big moment. I can hear the guards’ cries on the wind. There is no one on the bridge but these people who would take me away and this boy who only wants to protect me from anything—everything—especially myself.
My hand is still outstretched, and I can almost read Alexei’s mind as he looks at me. Am I a screw-up? A kid sister? A killer.
A princess?
Am I someone he can trust, he wants to know.
But time is running out, and I shake my outstretched hand. Instantly, Alexei takes it. I step onto the railing, and Alexei joins me, standing high above the water running below.
His hand is warm in mine. So sure. So strong. For a second, I just feel it—feel him. He looks down into my eyes. Blue staring into brown. Neither of us blinks as we stand atop this bridge in the center of Paris.
Maybe it’s the fatigue, the fear, or the sheer force of the adrenaline that is pounding in my veins, but I’m not thinking anymore. I just bring my free hand up and weave my fingers into Alexei’s dark hair, pull him close, and kiss him. Like maybe it’s the last thing I’ll ever do.
And maybe it is.
That’s the thing that this whole mess has taught me. My mother was a young woman, strong and healthy right up until the moment she died. My brother had most of his life in front of him, and he came within an inch of having it all slip away.
I may never get off this bridge. I might die in Paris. Right here. Right now. But I won’t die alone, and for that I will always treasure Alexei.
When we pull apart, there is a question in his blue eyes—fear and confusion and … hope? I don’t know. And it’s far too late to ask because there’s movement in the corner of my eye.
The guards are almost here. Someone is yelling in French, words that feel like “Stop! Police!” My gaze is on the water. It ripples and flows like freedom, running out toward the sea. And then, I see it, the bow of a boat peeking out from beneath the bridge, running underneath us.
It’s red and two stories, the boat equivalent of the bus that brought me here. I can actually hear a woman on the loudspeaker, explaining in rapid German the historical significance of the bridge they are passing under.
They have no idea.
And hopefully no one will ever know that this is the place where the rightful princess of Adria escaped from the usurper.
I drop Alexei’s hand. When his eyes go wide, I say, “Thank you.”
And then I jump, falling free, crashing to the roof of the ship below.
A second later, Alexei follows.
And then the boat is gone, too far from the bridge for anyone else to jump. As if anyone else would be that crazy.
I barely catch my breath before I roll off the side of the little roof, grab the edge, and dangle for a moment, then drop lightly onto the deck below.
Somewhere, the guide must have missed all the action, because she’s still talking. But the people on the deck gasp and scream at the sight of the windblown American girl who seems to have fallen from the sky. When a slightly confused Russian drops to the ground beside her, people scatter.
“What was that?” Alexei practically screams.
He doesn’t notice the tiny blond who is left standing alone on the deck once the tourists flee.