I say one last prayer that Sveloria is cool about marijuana and follow the agent into the last compartment on the train. This one has a metal folding table in the middle, and two other customs officers are smoking and playing cards on it.
They both stub their cigarettes out when we come in, and the officer I’m with says something harsh-sounding to them in Russian. No one makes a facial expression, but they leave and he cracks the window, then slaps my folder onto the table.
We both sit, and he points to the folder.
“What is this?” he asks.
I take a deep breath, lick my lips, and make sure that I speak as clearly as possible.
“My mother is Ambassador Eileen Towers,” I start. “I’m visiting Sveloria because my parents invited me to spend the month with them at the royal family’s summer palace.”
No reaction, but he flips open my passport again.
“I have my father’s last name,” I explain.
“You’re Chinese?” he asks.
I’m tempted to sarcastically reply no, I’m American, just like my damn passport says, but I know better than to be a smartass to a foreign customs official. Especially when there’s a joint in my bag.
“My grandparents immigrated to the United States from South Korea,” I say, because I know the question he’s really asking.
He just grunts. I take that as an invitation to continue, so I explain that my mother might be the most thoroughly prepared person on earth, and she sent me this brief on Sveloria so I could learn something about the country before I came.
She also doesn’t believe in doing things halfway, so it’s complete with photos of the royal family, several members of the king’s small council, photos of the summer palace where I’ll be staying, and even a map of Velinsk, the nearest town. And of course it’s printed on high-quality paper, carefully organized with a table of contents, came in an official State Department folder, and was hand-delivered to my hostel in Kiev by a courier.
I finish, and he doesn’t say anything. Even though the silence makes me nervous, I force myself to sit there, poised, and wait for him to finish going through the papers. He flips past a couple of pages on proper manners, Svelorian traditions, cuisine, and traffic laws.
At the end, he gets to the photos and spreads them out on the table.
“Lots of Prince Konstantin Grigorovich,” he says.
I look down. There’s four of him, which is more than anyone else, but it’s not a lot.
Honestly, I think one of my mom’s assistants has a crush, and I do not blame her. Konstantin looks like the model for a prince in a Disney movie if Disney princes also dripped raw, rugged sex appeal. He’s got dirty blond hair and gray eyes, and in every photo he’s glaring at the camera with the hottest glare I’ve ever seen.
I don’t even like the serious, brooding type, but I didn’t mind the extra pictures of the prince. I didn’t mind them at all.
I look back at the customs officer and shrug.
“The documents were put together by a woman,” I say. I don’t know if it’s true, but the more he thinks I’m just some silly American girl, the better.
For the first time, he cracks a smile. Just barely, but he does.
“The prince is very popular with women,” he says, and I raise my eyebrows just a bit.
“I can see why,” I say, and smile back at him.
He just grunts and collects the photos back into the folder, then places my passport on top of the folder and pushes both toward me across the table. I take them, relieved.
“Apologies for the inconvenience,” he says, stone-faced again.
“It was no inconvenience,” I say, nodding my head at him.
We both stand, and he gestures at the door of the compartment.
“We will arrive in Velinsk in thirty minutes,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say.
I walk back through the train, taking deep breaths. I can’t wait to get off this thing. I’ve been riding it for thirteen hours, and I’m pretty tired of being in a metal tube.
Before I go back to my seat, I go to the tiny bathroom. I splash my face off, brush my hair, and pull it into a bun since it’s obvious I haven’t washed it in two days.
I wonder if I should change my clothes, since I’m wearing leggings, an oversize tunic, a sweatshirt, and sneakers, but everything else I have is dirty. Besides, I’m not formally meeting the royal family until my welcome dinner tonight, so I’ll have time to change, bathe, and feel human again before that.
Then I go back to my seat and study the briefing like mad. I probably look insane, muttering names and phrases over and over to myself, but the people in this compartment have already seen me at my worst, so I don’t really care.
Finally, the train pulls up to a small train station. I shoulder my enormous pack, straighten my spine, and get off the train at last.
The air is summery but slightly cool, and it smells salty and fresh. I take a deep breath, glad to be off the train full of human smells.
I start walking, and as I do, my phone goes off in my pocket.
Texts from my mom start pouring in, all time-stamped at least an hour ago. We must have been out of range, or something. I stop in my tracks and read them all quickly, my heart sinking. I start chewing on one thumbnail, something I always do when I’m stressed.
The gist of the texts is: the royal family will be meeting you at the train station, so you should look presentable.
I look around for a bathroom, where I can frantically change into dirty clothes that at least aren’t these dirty clothes. Instead, I see my parents waving their arms. I stare for a moment and then hesitantly wave back, then walk over to them.
“Welcome to Sveloria, sweetie!” my mom gushes as I hug her, then my dad.
Then she smiles her polite-but-slightly-worried smile.
“Did you get my texts?” she asks.
“They came through about twenty seconds ago,” I say. “I guess I was out of range, but I’ve got some other clothes with me. They’re kinda dirty, but I can go change right now if that’s better?”
A black limousine pulls up to the sidewalk outside the station. Two men in black suits step out, and the other travelers step out of the way. A few point and whisper.
My mom puts one hand on my arm. She doesn’t look thrilled.
“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” she says.
Chapter Two
Kostya
Earlier That Day
I exhale and squeeze the trigger three times in quick succession. Three neat holes.
I inhale, exhale again, and squeeze the trigger three more times. Three more neat holes, this time in the chest. Between gun shots it’s dead quiet and almost perfectly still out here, the dewy calm of the early morning on the coast.
Inhale. Exhale. Right shoulder, left shoulder, right shoulder. At the royal residence in Tobov, the capital city, the shooting range has the full setup. The targets move back and forth, up and down. They can duck in and out of cover, and while it’s not exactly thrilling, it’s a little more interesting than the setup here.
At the summer palace, I’ve got a paper outline on a hay bale in a disused horse paddock. I breathe in and out again and shoot the paper outline through the liver and then once through each lung.