by Claudia Gray
At once, all four of them said, “No.” Dad helpfully added, “Different resonances, no matter what. Like oil and water, sweetheart.”
Good. I could imagine Wicked’s malevolence covering me like an oil slick, viscous and black. Better that than carrying it inside me. “You guys—remember what I told you about the Cambridgeverse?”
It took them a minute. I didn’t blame them. The story of my last chase through the dimensions was one I’d told in a rush while blood was still gushing from Paul’s arm. Paul winced at the mention of the place, because that was the world where he’d damaged my arm in a car crash that tore us all apart. But the most important aspect of the Cambridgeverse was something else entirely.
“Our counterparts are working on communicating through the dimensions,” Mom said. “You told them to reach out to us. Which means we’re poised to reach back.”
“We considered this, early on,” Dad mused, rubbing his chin in the way that meant he was either deep in thought or listening to Rubber Soul.
“If you could let them know what’s about to happen, to look out for Triad, it would give them a chance.” I looked at my torn, bloody clothing and, absurdly, felt like I ought to change before I went. When I returned home after all this and my body became observable once more, would the blood have dried? Or would it still be wet against my skin, proof of how my hands had hurt Paul?
She could’ve gone for his throat. What would I have done if I’d had to watch myself murder him?
Paul broke into my reverie, saying, “Are you ready?”
“No. But it doesn’t matter.” I reached up—he’s so tall, so heavily muscled, a Michelangelo in a world of Modiglianis. Still, I could cradle his face with my hands. “Follow me. I need all the help I can get.”
He hesitated from fear—not for himself. “Theo could go, or Sophia and Henry could finally use the Firebird for themselves—”
I whispered, “I need you.”
Paul didn’t believe me. He couldn’t, yet. But he nodded, and that had to be enough.
So I backed up, sat down in a far chair in the corner, hit the Firebird’s controls to leap after Wicked—
—and that’s why I’m now hanging from a cable about four hundred feet over the river Thames.
“Marguerite!” Paul shouts. I glance back to see him sliding out the observation window despite the cries of dismay from people nearby. My Aunt Susannah leans forward, her tears tracing streaks of mascara down her cheeks. Paul yells, “I’m going to come get you.”
“Don’t!” It costs me to shout that, because oh, God, I want him to come get me. I want him to save me. And from the glint of metal around his neck, I know this is my Paul—that he followed me, that as damaged as he is, at least something inside him still believes we can make it.
But I’m pretty sure he can’t save me. He’ll only get himself killed.
My sweaty palms slip against the cable; my fingers cramp so hard it’s like every nerve and bone is on fire. If I let go, the Londonverse Marguerite will die.
She was the first alternate self I ever entered, the first time I had to interpret the life I would’ve led in an alternate world. I think of her white, empty room. Her party-girl existence that she doesn’t enjoy a moment of. When I last stood inside her, I willed her to remember our parents—the ones robbed from her in childhood, the ones whose love I was able to share with her, at least a little. Now I know she kept those memories. She came out with Aunt Susannah to do something fun, and Paul Markov seems to have found her. Are they only friends, or something more? Regardless, he must be one of the only honest, real people in her life.
In other words—during the past few months, her life has been worth living. Now Wicked has taken it away.
That’s what they mean by “slamming doors,” I realize. They know now I’ll never do what they want. So they want to keep me from protecting these universes. The only way they can do that is by locking me out, forever.
And the only way to lock me out is to kill every Marguerite, everywhere.
My hands slip. I grab again as people scream—one hand snags the cable, but the other doesn’t. Now I’m swinging, and my shoulder hurts, and every muscle trembles. This is it.
I have to jump—but what if Wicked’s blocking my way? What if I can’t jump where she is? There’s no time to set a new course back home—if I could even touch my Firebird, which I can’t, because that would mean letting go, and if I let go—
Paul can’t see this. He can’t.
“Paul!” I cry out. “Get back inside!”
“Marguerite—no!”
I try to turn and look at him again. That’s one movement too many. My slick hand slides off the cable, and I fall.
For the first instant it’s like I’m not moving downward at all. It’s more like floating, while intense wind blows around me. But then the force of it presses in, and my stomach’s in my throat and the river’s rushing up to meet me and I’m going to die.
Firebird! As I tumble, I clutch at the Firebird beneath my shirt. It’s hard to grab it because now I’m rolling, my clothes are blowing all around me, the water’s so close, so close—I hit the controls—
My body jerks to a halt. For one terrifying instant I think this is it, I hit the river, this is the moment of death.
But no. I’m sitting in a dark, cool chamber—no, a passageway, only about four feet high. Light flickers in the distance; stone walls surround me; sand almost completely covers the floor: That’s all I know, besides the fact that I’m in another dimension, one that saved me.
The other Marguerite is dead.
She was murdered. By Wicked and—because I had a chance to save her and totally failed—by me, too.
5
HOW DO YOU GRIEVE FOR ANOTHER YOU?
The strangest sorrow fills my heart. The injustice of her death is unbearable. Especially when it seemed like she might finally have discovered some things in her life that made her happy. The Londonverse Marguerite could’ve found her path. Even her Paul was there with her. . . .
You don’t know that. He could’ve just been on the same hovership. He lived nearby, so it wouldn’t be such a coincidence. You didn’t have any chance to figure out how things had really changed for her, if they had at all.
But that makes it worse, thinking that she led this lonely, unhappy life until the moment that life was taken away.
The only things I know for sure are that she died through no fault of her own, and that she died so horribly, horribly afraid.
A sob escapes my throat. Misery and guilt press down, squeezing the breath from my lungs and the knot from my throat. I bring my knees up against my chest and lower my head to let go and cry.
That other Marguerite—her body and her life helped me when I really needed help. How did I return the favor? I couldn’t hang on to the cable. I let her go. The Firebirds crashed into that Marguerite’s dimension and through her life; her death is the scar we left behind.
Finally, wiping tears from my face, I lift my head and start trying to figure out who I am this time.
Okay. Focus. I don’t feel physically different in any major way. My hair is pulled back in a complicated bun or braid, and held in place with several pins. Its formality reminds me of the Russiaverse, but that’s obviously not where I am. My surroundings are too grubby, my clothing too plain . . . and I’m not pregnant. Those physical sensations linger in my mind still, strongly enough for me to feel their absence.
The dark passageway around me provides few clues so far. Although the lighting is odd—I can’t see the source, so it must be from around a bend in the passage—I can tell from the flicker of the distant glow that it comes from candles or a torch. The Middle Ages again? This doesn’t look like any part of the Romeverse I remember, but there could be other dimensions at medieval levels of technology. But no, my clothes are all wrong for that. The khaki cotton skirt reaches past my knees, heavy but apparently sewn by machine; the lace-up boots fit my feet too well. (Take
it from me: medieval shoes suck.) Slender bands of lace trim the long sleeves and high neck of my thin, white cotton blouse. No pockets, no purse—which means no smartphone, map, money, or any kind of identification.
I only know one thing for certain about this world and this Marguerite: she’s in danger. Wicked wouldn’t have it any other way.
The terror of the Londonverse floods through me again—that dark water rushing up at me, ready to crush my bones and steal my breath forever—
At least it was quick, I tell myself, taking a deep breath. After that long a drop, the impact with the water would’ve killed her instantly.
That doesn’t help.
My mind starts up the refrain of why, why did this have to happen—and then the question becomes real. Wait, why did Wicked go to the Londonverse? Why would that world be marked for destruction? No version of Josie could ever have traveled there, because in that dimension, she died about a decade ago.
Then I remember what my parents said about source vectors. One universe could lay the foundation for many others. Destroy it, and the rest crumble. Because the entire timeline gets destroyed, it doesn’t matter if the critical choice took place long ago—past, present, and future will all collapse at once.
How many worlds are now doomed because I let go?
Although my brain keeps replaying the moment my hand slipped from the cable, rationally I know it couldn’t have gone any other way. I tried to hang on, so hard, like it was both our lives and not just hers. For all I knew, it could’ve been.
No doubt Wicked hoped to kill me too.
But what did she mean by stranding me in a weird passageway? I can’t see how to get out, but obviously there must be a way, since Wicked was able to get here in the first place. This is hardly mortal peril; it’s more annoying than anything else.
Why would Wicked have chosen such a slow way for me to die? She could’ve done so many other things: hanging herself, leaping from another great height, weighing herself down with rocks before jumping in water—okay, the possibilities are starting to creep me out.
But then I realize she’s not going to do any of those things, not from now on. Anything that dramatic and absolute wouldn’t give her time to leap away from this dimension and save herself. She killed Londonverse Marguerite so quickly and violently because she meant to take me out with her. I hope she thinks she did. Better if she doesn’t know I’m still on her trail.
Even if she does know, though, her future traps will probably take longer to spring. Not only does she need time to leap out, but she also needs time for me to leap in, if she’s going to have any chance of killing me, too.
From now on, the situations she puts me in will be less immediately terrifying. I have to remember: the danger is the same.
So, first order of duty—get out of here.
I start crawling forward, moving toward the uncertain light. Sand grits beneath my hands and knees. It’s so dim in here that I can’t see any doorway. No windows either. The air is cool, almost cold, and it smells musty. This has to be what it’s like to be buried alive . . .
A chill runs along my spine. Pull it together, I tell myself as I keep going. You can see firelight, right? Fire requires oxygen to keep burning. As long as it burns, you have air.
I reach a sharp angle in the passageway, and finally I see a door. The wood is old, worn, and dry, and there doesn’t seem to be a handle, but this has to be Wicked’s way in and my way out. I slide my fingers around the door’s ragged edge, where there’s just enough space for me to get a grip on it and pull forward. With one big tug, I feel the door give way—
—and the wall caves in, tumbling over and around me, a tsunami of sand.
I scream until sand falls into my throat. Coughing and spitting, I try to wriggle out of the crush, but dirt and sand just keep coming, burying my legs and immobilizing me. Even if I’m not completely smothered, I won’t be able to escape without digging myself out—and if the stuff pins my arms, too, I really will be buried alive.
Then I hear a voice echoing in the distance. “Marguerite?”
Paul. My heart floods with relief. “Yes! Help me! It’s all falling in!”
Another voice, this one my father’s. “Hold on! And whatever you do, stay still!”
I freeze. As hard as it is to let the sand keep tumbling over me, the pace slows the longer I don’t move. I can hear scraping and motion not far away. My heart still pounds with terror, but at least now I know help is coming. Wicked failed. I’m going to get out of this . . .
A shape emerges within the sand—something solid jerking forward through the avalanche of grit, more defined as it gets closer. It falls toward me and oh my God it’s a dead body.
I can’t help it. I scream and try to scramble backward, unleashing new waves of heavy sand over me. Now I’m buried to the waist, but that is not nearly as horrifying as the dead person leaning toward me. His—her—its corpse is dark and desiccated, hardly more than a skeleton. Pelvis, sternum, and half an arm are all falling apart right on top of me. Worst of all is its open-mouthed death’s grin and its empty eyes.
“Marguerite!” I turn my head to see my father crawling toward me. In the distance I can just glimpse a wooden ladder, and I realize that the light was coming from above. What underground death trap did Wicked bring me to? It doesn’t matter as much now that Dad is here. In the distance I see a pair of legs descending the ladder and know that Paul will soon be with me too.
When my dad reaches my side, I grab his hand. I’d hug him if it weren’t for the fact that I’m scared of collapsing yet more sand and burying us both. “Please, get me out of here.”
“In a moment, sweetheart. We’ve got to shore up this part of the wall first.” Dad seems totally at ease, which I should maybe find more soothing than I do. The firelight flickering behind us catches his wire-rimmed spectacles, hiding his gaze.
With one hand I gesture toward the grotesque skeleton dangling in the sand, held together by some kind of garment or bandages. “But—this—”
Dad grins. “Amazing, isn’t it? Just think, you found it all on your own!”
Over my father’s shoulder I can see Paul’s silhouette as he crawls toward us both. Paul seems to be carrying along some boards or metal bars, stuff they can use to build a barrier to replace the door I tore away.
The door Wicked meant for me to tear away so I’d bury myself alive. Knowing that I fell into her trap feels even worse than being face-to-face with this skeleton.
That doesn’t make the skeleton any easier to deal with. I imagine I can smell its rotting flesh, even though it must have decayed years ago. Decades, even—or centuries—
“We told you specifically not to chance this area until we’d worked on it some more,” my dad says. He’s not angry. His fascination with my grisly find has cheered him beyond any need to scold me. “Whatever were you thinking?”
“I—got confused. I thought you meant one of the others.” That explanation ought to work—it usually does. In every universe, everywhere, people just plain screw up.
Dad seems satisfied, anyway. He pets my shoulder. “You must be more careful, Marguerite. But I have to admit, there’s a bright side—we’ll put you down as the discoverer! You may wind up the most illustrious family member in the trade.”
Since when is my family in the “trade” of digging up rotting corpses?
Paul finally crawls into view. The narrow passageway doesn’t allow him to come around Dad and reach my side, but right now it’s enough to see him; the firelight paints his face in rich, warm gold. Paul wears a white linen shirt, olive-colored pants, and high boots—just like Dad, it seems. The line of his neatly trimmed beard accents the sharp angles of his jaw. Paul’s trim beard reminds me of Lieutenant Markov in Russia—and as always, thinking of Lieutenant Markov tightens my throat, makes me close my eyes.
When I open them again after only a moment, I can tell that Paul looks concerned and a bit confused—not relieved. If this were my
Paul, and he had already followed me to this universe, he would be grateful to see me alive and well. He’d understand how I’d wound up in a place so dangerous my parents specifically warned me against it. So it’s this world’s Paul who has come to rescue me.
Mine must have remained in the Londonverse, waiting for a dead body to be dredged from the Thames.
That grisly image lingers in my mind for the few minutes it takes Paul and Dad to reinforce the wall. They dig the mummy out first, then me. Priorities, people. But I’m too relieved to see them, and my anger is reserved for the person who deserves it. For Wicked.
I bet she deliberately questioned my parents about the most dangerous places to go and went straight there, I think, while Paul’s broad hands scoop away the sand from my legs. If Dad and Paul hadn’t been close to the edge of the tunnel when I screamed for help, her plan could’ve worked. I could easily have been suffocated by sand. This world’s Marguerite and I would have died together.
As soon as I’m free, I slide between my father and Paul. “I need to get out of here,” I gasp. Sand is heavy in my boots, and right now I just want to breathe fresh air again.
“Go right along, sweetheart.” Dad only has eyes for his new skeleton friend. “We’ll be here for hours.”
Paul’s body brushes mine as I scoot past him. His eyes glance toward me, electric with both uncertainty and hope. He says—his voice thickly accented, like he left Russia yesterday—“You’re certain you are well, Mar—Miss Caine?”
“Yes. I’m sure.” I smile for him as best I can. Even in the reddish firelight, I can make out his blush of pleasure. So we’re not together in this world. Not yet, anyway. But we’re thinking about it. As beautiful as that is, his bashful hope only reminds me of the despair within my own Paul. . . .
Time to deal with that later. I crawl toward the ladder and start up it, grateful to see a sliver of night sky above. The stars shine brightly. Must not be much electric light around here.
I emerge from the tunnel and gasp. The moonlight illuminates a vast desert, several tents—and the Great Pyramids, towering majestically against the night. In the distance I can make out the profile of the Sphinx as it stares into the distance. Although the city of Giza is very close to the Pyramids in my dimension, it doesn’t seem to have been built yet. There’s nothing but rolling sand for as long as the eye can see—well, besides the tents, the ancient monuments, and various shovels, pans, and tools I recognize as ones for an archaeological dig.
