by Claudia Gray
“You’re from the Oceanverse.” Paul points to the correct Marguerite, which surprises me. “And you’re from Cambridge—from the War—” His gray eyes light on me, and he draws in a deep breath. “—and you’re mine.”
I nod yes. Always, Paul.
But now his attention has turned to the grand duchess, who still gazes at him, transfixed. After a moment, Paul bows slightly. “My lady.”
The grand duchess half-turns, covering her mouth with her hand.
Tears well in my eyes. Paul knew her by sight. Knew all of us. Knew me.
Could anyone else in the multiverse read my entire history in a glance? Paul sees through to the truth of me. He always has.
Paul finally says, “I assume this isn’t merely a social occasion.”
“Got it in one, pal.” Theo thumps him on one shoulder. “Let me catch you up on the conclave of the Marguerites.”
As Theo goes through the entire spiel, I sit back down and try to read Paul as intelligently as he read me. I’m good at this, usually—so how can I love Paul so much and yet find it so difficult to understand the conflict within his heart?
But then, Paul tries to hide what he feels. His parents’ cruelty must have taught him long ago to be cautious. Closed-off. Even afraid. They tried to keep him from everything he loved, which is how you teach a person to bury love deep inside where nobody else can see. It’s how you teach someone not to hope.
“Now that we’re all up to speed,” Theo finally says, drawing the rest of us back into the conversation, “who wants to go home first?”
Mafiaverse raises her hand. No wonder she never wants to be near Paul—or the rest of us—ever again. Cambridgeverse says, “Everyone needs to know the Triadverse is no longer a threat. With Wyatt Conley dead, there’s one fewer perfect traveler, too. The sooner I get back, the sooner we can reach out to the new universes, since my parents have communication technology.”
“So do mine,” says Warverse. Everyone’s eager to get back to their own dimension right away, except for the grand duchess. Without saying a word, she sits in regal self-possession, so still I could almost believe I was looking at a photograph—until the moment her hand brushes across her abdomen, as if searching for the child who should be inside.
Paul’s child. What must it be like for her to see him again?
As my parents begin working out who’s going where with whom, Paul finally comes to my side. He stands near enough that I no longer feel he’s avoiding me, and his broad hand closes over my shoulder. “You’re all right,” he says. “When we realized a universe had fallen . . .”
“I’m okay. You rescued me.” I smile crookedly up at him. “One of you, anyway.”
“We need to focus. I’ve calculated a likely future target for the Home Office.” Paul is trying to switch fully into Science Mode, the better to conceal his confused emotions, and only half succeeding. “This next dimension serves as a source vector for many others, which puts it greatly at risk. I’m surprised the Home Office didn’t attack it earlier.”
“Okay, then that’s where we’ll go next,” I say. I’m heartened by the fact that Paul said we, that he still takes it for granted that we can go together. That gives me something to build on. “But first . . .”
“Yes?” His gray eyes meet mine for only a moment before he has to look away.
I nod toward the grand duchess. “You need to say goodbye.”
Paul hesitates, then takes a few steps toward her. When she looks up, her eyes are red. He says, “If you don’t want to talk to me—if it would hurt too much—”
“No, please.” The grand duchess gets to her feet. “It does hurt. But this chance will not come again.”
Maybe I shouldn’t be listening. And yet, I was literally a part of her during every moment she was ever with my Paul. There are no secrets among us.
Paul holds out his arms to her, and she embraces him desperately. He envelops her in his hug, cradling her close in the way that’s always made me feel so safe. So loved. When she finally pulls back, he says, “You understand the truth about the Firebirds now. That I’m not your Paul—”
“But another person he would have had the chance to have been,” she says, her voice trembling. “Lieutenant Markov so loved studying physics and optics. I feel sure it meant a great deal to him, learning that in another lifetime he had the chance to become a scientist. To follow his dreams.”
Paul nods. “It did. I was a part of him during those last few weeks, and I remember—” His voice breaks off, nakedly emotional in a way he’s never shown before. But those days in Saint Petersburg, and that night in the dacha, remain some of the most powerful in either of our lives.
Remember that, Paul. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying. That wasn’t only her. That was us, too.
Finally he manages to say to the grand duchess, “He loved you so much. I will always carry that inside me. As long as I’m alive, in some way, so is his love for you.”
The grand duchess kisses his hands, and tears well in her eyes. Paul looks like he might break down too. I should stop watching them, grant them at least the illusion of privacy, but I can’t look away.
“The baby,” she begins, then holds one hand up to Paul’s mouth before he can begin to apologize. “If it is a boy, I will of course name him for you. But what name would you choose for a girl?”
He glances over his shoulder at my mom, who is even now preparing to take Warverse back home. With her yoga clothes and sloppy bun, she must look nothing like the bejeweled tsarina the grand duchess remembers, but she’s so like my mom at home—the one who loves Paul nearly as much as she loves me. He says, “Sophia. In most worlds she means more to me than my real mother ever has.”
“Sophia, then.” The grand duchess smiles up at him through her tears. “I have so much to say, and yet anything less than a lifetime would never be enough time to say it. Just know that I am and will be well. When the day comes, I look forward to telling our child all about you.” She clutches Paul’s hand tighter and holds it to her heart. “I will love you until the end of my days.”
Paul pulls her close again and kisses her.
I have no business feeling jealous. The hot rush that sweeps through me, as if I’d been slapped, can’t even compare to how the grand duchess must have felt when she understood that I took the one night she could ever have had with her Paul. And later on I know I’ll even be glad she had a chance to say her own goodbye.
That doesn’t make it easier to watch Paul kissing anyone else, even another me.
When they break apart, to my surprise, the grand duchess walks in my direction, stopping only a few paces away. “It was you who visited my world,” she says, her hands clasped in front of her. Even though a tear from her farewell to Paul has traced an uneven track down her cheek, her composure is already complete. “You were my shadow self.”
“I am so sorry.” The apology I gave her in my letter doesn’t even come close to being enough. “The things I did—I got caught up in the emotion of the moment, and I took all these risks without asking whether you would have done the same—”
“I would not have,” the grand duchess says.
Once again, I feel slapped, and this time, I’ve earned it completely. I hang my head, no longer able to face her.
But then the grand duchess continues, “I would not have had the courage.” When I look up, she is—somehow—smiling. “My path had been laid out for me since before I was born, and never had I dared to deviate from it, even by a single step. Not even for the love I felt for Lieutenant Markov. You took me off that path forever, and I am glad of it. Glad for the memories I would never have known but for you, glad for the chance to know my real father, gladdest for the child I will bear. You have given me the chance to make my own fate, and there is no more priceless gift in the world.”
It takes me far too long to find the breath to answer her. “You’re being nicer to me than I deserve.”
“None of us
can know the full consequences of our actions. Just know that I am more than content with the consequences of yours.” The grand duchess holds out her hand, as she would to a courtier, then frowns—like that’s not quite right, but she doesn’t know what else to do. Admittedly this is not a situation covered in most etiquette books.
I just clasp her hand and smile. “Have a really great life,” I whisper. “You deserve it.”
“I plan to try.” The grand duchess looks over at Theo then. Her expression is no more than friendly, maybe a touch amused by the differences between her own dapper Theodore Beck and this one in his jeans and T-shirt. Yet it makes me wonder what might happen eventually, after she has mourned for Lieutenant Markov, and her friendship with Theo has deepened over months and years.
Probably I’m reading too much into it. But when I think of her raising Paul’s child with Theo by her side, it seems like a beautiful future, one worth having.
“Oh, and one more thing,” I say to her, thinking of one other person I got to know in the Russiaverse. “If Vladimir understands about the shadow worlds, if he ever believes—would you tell him hello? I miss him sometimes. Katya and Peter, too. But especially tell Vladimir that if I’d had a big brother in this dimension, I would have wanted one just like him.”
Slowly the grand duchess nods. “I think Vladimir would be pleased to hear that.”
“Okay.” Theo claps his hands together at the center of the room, bringing our attention back to the situation at hand. I realize only then that my parents are gone, taking Oceanverse and Cambridgeverse with them, because now those two clones are huddled apart from the rest of us, deep in conversation, clearly freaked out. “I figure the Russiaverse is my last stop, since it’s going to take me longest to help out there. Maybe I take Mafiaverse, and Paul can take Warverse back home?”
“I should move on to that universe you were talking about,” I say to Paul. “But as long as Wicked is stuck here, maybe there’s less of a rush. I can keep the others company, explain more of the details.”
Victoire, newly untied, crosses her arms in front of her chest. “Is anyone going to do anything about the evil phantom inside me?”
Theo, Paul, and I exchange glances. Theo ventures, “Um, we don’t actually have anyplace to put her that isn’t going to unleash her on the multiverse again.”
Paul tries to reassure her. “The chances of her unduly affecting you are undefined but unlikely.”
Victoire raises her eyebrows. “‘Undefined’?”
Paul isn’t always as comforting as he thinks he is. I hastily add, “We’ll get her out, I swear, as soon as we’re sure the multiverse is safe. Mom and Dad know to look out for you, and I can spend a while here before I have to move on—”
“I’m fine here,” Victoire huffs. “A friend of ours is coming over to stay with us while Mom and Dad are off on their weird adventures in other dimensions, though Romy will never believe this—”
Once again I feel a sensation wash over me, but this time it isn’t heat. It’s pure cold. “What name did you just say?”
“Don’t pretend you didn’t hear her,” says Romola, who must’ve been able to walk right through the front door while the rest of us were so completely distracted. “You should know me by now.”
Maybe I should be unnerved by the Firebird around Romola’s neck—proof that she’s from the Home Office.
But I’m a whole lot more freaked out by her gun.
22
ROMOLA. AGAIN.
Worst is seeing the awful betrayal on Victoire’s face, and her sisters’ faces. They look so wounded. Even shattered. Did I look like this when I thought Paul had hurt my father?
Victoire rises to her feet, wobbly and uncertain. “Romy—what are you—”
“You can explain all this to your version of me later,” Romola snaps. “But I think you know who I’ve come for.”
She’s here to set Wicked free.
Paul, Theo, and I all exchange glances. Between the three of us and the seven other clones in this room, we could take Romola out easily—if it weren’t for the black pistol she holds. As it is, any attempt to disarm her could be deadly, and if one of the bullets hit a clone, Romola might kill two Marguerites with a single pull of the trigger. Theo’s shoulders sag in defeat. But Paul—
Paul’s eyes blaze with that cold fire I’ve found so menacing in the past. Is this the same anger he would have felt anyway, or proof of his splintering? The potential for violence deep within him has been re-armed, and it could explode at any moment.
At the moment, though, I’m nearly as angry as he is, no splintering required. It’s galling to have to point to Victoire and say, “Your Marguerite is . . . with her. Asleep, but safe and sound.”
“Very well.” Romola motions to the chair Victoire was sitting in only a few moments before. “Go on. Take your seat. I’ll handle the rest.”
“Is this about the phantom?” Victoire asks. I nod. She turns to Romola then, still bewildered and hurt. “Romy, why are you doing this?”
“I’m not your ‘Romy.’ I’m from a dimension with higher technology and more realistic priorities.”
“You’re destroying billions of lives to save one,” Paul says. Though he keeps his voice low, his anger simmers just below the surface. “Those priorities are twisted. Corrupt. But hardly realistic.”
Romy shrugs. “In all honesty, I see your point. But gaining supremacy over all the other worlds in the multiverse? That makes more sense.” Her eyes are cold as she glances at Victoire. “When is that one going to sit down?”
“Do it,” I say to Victoire, this other me who’s wearing the scratches and bruises I gave her earlier tonight. “There’s no other way.”
Trembling, Victoire takes her seat. The other two clones lean forward, as if they’ll rush Romola the moment Victoire shows any pain, gun or no gun. Unfortunately recklessness seems to be a characteristic too many of us share.
Don’t go after her, I think as I try to catch the others’ eyes. If only clones could be telepathic with each other, so I could make it clear just how dangerous this is. Then they wouldn’t do anything stupid—
—but they don’t even get the chance, because Paul rushes Romola first.
As he smashes into her, sending them both stumbling into the wall, we all scream. He’s such a huge man that the tackle would seem brutal if Romola weren’t wielding a gun. But even her tumble down to the ground doesn’t make her drop her weapon. Romola kicks away from him, skidding across the floor, and has the presence of mind to aim not at Paul but at me. “I’ll do it,” she says rapidly, not even glancing at Paul a couple of paces behind her. Her eyes remain focused on her target, which appears to be the dead center of my chest. “Don’t try me. I will kill her.”
Paul says nothing. Instead he grabs a meat cleaver from the knife block. Its blade glints in the light. The others in the room gasp, but Romola still doesn’t look up. And Paul’s standing close enough, at the perfect angle, to swing it down and split her head wide open.
Don’t. Terror rushes through me. Not for myself, despite Romola’s unwavering aim. She doesn’t realize what Paul could do. She wouldn’t even have time to know Paul was taking action before he’d stunned or killed her.
But if Paul kills Romola like this, in cold blood, he will have surrendered to that darkness within him. The damage from his shattering will be complete, if only because he’ll never again believe that he could be anything but a murderer.
I can say nothing. Do nothing. This battle is Paul’s to fight.
He stares down at her, hatred warping his expression into something I can hardly recognize. His hand tightens around the cleaver’s handle as his knuckles turn white. Within him I see all the menace I remember from the son of a Russian mafia leader. All the recklessness of the Cambridgeverse Paul, who let a moment’s temper and inattention mangle my arm forever. And I see a hard, bitter edge that belongs to my Paul alone.
Oh, God, he’s going to do it. He’s go
ing to kill her.
At that moment Romola glances upward and sees what he’s doing. She doesn’t even flinch. “Your Marguerite is in my sights.” Her arm hasn’t wavered one millimeter. “The second I see you start for me, I fire. She’ll be dead before I will.”
Anger ripples over Paul’s face, an ugly grimace that makes me wonder if he’ll strike Romola down anyway. Instead he steps back and sets the cleaver down again.
Would he have murdered her? We can never know.
Now that Paul is no longer an immediate threat, Romola sits up and goes back into action. With her free hand, Romola fishes a second Firebird from around her neck. She prepared herself for anything, then. As she lifts the heavy chain over her head, Theo says, “Where did you get a gun in Singapore?”
“Policemen carry them,” Romola explains as she tosses the Firebird to Victoire, who puts it on with shaking hands. The other Marguerites have clustered in a corner, silent and pale, knowing they can’t help. Only watch. “Odd, given that the officer in question obviously had no expectation of being attacked.”
“I think you can get the death penalty here if you smoke a joint.” Theo runs his hands through his spiky hair in frustration. “Maybe it’s not that bad for pot, but attacking a police officer—you realize this universe’s Romola will probably be executed for this.”
She shrugs. “Not my problem.”
“You’re still just the errand girl,” I try. “You’re here to pick up your world’s Marguerite. Not to do the job yourself.”
“I took care of you well enough in the Romeverse, didn’t I?” Romola retorts.
Again the molten hell of that universe’s final moments writhes in my mind. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m still alive and well. You can’t say that for Conley or Theo in the Triadverse, can you?”
“We lost a perfect traveler, but we can always make another. You’re not as indispensible as they all seem to think. This room would seem to prove it. Infinite copies, and yet you’re still never enough, Marguerite. Never enough for your parents, never enough for anyone.”
