by Claudia Gray
“Thank you, ladies,” I say. Good manners are expected of royalty, right? Feeling both ridiculous and grand, I open the door and see Paul.
Correction: Lieutenant Markov.
He stands at attention, entirely proper and correct. His clear gray eyes meet mine, almost guiltily, before he glances away. Maybe staring at royalty is forbidden. I seem to remember that megastars like Beyoncé sometimes have riders in their contracts saying that nobody can look them in the eyes; as Beyoncé is to our dimension, a grand duchess is to this one.
Paul—Lieutenant Markov, better think of him that way—doesn’t say anything. Of course. It’s probably the rule that he can’t say anything unless I speak first. “Good morning, Markov.”
“Good morning, my lady.” His voice is so deep, and yet so gentle. “I hope you feel better today.”
“I do, thank you. Tell me, Markov, where might I find Colonel Azarenko?”
He frowns at me. “My commanding officer?”
“Yes. Exactly. Him.” Paul might not have been able to retrieve Azarenko from the grand ball last night, but now he can tell me the officers’ daily routines, all of that. We’ll have his Firebird back by lunchtime, and mine fixed by tonight.
“Colonel Azarenko left for Moscow early this morning, my lady.”
Moscow? He’s not even in St. Petersburg anymore? “Did he give your—did he give anything back to you before he left?”
By now Lieutenant Markov must think I’ve gone demented. Although his forehead furrows—the only sign of the frown he’s holding back—he politely replies, “No, my lady. What would the Colonel have to give me?”
I’m not even getting into that. Instead I ask, “When is he expected back?”
“After the New Year, my lady.”
New Year’s Day? That’s almost three weeks away.
Three weeks.
How am I supposed to pretend to be a princess for three weeks?
I swallow hard and think, Guess I’ll find out.
12
STAY CALM. DEEP BREATHS.
I walk through the hallways of the palace in a daze. It’s as though my body is too freaked out even to panic. Instead I feel more like I’ve been drugged. My footsteps weave slightly, and the elaborate brocade pattern of the carpet runner seems dizzying.
“Are you sure you are entirely well, my lady?” Paul—Lieutenant Markov—walks a few respectful steps behind me.
“Quite well, thank you, Markov.” Actually I’m about five seconds from losing it completely, but let’s just keep walking, okay? That’s the subtext. Maybe he understands; at any rate, he remains silent as we go on.
It would help if I had any idea where I’m supposed to be going. The Winter Palace is enormous, and I couldn’t find my way around it even if I did know what I was meant to be doing next.
Luckily, I’m not alone for long. “There you are!” Vladimir bounds from a side hallway to fall into step with me; despite the late night and all the champagne he must have had, he glows with energy. “Feeling better?”
“Mostly.” Smiling at Vladimir turns out to be completely natural. His easy stride and friendly grin charm me, and besides, the affection he feels for his sister is unmistakable. What would an adored little sister say at a moment like this? Let’s see. He went to a big party last night, right? Josie’s had her share of missed curfews and nights out—more than I have—so I say to him what I might have said to her: “What about you? I’m surprised you’re not under the covers whining and holding an ice pack to your head.”
Vladimir looks skyward and sighs melodramatically. “You’re never going to let me live that one down, are you?”
“Nope, never.” This bluffing thing is easier than I thought. I can’t help but grin.
He continues, “One night, I drink too many toasts with vodka, and once in my blameless, virtuous life, I wind up getting sick in a decorative urn. The price? My sister’s eternal condemnation.”
“Not condemnation. But eternal teasing? Definitely.”
At that, Vladimir laughs; his laughter is so much like Mom’s. So this is what it’s like to have a brother. I always wished for one, and Vladimir seems like exactly the brother I’d have wanted—protective, funny, and kind.
Which is the moment I feel a hard pinch on my arm.
“Ow!” I spin around to see Katya, who looks very satisfied with herself in her pink dress. I’d guess she’s about thirteen. Although she resembles the tsar more than the rest of us do, she still has the unruly Kovalenka curls. “What was that for?”
“For thinking I was too little to go to the ball. I showed you. Men danced with me all night!”
I glance at Vladimir for confirmation. He gives Katya a look. “Our little Kathy danced precisely four dances, one of them with me and two with her uncles. But one very nice officer did take her out on the floor, where she danced very well.”
Katya lifts her stubborn chin, as though she hadn’t been contradicted. With a shake of my head, I say, “They grow up so fast.”
“Where does the time go?” Vladimir agrees, joining in the old-and-superior act.
This wins us a scowl from Katya. “You’re not so big,” she says, and dashes past me—with the end of my sash in her hands. It unties and flutters to the carpet; she drops it as she runs ahead, laughing.
“Oh, honestly.” Is she always this irritating? This dimension’s Marguerite must hardly be able to stand her.
But something about the way Katya giggles reminds me of a time, several years ago, when I sneaked up behind Josie while she was on the phone and snatched her ponytail clip out of her hair. She had to chase me around the house for at least ten minutes before she caught me. Why did that seem like fun when I was nine? No clue. But it was awesome. I even jumped over the sofa at one point, and howled laughing when Josie tried to follow me over and instead wiped out and fell on the floor.
I remember Josie yelling, “Little sisters are the most annoying people on earth!” Chagrined, I realize she was right.
Paul steps in front of me and kneels to collect my sash; when he holds it out to me, he looks into my eyes like—like I’m not merely his responsibility. Like he knows me. Has he remembered his real self? My hopes rise for one quickened heartbeat, before I realize this is still Lieutenant Markov. He says only, “My lady.”
“Thank you, Markov.”
The words come out steadily enough, but it’s so strange, looking at Paul and seeing someone who is both him and not him.
Someone very like the man I always daydreamed Paul might be . . .
Vladimir doesn’t seem to have noticed anything out of the ordinary between us. “Now that I see you’re back to yourself, I shall head down to the barracks,” he says as Paul steps behind me once more, and I hastily retie my sash. “Enjoy your lessons.”
“See you at supper.” Oh, crap, what if they don’t eat supper together? Or should I have said dinner? But it doesn’t look like I got it wrong, because Vladimir nods. I offer my cheek to him for a quick kiss; his mustache tickles my skin.
At the end of the hallway I discover a library—no, a schoolroom.
“Are you going to let me get a word in edgewise today?” Katya demands as she slides into one of the desks, which are all broad and grand, less like something out of a public school and more like something you’d see in an antiques store. “Or are you going to play teacher’s pet again? He’s supposed to be tutor to us all, not only you.”
“I’ll take turns,” I promise absently. Footsteps are coming down the hall, small and light.
Then a young boy appears in the doorway, his face open and smiling. “Marguerite!”
The encyclopedia supplied the name I need; the fact that he’s completely adorable supplies the emotion. “Piotr.” I hold out my hands for my younger brother, who dashes into them. He looks even more like Mom than I do—slight, almost fragile, and not nearly big enough for a ten-year-old, but with a sweetness in his face that is only his own. Does the tsar give him anything like
the affection he must need? I don’t see how. And the way Piotr clings to me reminds me painfully that his mother—my mother, our mother—is gone.
Even Katya softens slightly for him. “Will you dazzle me with your French today, Pierre?”
He nods seriously. “I practiced with Zefirov.”
“Zefirov doesn’t speak a word of French!” Katya laughs, pointing at the guard standing outside the door, alongside Paul. Zefirov says nothing, just keeps staring straight ahead. “We’ll see how you do, Peter.”
Pierre, she called him, and then Peter. In the hallway, Vladimir called her Kathy, and last night he called me Marguerite, even though the encyclopedia confirmed that in this dimension I’ve been given the Russian form of my name, Margarita. From my history lessons, I know that nineteenth-century nobility often used different forms of their names in all the various languages they spoke, an aristocratic affectation that must have survived here.
I glance over my shoulder at Paul. Here, no doubt, he’s Pavel—the Russian form—but I can’t bring myself to think of him by a different name.
This classroom is nothing like the dull, institutional places I’ve seen on television. Instead of plastic desks and bulletin boards, the space has bookshelves that reach from floor to ceiling. The Persian carpet here is a bit more threadbare than those in most of the rooms of the palace, the dark green velvet drapes perhaps slightly shabby. This room isn’t for showing off power and wealth. This room feels like home.
I take the seat that must be mine and wonder how in the world I’m going to bluff my way through this part, since I have no idea what they’re studying, besides French. Katya can hog the teacher’s attention all she likes. I probably wouldn’t be able to answer a single question.
Then a familiar-sounding English male voice says, “I see the grand duchesses are none the worse for wear after last night’s revels.”
I turn and see my father.
He’s alive. He’s alive, and he’s here, and more than everything I want to run to him, hug him, tell him I love him, all the things I longed to say just once more. This is the miracle I’d hoped for since the moment this journey began.
But I remain in my seat, hands clasped tightly around the armrests of my chair. What is he doing here? I don’t understand—
“Let’s begin our lessons then,” he says. My father must have come to Russia to teach the sons and daughters of the tsar. Then he met my mother.
I can’t jump out of my seat to embrace the “royal tutor.” I have to continue to play this role. But it’s all I can do to hold back tears of happiness.
He takes his place at the front of the room, papers spilling out of his case. He’s no tidier in this dimension than he is at home. Despite the odd formality of the clothes he wears—a full old-fashioned suit complete with waistcoat and wire-rimmed spectacles—he’s still completely, utterly my dad. Same narrow but handsome face, same pale blue eyes, same quizzical smile when he’s concerned. “Your Imperial Highness, I heard you weren’t well. Are you feeling better?”
Oh, right. That means me.
“Much better, thank you, Professor.” My voice sounds so strained, as though I can barely get the words out. Dad knows something’s up, but he simply studies me for a moment before nodding, allowing me to go on.
“All right, then. I realize you’re all wild with anticipation to return to your French, so let’s get started.”
Peter is learning basic grammar. Katya has translated some text. I’m supposed to be finishing an essay on the works of Molière. Mercifully, I’ve studied Molière at home too, so I ought to be able to get through this. Yet all I can do is clutch my book with clammy hands and steal furtive looks at my father, alive and well only steps away.
I never lost anyone before, not like this. My grandparents all died before I was born or when I was so small I hardly remember them. The only funeral I’ve attended was the one for my pet goldfish. So I had no idea what real grief was.
Now I know grief is a whetstone. It sharpens all your love, all your happiest memories, into blades that tear you apart from within. Something has been torn out from inside me that will never be filled up, not ever, no matter how long I live. They say “time heals,” but even now, less than a week after my father’s death, I know that’s a lie. What people really mean is that eventually you’ll get used to the pain. You’ll forget who you were without it; you’ll forget what you looked like without your scars.
This, I think, is the boundary line of adulthood. Not the crap they claim it is—graduating from high school or losing your virginity or getting your first apartment or whatever. You cross the boundary the first time you’re changed forever. You cross it the first time you know you can never go back.
Every time I see Dad’s face, or hear his voice, I have to fight the urge to cry. Yet somehow I make it through our classes, French and geography and, finally, current events.
“What changes might we see in the next few decades?” Dad says as we study the most recent issue of Le Monde we have (which is from four days ago—everything travels slowly here). He’s getting excited, the way he does when his imagination starts going into overdrive. “If this sort of assembly-line manufacturing works for cars, what else might it be applied to? Think of the advances in productivity, and technology!”
“Or war,” I say quietly. “They’ll make weapons like this too.”
Dad gives me a searching look. “I suppose you’re right. Automation increases all of humanity’s potential, both good and bad.”
In the background I can see Peter trying to pay attention, and Katya folding a paper airplane from a page of Le Monde. Really I ought to let one of them get a word in edgewise, but I can’t pass up any chance to talk with my father.
“However, don’t you think, Your Imperial Highness, that the benefits will ultimately outweigh the drawbacks?” Dad pushes his spectacles farther up his nose. I can tell they drive him crazy; this version of Dad doesn’t get to wear contacts.
“It’s not a simple equation. Not addition and subtraction—more like higher-level calculus.” I start to play with my hair before I remember it’s actually fixed for once. “Goods will be cheaper and more plentiful, but that leads to people treating them like they’re disposable. We’ll exchange individuality and craftsmanship for predictability and affordability. Countless jobs will be created, but as industry becomes globalized, those jobs will largely move to developing nations with fewer labor laws to protect . . .”
Everyone else in the room is staring at me. Dad looks admiring; Peter and Katya look unnerved. How many anachronisms did I just use? Maybe this Marguerite doesn’t think that much about economics.
“. . . so, uh, the effects of the Industrial Revolution are complex. And things. Yes.” My smile must look even more awkward than I feel.
“Industrial Revolution,” Dad repeats slowly. “What an interesting turn of phrase. You could sum up so much of what’s happening in the world today with that. ‘Industrial Revolution’—very well said, Your Imperial Highness.”
As absurd as the situation is, I can’t help basking in the glow of my father’s praise. Then that makes me want to cry again, and I have to look away.
Our lessons end, and with regret, I leave the classroom with my siblings. Before I go, I give Dad a smile. It’s so much less than I feel, but I can’t risk any more. In the hallway, Paul has been waiting for me all this time, Peter and Katya’s personal guards at his sides. There’s no sign of impatience, though; it’s as if he would always wait for me, no matter how long it took.
“Once again, teacher’s pet,” Katya sniffs as we walk away.
“Oh, hush,” I say to her.
Peter laughs. “You’re his favorite and you know it. But it’s only natural, because you’re the cleverest.”
My little brother doesn’t resent my closeness to our tutor, but my little sister obviously does. “It’s hardly even proper, the way you two carry on.” Katya tosses her hair, which hangs in a long plait do
wn her back. “Maybe history isn’t all he wants to teach you, hmm?”
“Yekaterina!” It comes out hard and cold. Of course she couldn’t know how grotesque her joke really is, but that doesn’t change the fact that I want to slap her face. “How dare you say anything so unkind? And untrue.”
She shrinks back. Even her belligerence only goes so far. “It was only a joke!”
“That’s not the sort of thing you can joke about, not even with me. Professor Caine is a good teacher, to all of us, and you should respect that.”
“All right, all right,” Katya grumbles, clearly ready to let the subject drop. Thank God. The last thing I need is for her to guess the real reason why I’m the favorite.
I discover we’re all meant to spend our afternoons in different ways: Katya, embroidering with one of our cousins, which she will hate. Peter, riding lessons and maybe a turn around the soldiers’ training camp with Vladimir, which he will love. Me? I’m supposed to spend the rest of the day answering letters from various royal relations throughout Europe.
So many problems with this plan. First of all, I don’t actually know who any of these relatives are—sure, I’ve got a list, but who exactly is Her Serene Highness Princess Dagmar of Denmark? Well, I mean, obviously she’s a princess named Dagmar, but are we cousins? Friends? Nearly strangers? What do we usually talk about? Second, I’m pretty sure there are protocols for this sort of thing, royal letter formulas to follow, none of which I know.
Still, I’m not sure what else to do at the moment. Until Colonel Azarenko returns, and I can get Paul’s Firebird back from him, I have to do my best to pass as the real Grand Duchess Margarita. That means writing letters. In the library, I manage to find a ledger called The List of Leading Royalty, Nobility, and Officials that sets out the royal families of each country, with notes that explain how we’re related.
I seem to be related to all of them.
