by Claudia Gray
17
“SOPHIA NEVER TOLD ME,” DAD SAYS. “NOT IN WORDS.”
We’re sitting together in his tent, my hands in his. The pieces of the Firebird sit on his camp table, glinting in the candlelight. I lean close, eager to hear about how, in this unlikely world, I came to be. “So you weren’t sure until now?”
“I was sure.” Dad is smiling, but it’s the saddest smile I’ve ever seen. Because he’s not looking at me—he’s staring into the past, at my mother, whom he will never see again. “We’d already—we weren’t together long. It was intensely dangerous for us both. Of course Sophia could not speak of her delicate condition, but I realized after a few months that she was to be a mother again. The tsar might as easily have been the father. I told myself that had to be the truth. Then one day, not long before you were born, she came in to see Vladimir at his lessons. While he was distracted, she . . . she took my hand.” Dad’s voice breaks. “She placed it on her belly, so I could feel you kick. That was the only acknowledgment she ever made. The only one I ever needed.”
“Oh, Dad.” I hug him, and he returns the embrace almost convulsively. I realize this is the only time in his life he’s ever been able to show his true feelings.
Then Dad stiffens and draws back. “Lieutenant Markov,” he says, expression going blank. “Are you going to report this?”
“Of course he isn’t!” I look to Paul for confirmation.
Paul bows his head toward me. “The grand duchess’s secrets are my secrets. I will speak no word of this to anyone else.”
Dad relaxes as he realizes we’re safe. I ask, “Katya—she’s the tsar’s, that much is obvious, but Peter?”
“Your mother and I were never together again. I couldn’t endanger her like that. It was a relief that you looked as much like her as you do.” Dad’s gaze softens as he looks at my face. “I wish she could have seen you grow up.”
“She did.” I lean forward, hoping to make him understand. “In my dimension, she’s alive and well. The two of you fell in love when you began doing scientific research together.”
“A scientist? Sophia was able to be a scientist?” There are no words for the joy of his smile. “Her mind was wasted on court etiquette and ballroom dances. She was utterly brilliant.”
“I know. Because she invented this.” I tap on the Firebird again.
He believes me now, I know, and yet Dad still wants to hear more about this world in which he and Mom got to be together. “And we’re married even now? She and I?”
That catches me short. First of all, Mom and Dad never actually got around to getting married. Apparently they had the license once, but then there was some sort of breakthrough in the lab and by the time they were done working out the ramifications, their license had expired. Mom keeps saying they’ll go back to the courthouse eventually, when they have the time, and follow through with an actual ceremony, but honestly I think they’ve mostly forgotten they aren’t already hitched. It never bugged me or Josie; we knew neither of them was going anywhere. I doubt the Henry Caine in this more traditional world would see it the same way, though.
But that’s almost irrelevant compared to the fact that my father—the Henry Caine who loved and raised me—is dead.
I can’t tell him that. It would be too horrible, to tell him he’d been murdered.
“Nothing would ever keep you and Mom apart,” I say. “You study physics side by side, every day. I—I even have an older sister, Josie. I mean, Josephine. She’s a scientist, like you.”
Dad turns his head sharply, and I realize he has to fight tears at the thought of this other daughter he’ll never have the chance to know.
“Please,” I whisper. “I know it’s selfish of me, but I need to get back home. Mom must be so scared. I have to get back to her.”
After a deep breath, Dad looks back at the Firebird. His voice is uneven as he says, “This device is a thousand times more powerful than I’d ever dreamed. You still trust me with it?”
“You helped invent it. That makes you my best chance to get back where I belong. If we’re not able to get Paul’s Firebird back, you’re my only chance.”
He lifts one of the metal pieces, studying it in the candlelight, and his gaze sharpens. “Then, my darling girl, let’s get you home.”
My camp cot would be cold and uncomfortable under any circumstances. Now, though, I compare it to the bed I stayed in last night, with Paul wrapped around me, strong and warm.
Tonight Paul is camped with the other soldiers. He is only a few hundred feet away, in a tent not so different from mine. We might as well be on separate planets. Tomorrow he will be sent to join his proper regiment, which is on the way to join our forces.
“We will rendezvous with Colonel Azarenko’s regiment on the way,” he told me before we parted. “Of course I will ask him about the Firebird as soon as I have a chance—but that doesn’t mean I’ll get it back.”
“What, do you think he might have pawned it or something?”
“No. He wouldn’t. But he caught me out of uniform; taking the locket away was punishment. So he won’t necessarily give it to me right away.”
“He’ll give it to me,” I said. By now I’ve lived the grand duchess’s life long enough to know how to get some royal attitude on. I’m in touch with my inner Beyoncé. I tossed my hair and added, “If he knows what’s good for him.”
“I look forward to seeing that.” Paul smiled, then wiped the expression from his face—afraid we would be seen, and our secret discovered.
I toss and turn on the cot. It seems as though I will never be warm again. As though I can never again know the comfort and safety I felt last night. As though I will never know myself as truly as I did in Paul’s arms.
Finally I fall asleep, however fitfully. By the time I awaken, Paul has left with the other soldiers from his regiment. Although my first thought is to spend the day with Dad, I know I need to let him concentrate.
Vladimir provides a completely unexpected distraction.
“Letter for you,” he says, frowning down at the envelope in his hand. “We got a mail packet in from St. Petersburg. It looks as if your strange Parisian correspondent is back.”
Theo!
I snatch the paper from Vladimir, who chuckles at my impatience. Quickly I unfold the thick paper to see Theo’s chicken-scratch handwriting, even worse now that it’s in blotchy ink:
Marguerite,
I got your note earlier today—
When was this dated? Days before Christmas. I’d written him almost a week prior to that. Communications crawl here. I’ll never bitch about a 3G connection again.
—and sat down to write this as soon as I got done freaking out. I don’t know what Paul told you in London, and I don’t care. We don’t have the facts, and until we have the facts, you CANNOT TRUST HIM. Keep your distance. You say he doesn’t remember himself, and maybe he doesn’t, but the fact that this guy is your guard and is standing right next to you every day, with a gun? This is bad. (Or he has a bayonet or a saber or whatever the hell they carry here. Whatever it is, I don’t want it anywhere near you.)
I shake my head. He doesn’t understand yet; he didn’t see Paul’s face when he learned about Dad’s death. And Theo doesn’t know “Lieutenant Markov”—doesn’t realize that I’ve never been safer than I am when he’s at my side.
We’re going to leave aside how in the world you managed to fall down and break the Firebird. Yeah, this universe’s Henry might be able to fix it, but I’d be a lot happier if I could take a look at the thing. As in, I might someday be able to sleep again.
Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to get me a visa to Russia, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to get to you. I don’t care if I have to walk the whole way there on snowshoes. We have to get you out of this place, safe and sound; nothing’s more important than that.
My breath catches, and I struggle to keep my face from betraying emotion. Theo would take on every danger Pau
l has taken on—he’d fight for me just as fiercely, want to protect me just as much. Everything I’ve ever felt for him bubbles up, and suddenly I miss him so desperately I can hardly bear it.
There’s no CNN in this dimension. Would Theo have heard about the revolt by now? Is he going out of his mind with worry, thinking that I might be wounded or dead?
I’m with the ESPCI here. That’s prestigious enough that you ought to be able to sell me as a lecturer, or someone who should be at the university, something like that. I’m going to go to the Russian Embassy again and beg on my own behalf. One way or another, I’m going to be back with you soon.
I got you into this mess, Meg. I swear to you, I’ll get you out of it. There’s nothing in any universe more important to me than that.
Theo
Slowly I fold the letter and hold the paper against my chest.
Vladimir’s voice is soft as he says, “I suspect I had better not mention this letter to the tsar.”
“Please.” As though he’d ever tattle on me. I hold out one hand to him, the only older brother I’ll ever know. Vladimir doesn’t ask questions, even though he must be wondering what in the world is going on with me. He’s by my side no matter what.
I realize I’m going to miss him once I’ve gone.
Then we hear shouting from outside—not a few men, but dozens of them. Hundreds. Vladimir’s hand squeezes mine in shared fear for the moment it takes us to realize that what we’re hearing isn’t panic. It’s celebration.
We dash out of my tent to see the soldiers throwing their hats in the air and pouring vodka out of flasks to toast their happiness. “What is it?” Vladimir shouts. “What is the news?”
Tsar Alexander strides out of the crowd toward us with a broad grin on his face. “Loyal regiments attacked the forces of my traitor brother this afternoon. Sergei is dead. So is his rebellion!”
He joins in the cheers for his brother’s death. Given that Sergei tried to kill us too, that might be justifiable. All I can think is that this is the only time I’ve seen the tsar smile.
Vladimir doesn’t start celebrating, but his relief is obvious. “What brave soldiers finished the rebellion?”
The tsar seems to think that’s no more than a meaningless detail, but he says, “Azarenko’s battalion.”
That means Paul was in the battle. “Lieutenant Markov—is he all right? Was he hurt?”
“How should I know?” Tsar Alexander is already bored with talking to his children when there are soldiers ready to cheer him. “Look at the reports, if you want.”
Vladimir takes one look at my face and grips my hand. “Come along, Marguerite. I’ll get the reports for you.”
They turn out to be handwritten sheets of paper, messy because they were sent off before the ink had dried. As I stand in the tsar’s tent, clutching the paper and straining to make out the words, I read how the Grand Duke Sergei met his death at the other end of a bayonet. How only nineteen of the tsar’s loyal soldiers paid the ultimate price, among them Colonel Azarenko. How eight more of those soldiers are seriously wounded.
And I read that one of the wounded soldiers is Paul.
18
“CAN’T WE GO ANY FASTER?” I FEEL BAD EVEN FOR SAYING it; the horses are doing their best, pulling the sleigh across the snow faster than any motorized vehicle could travel. And yet I feel like I could outrun the horses, like if I gave into the sheer power of my fear for Paul, the bonds of gravity would snap and I’d fly away from here, straight to Paul’s side.
“Steady on,” Dad says. He’s the one who volunteered to take me, which is a mercy. I don’t know that I could bear to be with anyone else right now, anyone who didn’t know the truth. “We’ll be there within the hour, at this rate.”
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s only that I—” But what can I say?
He says it for me. “It’s only that you love him.” When I turn to him in astonishment, Dad simply shakes his head ruefully. “I know what forbidden love looks like, Marguerite. I learned to recognize it in your mother’s eyes.”
I hug his arm. “He has to be all right.”
“If Lieutenant Markov doesn’t survive, does your Paul die too?”
“Nobody knows for sure. But—probably he would.”
Dad glances over at me. “Which one of them are you afraid for?”
“Both of them.” The sharp cold air stings my cheeks as we dash forward. “I’m tied to Paul—everywhere, perhaps—the same way you’re tied to Mom.”
Dad is quiet for a few moments before he says, “We aren’t together, in your world. Your mother and I.”
“I told you—”
“Yes, you told me, and I’ve never seen anyone look so sad while she gave supposedly happy news.” Dad’s words are gentle, as they usually are, but he’s always known when, and how, to push me. “It’s comfort enough to know that there are infinite worlds. Infinite possibilities. Now I know somewhere, somehow, Sophia and I had our chance. But you mustn’t lie to spare my feelings.”
“You were together, always. Nothing could have torn you two apart.” The truth: Dad deserves it. “Nothing but death.”
He breathes in sharply. “I would never have forced her to continue having children.”
“Not her,” I whisper. “You.”
We ride on in silence for a moment after that, with no sound near us but that of the horse’s hooves, the sleigh rails in snow, the jingle of the reins. Is Dad freaking out? What would it be like, to hear that you were dead?
Then he puts one arm around me. “My poor darling girl.”
My eyes fill with tears as I lean against him. He hugs me closer, comforting me. I realize that this is what being a parent means—facing the most horrible thing that could ever happen to you and yet thinking only of how it will hurt your child.
“Was it very recent?” Dad says quietly.
I nod against his shoulder. “Right before I left.”
“It must be difficult for you, seeing me.”
“No. It’s been wonderful to be with you again. Because you really are the same in more ways than you’re different.”
“Was I a good father to you? I always wondered how it would have been, if I’d had the chance.”
“You were the best.” All the little irritations I ever had with my dad—the way he refused to let me borrow the car, or made fun of my addiction to the Vampire Diaries, or sometimes just would not stop doing the Monty Python Spanish Inquisition bit—none of it mattered, not in the least. “You let me be myself, me and Josie both. Our home was always so weird, not like any of the other kids’, and I never cared. Everybody else had to fit in. They had to worry about what other people would think. You and Mom—you never did that. You wanted us to find our own way in the world, but you were always there to help out. You told us you loved us every night before bed. At night, after dinner, you’d wash the dishes and hum Beatles songs. ‘In My Life’ was your favorite, and I’m never going to be able to hear that song again without thinking of you. I wouldn’t want to. I love you so much.”
I bury my head back against his shoulder, and his arm tightens around me again. After a very long while, he says, “How do insects come into it?”
“Insects?”
“Beetles?”
“The Beatles were a rock band.” That’s not going to make any sense to him; I laugh through my tears. “Singers. They were singers you liked.”
His hand pats my arm. “And your mother and I were happy?”
“Almost ridiculously happy.”
“Sophia has a good life?”
“She’s a well-known scientist, working on the research that interests her more than anything else. She has me and Josie, and—she’s a pretty great mom, but I guess you got to see that for yourself. I think she would have said her life was nearly perfect, before she lost you.”
“Thank you,” Dad says. “It will help, remembering that.” Then he pauses. “What about the Grand Duchess Marguerite?”
“
What do you mean?”
“If and when you leave, what is the effect on the grand duchess? Will she remember any of this? Will she—” His voice catches again. “Will she even know I’m her father?”
My first impulse is to tell him no. I saw how the Paul in the London dimension behaved after my Paul had moved on; he lost memory completely, had no idea what had happened to him.
But Paul and I travel through dimensions very differently, it seems.
So who’s to say what the other Marguerites will and won’t remember?
“I don’t know,” I say to Dad. “For her sake, I hope so. She needs you.”
“I need her, too.”
Remember, I think, trying to sear this moment in my brain so that the traces will be left even after I’m gone. Dad’s arm tightens around my shoulder, as if he understands what I’m attempting to do. Maybe he does. Always remember.
We finally glimpse the battlefield from atop a high ridge, and at first it looks only like speckles of black and scurries of movement across the vast expanse of white. But as we draw closer, I begin to see the red stains in the snow. The wind shifts, bringing the scent of battle: gunpowder and something I can only call death.
Dad has scarcely stopped the sleigh. A few of the soldiers have rude looks on their faces—a lady sweeping into their midst?—until one of the generals recognizes me. When he calls me “Your Imperial Highness,” the others snap to attention. I draw myself up like the grand duchess I am and demand, “Take me to Paul Markov.”
I knew medical care in this dimension was far more primitive than in my own, but I’m not prepared for the first sight of the infirmary. Soldiers lie on cots, makeshift bandages binding limbs that have lost a foot or a hand. Metal bowls hold medical instruments and blood. The men are in terrible pain, most of them; morphine exists here, but there’s little to go around. I can hear screaming, moaning, prayer, and one boy younger than I am pitifully crying for his mother.
Paul is silent.
I come to his side, looking down at him in horror. He’s swaddled in bandages: around his shoulder, both knees, and worst of all, his midsection. I’ve read enough war novels to know what a gut wound meant in the days before antibiotics.
