by Claudia Gray
Was.
One evening last month, when Paul and I were alone at the house, I asked him to sit for me. Since I’d ripped up the first portrait I’d painted of him, I needed to paint another one—a better one, that would capture the man I now knew so much better than before.
Unsurprisingly, Paul wasn’t a natural model. “I feel strange,” he said, sitting stiffly on the chair.
“Just relax.” I made sure the drop cloth covered my bedroom floor, then took up my pencil to start sketching. “It’s only me. Right?”
“Right.” But he stared forward as if he were facing a firing squad.
Laughing, I said, “It could be worse, you know.”
“How?”
“In my Life Drawing class last year, we had nude models.”
I expected him to be relieved that I was sketching him with his clothes on. Instead, Paul’s eyes met mine, and—very slowly—he reached for the hem of his T-shirt.
“Paul—” But my voice died in my throat as he pulled his shirt off and tossed it to the floor where it fell almost at my feet.
We’d taken things so slowly after the Russiaverse, and Paul had let me take the lead every step of the way. Or he had until this moment, when he began stripping down in front of me. I’d never imagined that shy, reticent Paul would take a step so bold—or that I’d find it so incredibly exciting when he did.
“You’ve already seen me naked,” he said with a shrug that wasn’t as nonchalant as it was meant to be.
“No, I haven’t.” There’s been a lot of touching since we got together in January. A lot. But relatively little looking.
“You’ve seen another me, then. And we’re the same, aren’t we?”
I started to argue with him, then wondered why I would do something so stupid. Besides, I told myself—I’m just drawing him. That’s all.
He continued, “You’re only painting me from the chest up, like most of your portraits, right?”
That had been the original plan. But as I tucked a curl behind my ear and tried to act casual, I said, “In Life Drawing, we usually tried to, uh, capture the entire figure. The whole body.” Then, more boldly, I added, “If you dare.”
Paul raised one eyebrow, rose from the chair, and unbuttoned his jeans; I stood there, pencil in hand, my cheeks flushed with heat. He let his jeans drop, but kept his boxers on—at least, for the moment.
Before this moment, I’d been smiling. No longer. Difficult to smile with your mouth hanging open. Don’t drool, I told myself. Keep it together.
But Paul’s body—he’s a big guy, and well proportioned, but it was the rock climbing that did it. All those hours scrambling up cliffs had carved muscles into his back, his abdomen, his thighs. Not in a creepy bodybuilder way—in an ohmigod freakin’ hot way. Even if he’d been some anonymous model from class, I would’ve been speechless at the sight of him all but naked, submitting to my gaze.
In Life Drawing, we sometimes asked the models for specific poses. At first it was awkward, but everybody got over the weirdness after a little while. Facing Paul that day, however, I wasn’t as cool. “Um, could you—if—um, could you sit on the corner of the chair, your back toward me?”
“You get to look at me, but I don’t get to look at you?” Paul said, even as he did what I asked.
“You get to look at me. Just—over your shoulder.” Slowly he glanced back toward me, gray eyes intense. When his face was at the ideal angle, I said, “There. Right there.”
For several long, silent minutes, Paul remained as still as any of the professional models. I sketched his perfect body with loving attention to every single detail: his broad shoulders, long-fingered hands, tapered waist. With my index finger, I smudged the lines slightly to create shadows and dimension; it was so easy to imagine really touching him.
Just put everything down, take five steps, and then you can put your hands on him, ask him to put his hands on you—
As I looked into Paul’s eyes, I could see the answering echo of my own desire. He was breathing faster, unsure but willing. I hadn’t known I could want someone so much it made me dizzy.
But as I took that first step forward, I heard the front door—and Dad’s voice. “Marguerite? Are you home?”
Shit. I threw Paul’s T-shirt at him; he was already leaping into his jeans in a quick change worthy of Clark Kent. Through some miracle, he was fully dressed again by the time my father got around to checking my bedroom. Luckily Dad couldn’t see the sketch on my easel; I made sure to hide it afterward, too.
The grand duchess must hide her drawings of Lieutenant Markov. Even now, when her secret love for him has already been exposed, the tsar would be furious if he had to confront the evidence.
It’s brave of her to draw these, I think, flipping through a few rougher studies of Paul’s hands, his profile. Brave of her to keep them.
Then I come to a drawing in an entirely different style from all the rest—far softer, the lines less certain, as if the grand duchess were trying to paint an image within a cloud. Paul again, but lying naked in bed, the sheet tossed aside, his arm outstretched toward the artist. Toward her; toward me. The memory comes back to life so vividly that I can almost feel the heat of the wood stove, hear the wind whipping outside the dacha, and taste Paul’s mouth against mine.
Wiping at my eyes, I set the sketch pad aside. As I do so, one more letter falls out from between the pages. When I look at the envelope, it proves to be unimportant—a staggering bill from a couturier for the gowns I’ve purchased here in Paris. Yet seeing this makes me realize this universe’s Marguerite has never received a letter from the person she needs to hear from the most.
I find the fountain pen and a blank sheet of paper, and begin:
To the Grand Duchess Margarita,
How do I begin to tell you how sorry I am for what I’ve done to you? I never meant to stay so long in Russia the first time, and I promise not to stay more than another day here.
I should not have spent the night with Lieutenant Markov. As much as we loved each other, his love was more for you than for me, and I never should have stolen your only chance to be together. Most of all, I should have been more careful. Causing your pregnancy is the single worst thing I’ve ever done in my life, and there’s no way for me to begin making it up to you.
Maybe you don’t care how awful I feel about it. I wouldn’t blame you. But what I can promise is that, after this, I’ll never return to this dimension again. (“Dimensions” are what you seem to have called “shadow worlds.”) From now on, I swear: Your life is your own. Your body is your own.
I’m glad that at least you’ve gotten to know Dad. Hopefully that helps, having someone who’s always on your side. Because he is, in my world just as much as in yours.
Back home, Mom is alive and well. She’s a groundbreaking scientist, happy with Dad and with her life. I don’t have your siblings—who I miss so much—but I do have an older sister. Her name is Josephine, and I’m not sure what you’d make of her. She’s another scientist, and so tough and strong she could probably outfight most of the cavalry officers. But I bet the two of you would hit it off.
And Paul—
I hesitate, pen in hand. What can I possibly say?
And Paul is alive too. He studies physics with Mom and Dad, which is how I met him. Although he and I were already close before I came to your dimension, this is where I realized how much I love him.
Writing down the words reminds me of a hundred beautiful moments: Paul and me standing beneath the redwoods, staring up at the canopy of green leaves so impossibly far overhead. Making out in his dorm room, hearing his breath quicken as he pulls me closer. His giving me a bouquet of pink roses on Valentine’s Day, which I should’ve thought was cheesy but instead reduced me to a giddy puddle. Sketching him that evening, totally overcome by his physical presence.
Making lasagna together the night before Thanksgiving.
Talking about my paintings, and how he thought they always told
the truth.
Learning that he’d risked everything to protect me and rescue my father.
Here, now, this moment, recognizing how much of what we are is truly between him and me alone.
As much as I loved Lieutenant Markov—what I feel for Paul is even more powerful. The love for him I’d tried to bury lives again inside me.
Shakily, I write the final paragraphs of my letter to the Grand Duchess Margarita:
You’ve given me so much—more, even, than I took from you. I don’t only need to atone for what I’ve done to your life; I also need to thank you for some of the most beautiful days I’ve ever known.
For the greatest love I’ve ever felt, and even for giving that love back to me.
I fold the letter and slip it into her sketch pad. She’ll find it when the time is right. My apologies have to be meaningless for her, but surely she’ll take some comfort from finding out she’s not one bit crazy. The shadow worlds, everything she went through in December: All of it was real. I hope knowing that helps. It’s the best I can do.
I curl up in bed and turn out the light. Even with all the emotions churning within me, I’m tired enough to pass out within moments.
But then I feel something weird in my stomach. It comes and goes in an instant, the kind of thing that’s easy to forget.
I feel it again, though, and this time the sensation is weirder. Honestly, it’s as though a goldfish is swimming deep inside me—
—which is when I realize the truth, and my eyes open wide.
The next morning, once I’m done getting sick, I send a note down to the management, telling them to send a summons to Theodore Willem Beck. No, it won’t be easy for them to find him—but dammit, in this dimension I’m a grand duchess of all the Russias. What’s the point of being royalty if you can’t make impossible demands once in a while?
Maybe not so impossible. Either the hotel had Theo’s information on file after all or the Ritz Paris is extremely dedicated to customer service, because they soon reply that they’ll have him here by noon.
That’s still a few hours away. Maybe I have time to create a portrait of my family back home, using the grand duchess’s pastels and sketchbook. She’d probably like to see what Mom would look like if she were still alive in this dimension. The pose for the family group requires some care; if anyone else ever sees this, it’s probably best if the late tsaritsa and the royal tutor aren’t in each other’s arms. So I put us on the sofa—Mom and Dad on the ends, me next to Mom, Josie by Dad.
Just as I’m shading in Josie’s chin, there’s a rap on the door. That must be Theo, though I’m slightly surprised the hotel simply sent him up to the Suite Imperial. “Come in!” I call, just as I remember the notation in the appointment book, something about news from a Cousin Karin—
But my visitor is someone else entirely.
Dizziness washes over me again, but this time it’s only from astonishment, and maybe joy. “Vladimir?”
“Marguerite!” He crosses the room and scoops me into his arms; his camel-colored overcoat is still cool from the outside air. “Oh, look at you. Are you well?”
“I’m better. I’m so much better, I promise.” Why did I ever think Vladimir would have abandoned his sister? Instead, he crossed most of Europe to visit me. I pull back from his embrace enough to look at him again. In some ways it’s still strange, seeing a guy’s face that reminds me so much of my mother’s, and my own. But this is Vladimir—same curly hair, same mustache, same open grin. I missed him even more than I knew.
“Better?” he says, then lowers his voice. “But you are—you remain—”
His eyes flicker down toward my belly.
Vladimir knows. He’s known all along. Of course he still loved her; of course he’s still on her side. Why did I ever doubt him? Relief washes through me again, even more powerfully. “Yes.”
“Then we stick with the plan.” Vladimir brushes my hair back from my forehead. “I’ve spoken to Karin. She will be discreet—you needn’t doubt her, she’s kept many secrets in her sixty years. Her house is in the Danish countryside, and she has only a handful of servants, all loyal to her. I’ll explain to Father that you’re still unwell, but tell him he was right about therapy being useless. When I explain that you need several months to recuperate in the country air, with family, he’ll accept it.”
Several months. Through late September. “And after? What about after?”
Maybe the other Marguerite already understands this. I have no rational reason to ask. But I have to know what will become of this child I helped create.
“Karin will prove her generosity and adopt an orphan child. A new little cousin of ours, whom of course you will come to cherish during your time in Denmark. Naturally you’ll want the child to visit often. Perhaps to live with the family in Russia in a few years, when Karin becomes old enough to wish to return to Copenhagen.”
A cousin. A visitor. Already I feel myself rejecting this, thinking, It’s not enough. This Marguerite has to have felt the same way; if she didn’t want this baby, desperately, she wouldn’t have asked Vladimir to find a solution.
But this is probably the best answer available in her world. The royal family pride will be preserved. The tsar will never learn of the pregnancy. And the child will live with this other me soon. The grand duchess will help to raise her, or him. They’ll love each other, and someday . . . someday maybe she can tell the truth about how the baby came into this world.
To the small person-to-be inside, I think, Your mother is going to tell you all about your dad. She’s going to tell you he was the best man we’ve ever known.
Vladimir cuddles me protectively. “You look so pale. Have you packed your things? Do you need someone to help you?”
“I haven’t packed.” Because I had no idea I was leaving. “And there’s someone I should say goodbye to before we go. He should be here before noon.”
“Very well. I’ll settle your bills. Of course you had to shop to convince the tsar you were doing well in Paris, but I must say, you made a thorough job of it.” He cups my chin in his hand, the way he must have done when I was a little girl. “Before I forget to say it, I’ve missed you terribly.”
“I’ve missed you too.”
By 11:00 a.m., Vladimir has helped me pack almost everything. I make sure my note to the grand duchess is folded in the back of the sketchpad, next to the portrait of my own family, before I tuck that into her trunk. Vladimir, meanwhile, is shaking his head at my new collection of broad-brimmed hats. “Honestly, Margarita. How can you need so many?”
“They’re the only clothes that will still fit me in a few months’ time,” I say, which makes him laugh.
Then the concierge rings to tell me my guest is waiting for me in the garden. Vladimir gives me a look. “Your mysterious farewell?”
“Yes. I’ll be right back, all right?”
Naturally the Ritz has made sure its gardens are as elegant as the rest of the hotel. Even though spring is only now settling upon Paris, the wide lawn already shines a light, vivid green. White marble neoclassical statues stand on pedestals throughout the long, narrow length of the garden, and the branches of the trees around the edges are already heavy with buds that will soon become flowers. Only a few flowers have appeared so far—tulips, mostly.
Theo waits for me in a corner of the garden, gray overcoat buckled rakishly tight at the waist, hat at a jaunty angle. Once he sees me, he immediately hurries to my side. “Oh, my God. Sit. You have to sit. How do you feel?”
“Still capable of walking. But thanks.” Despite everything, I have to laugh.
He guides me to the nearest bench, his hands gentle on my shoulders as if I were made of spun glass. Once we’re seated, he looks into my eyes and whispers, “Holy shit.”
“I know. I know!”
“I can’t get over it.”
“You can’t get over it?” I’m the one who’s had morning sickness.
“It’s just—there’s a li
ttle Paul in there. Or a little Marguerite.” He stares at my belly like it’s a viewscreen directly into my uterus, then shakes his head, visibly pulling himself back together. “This makes me Uncle Theo. The responsibility takes some getting used to.”
He’s overdoing his reaction—trying to cheer me up, because he realizes how overwhelming this must be. And maybe he’s trying a little too hard to be happy about something that might be hard for him to hear. But I can tell his emotions are genuine, and it touches me in a way I wouldn’t have expected.
I’ve never understood how anybody could be in love with two people at the same time. Your heart can only sing one song at a time.
What I’ve learned, though, is that being in love doesn’t make everybody else in the world invisible. Someone you found attractive before? Yeah, they don’t magically turn hideous when you fall in love with another person. You don’t stop thinking their jokes are funny; you don’t stop being interested in what they have to say. You don’t stop caring about a human being just because he’s not the one you care most about in the world.
It’s not the same as being in love, of course. If anything, I’m more aware than ever before of the wide gulf between mere chemistry and actually loving someone. Even when I have these moments of profound connection with Theo, he stands on the other side of a line I have no desire to cross.
And finally Theo has accepted that line.
“I’m going to buy you your first beer,” he whispers as he leans forward, addressing my belly. “Way before you’re legal. Don’t tell your parents.”
“You’re in the wrong universe for that. Here, I think you’re off the hook.”
“You never know.”
“Theo, it’s been so strange, the past couple of days. Every time I remembered Paul shooting you, I didn’t know what to think. But now—this—” I pat the slight swell of my stomach. “Late last night I was thinking about Paul, and the baby moved, and everything I ever felt for Paul came rushing back.”
“That’s Paul’s baby,” Theo says in wonder. He’s talking to himself, not to me. “Man, I wish I could see this kid.”
