A Thousand Pieces of You

For one split second, it’s hilarious—I’m going to marry Prince William! I’ll get all Kate Middleton’s cute coats! But then I remember from the List that the heir to the British Empire in this universe isn’t Wills; it’s someone a whole lot more inbred, a whole lot less appealing. And even if it were Prince William, it wouldn’t be funny for long, because if I’m trapped here I’ll actually have to marry some total stranger half a world away.

  “My lady?” Paul says, hesitantly.

  I’m fine, I want to say—but instead I clap my hand over my mouth, struggling to maintain my composure. I must not break. I must not.

  “You mean that I should be fluent in English.” My voice shakes; he must know how badly I’m hurting, even if he doesn’t fully understand why. “Since I’m to be their queen someday.”

  Okay, thank God I thought of that, because it makes it a little bit funny—the idea of me waving awkwardly from a carriage, or wearing some huge feathered hat.

  But Paul looks nearly as miserable as I feel. He ventures, “My lady, I feel certain His Imperial Majesty would never permit your marriage to any man unworthy of you.”

  My guess is that Tsar Alexander basically auctioned me off to the best royal bidder. “I wish I were as certain.”

  Paul nods, oddly earnest. “Surely, my lady, the Prince of Wales will prove a devoted husband. I cannot imagine that any man would not—would not count himself fortunate to have such a wife. That he could fail to love you at first sight.”

  We are twenty feet apart and it feels as though we are close enough to touch. I imagine he can hear even the soft catch in my breath.

  “Any man would,” he says. “My lady.”

  “Love at first sight.” It comes out as hardly more than a whisper, but the quietest words carry in this vast, echoing room. “I’ve always thought real love could only come later. After you both know each other, trust each other. After days, or weeks, or months spent together—learning to understand everything that isn’t spoken out loud.”

  Paul smiles, which only makes his eyes look sadder. “One can grow into the other, my lady.” His words are even quieter than mine. “I have known that to be true.”

  When we look at each other then, he silently admits something beautiful and dangerous. Does he see the same confession in my eyes?

  I know by now that the other Marguerite returned his devotion, without words and without hope.

  No regular soldier, regardless of his loyalty and courage, can marry a grand duchess. No grand duchess can dare risk the tsar’s wrath with a forbidden love affair.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant Markov,” I say. I try to make it sound formal, as though I’m completely unmoved. I fail.

  Paul bows his head and goes back to standing at attention like nothing had ever happened. He’s better at pretending than I am.

  Christmas Day comes. I spend it in church. That alone would be weird enough for me, the daughter of two people who described themselves as “Confuciagnostics.” And here, “church” means a Russian Orthodox cathedral, with priests who wear high, embroidered hats and long beards, and choirs singing hymns in minor keys, and the smell of incense so thick in the air that I keep hiding my face behind my hand to cough.

  As I kneel in my pew, I think of Mom and Josie back home—spending their first Christmas without Dad, and without me, too. By now they know what Theo and I set out to do, but they must also have given up much hope of us ever returning home.

  Does she think we’re dead?

  I should be with her. Instead I went chasing after Paul because I was too angry to think straight, too upset to slow down and wait until Theo and I were sure of what we were doing. Easy though it would be to blame Theo—he loved Dad nearly as much as I did. He wasn’t thinking any more clearly than I was.

  No, it’s my own fault that I’m not with my mother and sister on what must be the worst Christmas of their lives. My fault that Mom’s probably mourning both me and Dad. Shame chokes me, like the smoke from the incense, and the dark sorrowful eyes of the religious icons seem to condemn me from their gilded frames.

  That afternoon, we exchange gifts in the tsar’s study. (Thankfully, the Grand Duchess Marguerite is more organized than I am; her gifts were already wrapped and labeled before I got here.) To my surprise, the presents are very ordinary things—Vladimir gave me a fountain pen, I gave Katya lace handkerchiefs, and Tsar Alexander seems perfectly content with a new set of boots from Peter. I would’ve thought royal families gave one another staggering, epic gifts, like emeralds the size of baseballs. But maybe if you’re surrounded by opulence every day, the riches lose their power.

  Grand Duke Sergei isn’t included in the family Christmas. No shocker there.

  Afterward, Paul accompanies me back to my room, like always, but at the door he clears his throat. “My lady?”

  “Yes?”

  “If you would do me the honor—if it would not be improper for you to accept—I have a gift for you.”

  He looks so unsure, as awkward as my own universe’s Paul ever did. I can’t help smiling. “I have one for you, too.”

  A smile lights up his face. “If I may—”

  I nod, excusing him, and he hurries to a nearby room, where he must have stashed it. So I get the final wrapped present I found—in red cloth, not paper, with real white ribbon—and hold it in my hands as I wait. What did she buy him?

  Paul returns with a small box, also tied up with ribbon. “For you, my lady.”

  “And for you.” We hand them off to each other at the same moment; it’s slightly clumsy, and we both laugh a little. I’m vividly aware that we’re doing this at the doorway to my bedroom, where anyone could walk by and see. But the only other option is for me to invite Paul inside, which is about nine hundred kinds of inappropriate. “Here, you go first.”

  “Very well, my lady.” Paul deftly tugs the ribbon and cloth away to reveal a book. His eyes light up—he’s thrilled—and I quickly look at the title: The Laws of Optics, Or, The Refraction of Light.

  Of course. This Paul and my Paul are enough alike that they’d both be fascinated by science, and this dimension’s Marguerite must have picked up on that. Standing around all day watching me write letters? That’s not enough to occupy Paul’s brilliant mind. Now he runs his hand reverently over the leather binding of the book, like I’ve given him the deepest secrets of the universe.

  “Thank you,” he says, obviously struggling for the right words. “I was saving my money for this, but now—I will begin reading tonight.”

  This is a world where books are expensive, and the only sources of information. No wonder he’s thrilled. I glow with happiness I don’t deserve; I’m not the one who picked it out, after all.

  Already Paul is apologizing. “My gift can’t compare.”

  “Don’t be silly.” I unwrap his present as quickly I can, ribbon fluttering to the floor by my feet. As I pull back the lid of the black box, I see a rainbow of colors, and my face lights up. “Pastels! You bought me pastel chalks.”

  “I know it is your practice to sketch, my lady. But I had thought—perhaps you might wish to experiment.”

  Even in my dimension, I always meant to work with pastels someday. I run one fingertip along the pink chalk, tinting my skin rosy. “They’re beautiful.”

  “Not so fine as the gift you gave me—”

  “Stop that. Don’t you realize we gave each other the same thing?”

  Paul tilts his head. “My lady?”

  “Every form of art is another way of seeing the world. Another perspective, another window. And science—that’s the most spectacular window of all. You can see the entire universe from there.” So my parents always said, and as corny as it might be, I believe them. I smile up at Paul. “So it’s like we gave each other the whole world, tied up in ribbon.”

  “You want me to learn the entire universe?” His grin is natural, somewhat abashed; we are no longer guard and grand duchess, just a guy and a girl, standing very close. “For you I wi
ll.”

  “And for you—” I think more about what the pastels mean, artistically. “I spend too much time thinking about . . . lines and shadows. You want me to find subtlety and depth.”

  Paul’s face falls. “It was not a criticism, my lady.”

  “Oh, no, no. I didn’t mean that. I meant that you—you want to make my world more beautiful. Which is amazing. Thank you.”

  “And I thank you.”

  I let my hand rest atop his, for only a moment, but the contact crackles between us. We look into each other’s eyes, and I feel something I’ve only ever felt once before—this dizzying sense like being at the edge of a cliff, both scared to death and yet feeling this inexplicable, insane urge to fling yourself into the sky.

  Paul murmurs, “Merry Christmas, my lady.”

  “Merry Christmas.”

  Our hands slip apart. He steps away from the door. I shut the door, and back slowly toward the bed. As I clutch the box of pastels, I fall back onto the covers, trying to make sense of what’s happening.

  That feeling—the one like being at the edge of a cliff—the only other time I felt it was at home, that night Paul and I talked about painting. The night I knew he understood me more deeply than anyone else ever had . . .

  I meant it when I said I didn’t believe in love at first sight. It takes time to really, truly fall for someone. Yet I believe in a moment. A moment when you glimpse the truth within someone, and they glimpse the truth within you. In that moment, you don’t belong to yourself any longer, not completely. Part of you belongs to him; part of him belongs to you. After that, you can’t take it back, no matter how much you want to, no matter how hard you try.

  I tried to take it back when I believed Paul had murdered my father, but I couldn’t, not completely. Even when I hated him, I still—I knew I could have loved him. Maybe I was already beginning to.

  Yet I can’t take back what just happened between me and this universe’s Paul, either. Something in me belongs to him now, and I feel, I know, that he belongs to me.

  You saw this Marguerite’s sketches, I tell myself. She already had deep feelings for him. Maybe it’s the other Marguerite . . . bleeding through.

  No. I know better.

  I’m in love with Paul Markov. This Paul Markov. Totally, unbreakably, passionately in love.

  But am I in love with one man or two?

  Not long after Christmas, we’re to take the royal train to Moscow under the pretext of some official function or other; Tsar Alexander’s true plan is to test his nobles and officials, wanting to ensure that they remain loyal to him rather than Grand Duke Sergei. The rest of the family is annoyed. I’m thrilled.

  “Will we see Colonel Azarenko there?” I ask Vladimir casually as we prepare to leave.

  He frowns. “I suppose so. Why do you care about that stiff old bird?”

  I shrug, anticipating the moment when I can stand in front of Azarenko and demand the return of Paul’s Firebird.

  If he still has it, that is.

  Based on my history lessons about Napoleon and a couple of documentaries I half-watched on cable, I had the idea that it was impossible to cross Russia in winter. Not if you’re Russian, apparently. The royal train can make the trip to Moscow in a matter of hours. We’ll be back for New Year’s Eve, and the single biggest ball of the season on January 1.

  “I want to meet the engineer!” Peter says as we climb the velvet-cushioned steps into the royal car. “Can’t I, this time, please?”

  “You will remain with me, like your brother,” Tsar Alexander insists. He doesn’t even smile at his youngest child. “You’re old enough to begin hearing about matters of state.”

  He’s ten. But I hold my tongue. By now I know contradicting the tsar can only make things worse. My father, standing slightly to the side and carrying his own valise, tightens his jaw the way he does when he’s angry but trying not to show it.

  The tsar gives Peter a contemptuous look. “Or would you rather sit in the back with your sisters, embroidering flowers?”

  “No, I’ll stay with you,” Peter says, though he looks petrified. Poor little thing. Once Tsar Alexander has turned away, Dad pats Peter’s shoulder and says, “On the way home, you and I will come to the station a little early, so you’ll have time to talk to the engineer then. How would that be?”

  Peter brightens, and when he and Dad smile at each other, I wonder—is it possible that Peter is his son too? Somehow I sense not, and yet Dad still devotes himself to the little boy. He takes care of Mom’s son for Mom’s sake, an act of love she can never see, one that has lasted for nearly a decade after her death.

  “My lady?” Paul says quietly.

  I blink away my tears. “Ash in my eye. That’s all.”

  While the big manly menfolk go to the next car to talk diplomacy and drink vodka or whatever they do in there, Katya and I remain in the royal car. For once, Katya’s not dedicated to annoying me; she’s too busy playing some card game with Zefirov.

  Paul remains at attention at the front of the train car. I read the latest newspaper, at first in an attempt to settle down, but with more interest as I go on.

  It’s sort of fascinating: what Paul said about patterns reoccurring in different dimensions is definitely true. Some of the same people who were famous in my universe are famous here, but in unexpected ways. For instance, the “famed songbird Florence Welch” is finishing a concert tour of Europe, where she’s been singing librettos from operas. Bill Clinton has recently been elected to his second term as President of the United States; he ran as the candidate of the Bull Moose Party, and his photo shows him with muttonchop whiskers and a mustache any hipster would envy.

  And this news item from New York City is accompanied by a photograph of the acclaimed inventor Wyatt Conley.

  As the train car sways back and forth, I fold the crinkly newsprint and peer more closely at the picture. Conley’s wearing an old-timey suit and has his hair parted in the middle—seriously not a good look, how was that ever popular? Otherwise he seems much the same. His aw-shucks grin doesn’t conceal his confidence, any more than his boyish face hides his ruthlessness. The story is about his invention of the moving picture, and says he’s made films “as long as two minutes,” which makes me smirk. Apparently Conley is famous for innovation in any universe.

  The brakes squeal against the tracks as the train decelerates; I brace my hand on the velvet seat, frowning. A glance out the window confirms that we’re in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by snow-covered fields and pine forests, still far from Moscow. “Why are we stopping?”

  “There may be snow covering the tracks,” Paul says, but his expression is wary. “Put on your coat, my lady. Just in case.”

  In case of what? But I do as Paul says, slipping into my long sable coat even as he walks through to one of the other cars to find out what’s going on.

  “Do I have to put on my coat?” Katya asks Zefirov.

  “Not until I win this hand,” he says, laughing.

  But there’s something odd about his laugh.

  Slowly I rise to my feet. “Katya?”

  “Can’t you see I’m busy?” she says.

  Zefirov looks up at me, his beefy face smug, and my heart sinks. Something is wrong, desperately wrong. He knows what it is. The rest of us are about to find out.

  “Katya!” I put my hand out for her. She turns to me, angry, and would start calling me names. But that’s when the gunfire begins.

  15

  “KATYA!” I GRAB HER BY ONE ARM AND TOW HER TOWARD me. Her cards scatter across the floor of the train car, diamonds and clubs like litter at our feet.

  Zefirov doesn’t move, only smiles at us, a grin so nasty I want to slap it off his face. “We’ll see who’s so high and mighty now. Who has to play cards with spoiled brats instead of serving like a real soldier.”

  Katya starts to cry. I hug her to my chest. Although I want to ask him what’s going on, I already know. “Grand Duke Sergei. He
’s behind this, isn’t he?”

  “We’ll have no more cowards,” Zefirov says, rising to his feet. “We’ll have a real tsar, with the courage to take us into war.”

  War? When did war come into this? I thought I was starting to understand this dimension, but I’m not at home, I’m dangerously ignorant of what’s going on, and there’s no way for me to fully comprehend the trap that’s just been sprung.

  “You’re Peter’s guard. You’re our friend,” Katya protests.

  Zefirov laughs as he rises to his feet. His hand goes to the pistol at his belt.

  My God. The realization sweeps through me, freezing me in place. They’re going to shoot us all, then do something to the train that makes it look like there was an accident. Then Sergei is rightful heir to the throne. He wins it all as soon as we’re dead.

  Screams and shouts echo from the rest of the train along with gunfire. I would run with Katya were there anywhere to run. As it is, I can only stare in horror as Zefirov levels his pistol.

  Two shots ring in the train car, so loud my eardrums sting. Katya shrieks. But it’s Zefirov who falls.

  I whirl around to see Paul standing there, his own weapon outstretched.

  As I stand there in shock, my ears ringing, Paul steps forward. “You are unharmed, my lady?”

  “We—we’re fine. What’s happening?”

  “Not every soldier on this train is a traitor.” Paul looks angrier than I’ve ever seen him; he just killed a man without hesitation, and he can’t even be bothered to glance at the bloody corpse on the floor. “They may have rigged the train with explosives. You must run for the forest.”

  The forest is a few hundred yards away. Snow has begun to fall, thick and soft, but I think I can get through it. We might be shot—but if we stay here, we’ll surely die.

  “Go,” Paul says, and he takes my hand, squeezing it to shake me from my shock. “Run as fast as you can, and don’t look back. I will find you, my lady. I swear it.”

  Katya wrestles free from me and grabs her coat; her survival instinct must be stronger than mine. Right behind her, I go for the door, but then I glance back. “Paul, be careful.”