A Thousand Pieces of You

  Is he right, about my creating excitement where I can? Even being melodramatic?

  You went on a half-baked vengeance quest against Paul using a totally untested experimental device, I think. He might possibly have a point.

  Paul studies my face intently, as if he were the painter, the one who had to know every shadow, every line. Quietly he adds, “I think I would believe you anyway.”

  Nobody’s ever given me that kind of faith. I feel that twist in my heart again, the one that makes me feel peeled open and exposed and yet somehow happier than I’ve ever been. “You have to help me find the Firebird locket, the one Colonel Azarenko took from you.”

  “I don’t remember it. Then again, according to your description, I wouldn’t.”

  The Firebird has that quality of an object from a foreign dimension—not intangibility, nor invisibility, but the ability to be easily overlooked. I run my hands through my disheveled hair. “The last we heard, Azarenko was in Moscow. Which side of this fight do you think he’s on?”

  “He’s loyal to Tsar Alexander, to the point of zealotry. He will have led troops from Moscow directly to the fight. I have no doubt he’s already on the front lines.”

  “So, we go to the front lines.”

  “You should go to Moscow.” His eyes meet mine, calm and certain. “You must understand the danger.”

  “By now you understand that there’s more at risk than my life.”

  “No,” he says shortly. “For the Grand Duchess Marguerite this is the only risk, the only real danger.”

  The wind howls outside, thrashing the windowpanes and tree branches as if in revenge for being locked on the other side of our door.

  As a soldier, he might have obeyed my orders despite his protests. Our relationship will never be that simple again. His love for me means he will protect me, even if it means I lose my chance to get back home.

  I begin, “For all we know, the Grand Duke Sergei has already been forced to stand down.”

  Grudgingly, Paul nods. “He would be a fool to rebel with so little support—but I believe him to be a fool.”

  “Then we should at least look for the encampment. We should find out what’s happening before making any other decisions, don’t you think?”

  “You’ll fight me the whole way to Moscow, won’t you?”

  He says it like he’s about to swing me over his shoulder and carry me there himself, even if I kick and scream. Oh, God, he really might. “I have to find out whether my—whether my brothers and sister and Professor Caine survived. Whether the Firebird is still in one piece. If it’s been destroyed, and we can’t find Colonel Azarenko or he’s lost your locket, then I’m trapped here forever.”

  “And the Grand Duchess Marguerite would be trapped within you forever.”

  It stops me short—the idea that Paul is still thinking of protecting her first, beyond all things, even beyond me. But would I expect anything else from him?

  More gently, Paul adds, “I want freedom for you both.”

  “That makes me the jail cell.” It comes out like a joke, which I instantly regret, because it’s so, so not. I whisper, “How can you not hate me?”

  “You are not my Marguerite. And yet—you are. This essential thing you share—your soul—that is what I love.” Paul’s smile is sadder and more beautiful than I have ever seen before. “I would love you in any shape, in any world, with any past. Never doubt that.”

  I can hardly bear to look at him; it’s like staring into the brightness and the warmth of the sun, knowing that it’s burning you while understanding that it makes your whole life possible.

  Paul asks, “What will you do if the worst comes to pass? If we cannot retrieve and repair the Firebirds?”

  “Then I guess I have to live out this Marguerite’s life. Forever.” It’s enough to make me feel seasick.

  “Would it be so terrible?”

  “How can you ask me that now?”

  His hand closes over mine. “No matter what happens, no matter what becomes of you, if you are here, I’ll always be with you.”

  I capture his fingers in mine. He brings my hand to his lips and kisses it, and we sit there in silence for a few moments.

  Finally I say, “I don’t want to think about what happens if we fail. Okay? Because we’re not going to. We’re going to find or repair one of the Firebirds, no matter what it takes. No matter what.”

  With a sigh, Paul says, “I know what that means. It means I have to take you to the encampment of the tsar’s forces.” Before I can thank him, he adds, “If combat is under way, or we see evidence of danger, we will turn around, and this time neither of us will stop until we reach Moscow. I will not put you in harm’s way.”

  “Okay. I mean, yes. That’s what we’ll do.”

  “In the morning, then.”

  “In the morning.” Which leaves us tonight.

  Even though we are naked together in the bed where we made love, neither of us reaches for the other. The truth changes things; I’m not sure exactly how yet, but it does.

  “Perhaps we should not . . . we should not,” Paul says. “I have endangered you already.”

  Endangered? Oh. By danger he means pregnancy. It’s not like it would be great for me to get pregnant right now in any dimension, but for the Grand Duchess Marguerite—intended to be the virgin bride of the Prince of Wales—it would be personally and politically disastrous. Fear quivers in my belly, but I tell myself it was only once.

  Is it wrong of me to want this, given how incredibly complicated this situation is? I don’t know. I can’t know. The one truth I can hold on to is that we need each other, and that tonight will never come again. So I lift his hand to my lips and kiss each knuckle, the soft pad of each finger, the center of his palm.

  Quietly Paul says, “Would she have chosen this? The grand duchess. I would never—if she would not have wanted to be with me, then I—”

  “I looked at the drawings she made of you. They told the whole story.” At first I feel guilty admitting this, giving away the other Marguerite’s secrets. But I know the truth Paul needs to understand too. “She loves you. She dreams about you. If she’d been here, I think she would have made the exact same choice.”

  How badly he wants to believe me. Written in every tense line of his body is his struggle to hold back. “But which—which part of you chose?”

  I lean closer to Paul. “Every part of me,” I whisper. “Every Marguerite. We both love you, completely. Body and soul.”

  “Every Marguerite,” he repeats, and the struggle is over. Again we surrender to each other.

  The next day dawns cold but bright. We set out at breakfast—or what would be breakfast if we had any food. From the dacha I take a brightly patterned scarf to knot around my hair; although it’s not as warm as my fur hat, it’s better than nothing. Paul insists I wear his gloves. They’re too big for me, leather bunching up at the wrist and joints, but I’m grateful for their warmth.

  Deep snow means we make poor time until we encounter an old woodcutter and his wife, out seeking firewood. Paul has a few coins and the promise that the tsar will reward them more amply when the time comes; they look dubious, but nonetheless they loan us their sledge and horse, and give us the loaf of bread they had brought along for their day. I insist on taking them to their nearby home before we drive off—a kindness that probably wouldn’t have occurred to the privileged Grand Duchess Marguerite, to judge by the reactions I get. The old couple stares at me, and even Paul is taken aback, but we drop them off before heading on.

  As we set out toward the railway, I hook my arms around Paul’s, but he shakes his head. “You must not, my lady.”

  “Are you still calling me ‘my lady’?” It’s kind of hot, actually, but I’d think we’d be on a first-name basis by now.

  Paul doesn’t even glance at me, simply keeps looking forward as he tugs his arm free. “From now on, at any moment, we may be observed. My behavior toward you must be correct. Beyo
nd reproach. You are the daughter of the tsar. We . . . allowed ourselves to forget that, for a time. We can never forget again.”

  He’s right, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. I fold my hands in my lap; now we are next to each other, but not touching.

  Just like before.

  When Paul urges the horse forward across the snow, I blink against the brilliance of sunshine on the ice-crusted white ground and tell myself it’s the harsh light stinging my eyes, that and nothing else.

  It is a long and silent day, broken only by the soggy sound of the horse struggling through the snow, the silvery sound of rails slipping over ice, and my occasional offer of bread or water for Paul. We’re both starving, so the loaf goes pretty quickly.

  What happens if the tsar’s troops have been forced to fall back, or, worse, slaughtered? Only now do I realize that Paul wasn’t simply trying to keep us from being shot when he wanted us to go to Moscow; he was trying to keep us fed.

  But as the late afternoon sun begins to paint the tops of the pines gold and orange, we see an encampment in the distance—and flying overhead is the red and white Russian flag. The tsar’s flag. Paul speeds us the rest of the way, urging the horse on, and even as we approach the outskirts, one of the soldiers is running toward us. I recognize him and stand up, waving my arms. “Vladimir!”

  “Margarita!” He holds his arms out to me, and I leap down into them. We embrace so tightly we can scarcely breathe. But Vladimir’s mood swiftly changes. “Markov, you were to take her on to Moscow once you’d found her.”

  “Don’t scold him. I ordered Markov to come to you, and he had no choice.” I glance back at Paul, but he already stands at attention beside the sledge, once again the proper soldier. So I take Vladimir’s hands in mine. “Katya? Peter?”

  “Safe in Moscow, where you ought to be. Though I can’t blame Markov for that, hmm? You headstrong fool.” Vladimir kisses my forehead so soundly that it takes most of the sting from his comment.

  Still at attention, Paul says, “Has the insurrection been put down yet, my lord prince?”

  “Not entirely, but they’re on the run.” Vladimir’s fingers tighten around mine. “Our father has the loyalty of all but a handful of regiments, and secretly a few of them have already sought leniency if they were to abandon Sergei’s cause and lay down their arms. Of course Father’s not ready to hear of it, but give him another day or two to simmer down. Once he knows you’re well, I daresay he’ll be halfway there.”

  It catches me short—this reminder that, harsh and stern as Tsar Alexander V may be, he truly believes me to be his daughter, and would at least worry if I were hurt. But that doesn’t change the fact that I want my real father. “Is Professor Caine all right?”

  “Safe and sound. And due for a medal, after the way he rescued Peter. Such nerve under fire! I’d never have believed he wasn’t an army man.” Vladimir gives Paul a nod, dismissing him; it’s a perfectly reasonable thing for him to do, but it feels so slighting, so superior. Really he is only illustrating the gap between the House of Romanov and everyone else in Russia—the gulf between me and Paul, the one we may never be able to cross again.

  I look over Vladimir’s shoulder at Paul. His gray eyes lock with mine for only an instant before he turns to see to the poor, tired horse.

  “Come along,” Vladimir says. “We’ll get some hot coffee into you, maybe add a few drops of brandy. You can tell me everything about your wild escape.”

  Not everything, I think.

  The tsar is glad I’m alive, or so he says. Mostly he’s furious that I’m here instead of Moscow, though he at least directs his ire at me instead of Paul.

  “What is it you thought you could do here?” he bellows over dinner in his camp tent, stew served in metal bowls. “Women at the front. Ridiculous!”

  “What about nurses?” I protest, and the tsar stares at me as though I’d gone mad. Nobody ever contradicts him. Maybe he should hear differing opinions more often. Very casually, I add, “Where is Colonel Azarenko’s regiment? Are they not here?”

  “He returned to St. Petersburg to muster additional troops but will be joining us shortly,” Vladimir says. “Tomorrow, we expect.”

  “Worrying about troop movements now, are you?” Tsar Alexander huffs, but I ignore this.

  Okay, Colonel Azarenko is on the way. But what are the odds he’ll have Paul’s Firebird with him? And what if his regiment goes into battle on the way here? He could be killed, which would of course be sad for his family and everything, but I admit, right now I’m mostly freaking out about the thought that if he dies, his knowledge of the Firebird’s whereabouts dies with him.

  As the group breaks apart after dinner, instead of going back to the small tent that’s been prepared for me, I say to Paul, “I want to visit Professor Caine.”

  He nods. “Very well, my lady.” His posture is ramrod straight, his expression so deliberately empty that it has the exact opposite effect from what he intends; anyone paying close attention would realize something between us had changed.

  Luckily, none of the officers milling around us notices his behavior. Paul follows a few steps behind as we go to the tent Vladimir said belonged to my father. And even though I’ve lived in this dimension for weeks now, even though I know to call him Professor Caine—when Paul pulls back the flap of the tent to reveal Dad sitting at a camp table, writing by candlelight—I rush forward and embrace him. Dad laughs, self-consciously. “Your Imperial Highness. They told me you were safe. Thank God.”

  My voice is muffled against his shoulder. “I’m so glad to see you.”

  “As I am to see you.” He hugs me back, only for a moment. “I hear the heroic Lieutenant Markov is to thank for your safe return.”

  I smile back at Paul, who just looks even stiffer. “Yes, he is. You’re certain you’re well? Shouldn’t you have gone on to Moscow too?”

  “His Imperial Majesty wishes me to report on these events to my king, to ensure that other nations will hear the true version of the rebellion.” Dad’s forehead furrows with worry. “But I wish I might have stayed with Peter. He was badly shaken.”

  “And Katya?” I ask.

  Dad smiles. “Katya was ready to aim a cannon at Grand Duke Sergei herself. She had to be dragged from the front. Pity women can’t be soldiers. That one has the fighting spirit of ten ordinary men.”

  “I can believe it.” She tackled the soldier who tried to kill me, even though he had a knife and she only had her fists. Then again, no one should underestimate Katya’s fists.

  “You’ll go to Peter soon, won’t you? He needs someone.” Dad brushes my hair back from my face, then catches himself, realizing he shouldn’t show such affection toward the “tsar’s daughter.”

  “Soon,” I promise, “but first I need something from you. Do you remember the locket I gave you to work on? Do you still have it?”

  Dad blinks, caught off guard. “Yes—it’s in my new valise, actually—but surely that doesn’t matter now.”

  “Please let me see it.”

  His valise sits in one corner of the tent. Dad opens it and draws out the lace handkerchief; my heart sinks as I see that the Firebird remains in several pieces. He’s matched up several of the parts, but not nearly enough.

  “It’s actually rather interesting,” Dad says. “The parts do form a mechanism; that much is obvious, even though I don’t understand what it’s meant to do. But there’s a fascinating logic to its construction—complicated, but undeniable. I look forward to puzzling out the rest.”

  “I need you to hurry. I need this put back together right away.” My fingers trail along the locket’s chain; it’s all I can do not to clutch it in my fist. I never want to be far away from this thing again.

  Dad clearly doesn’t want to contradict me, but—“Your Imperial Highness, I am under orders from the tsar. Although I fully appreciate the sentimental value of your locket, right now we have more pressing concerns.”

  “We don’t. W
e really, truly don’t.” How am I supposed to convince him?

  Then I look back at Paul and think, He believed me. Wouldn’t Dad? Especially if Paul backed me up?

  So for the second time in twenty-four hours, I tell someone in this dimension the truth: about who I actually am, where I’m from, what the Firebirds can do.

  Dad isn’t buying it.

  “Your Imperial Highness, stop and consider.” His voice is gentle. “Yesterday you suffered a tremendous shock. The fear alone would have confused most people. Combine that with nearly freezing to death—”

  “I’m fine! Do I sound hysterical to you?” Wait. I’m ranting about parallel dimensions. Shouldn’t have asked that question. So I direct his attention to the steadier dimensional traveler. “What about Lieutenant Markov? His dreams are the memories of my Paul Markov. How could that be possible if none of this were true?”

  “What Her Imperial Highness says is accurate,” Paul confirms, still standing at attention. “I believe her.”

  Dad sighs. “Forgive me for saying it out loud, Markov, but I believe you’d back the grand duchess if she claimed to be from the moon.”

  I keep trying. “I know this talk about parallel dimensions sounds strange, but I’m thinking clearly, and I’m telling you the truth. Which is why I need the Firebird repaired, right away.”

  He’s clearly unconvinced; probably he thinks I’ll snap out of this after I’ve had a good night’s rest. “I’ll continue to work on it. I promise you that. But your father’s orders come first.”

  And that’s when I know how to convince him.

  “I know things the Grand Duchess Marguerite never realized on her own,” I say. “Things that prove I come from somewhere else. From another reality.”

  From his place at the flaps of the tent, Paul looks intrigued despite himself. Dad looks more like he’s humoring me. “Such as?”

  I whisper, “I know the tsar isn’t my father. You are.”