Ten Thousand Skies Above You

  “No. I’m okay. I just need some help with this grate.”

  “Hang on.”

  Theo vanishes for a moment, and I hear the sounds of someone rummaging through trash. This must be a back alley; it’s dark outside, nighttime, so the light I see must come from a streetlamp. I take deep breaths, trying to calm myself. Almost home free, now.

  Then all I have to do is figure out how to encounter the mobster Paul Markov again—not exactly easy—but no. That’s not all I have to do in this dimension. “We still have to ruin the Firebird data.”

  “Done and done. Your parents were distracted, so I took my chance. Put the virus on all their computers already, made it look like Ukrainian hackers.”

  I’m sure he’s telling the truth, but not the whole truth. Theo betrayed my parents so I wouldn’t have to; he spared me that pain, even though he loves them nearly as much. “Thank you,” I say quietly.

  “Just call me your sin-eater.” Theo comes back with a hubcap or something else round and metal; whatever it is, he’s able to wedge it beneath the metal edge of the grid. “Who were those guys?”

  I don’t know how to even begin telling Theo about Paul in this dimension. “You don’t want to know.”

  “Hang on—” With a grunt, Theo shoves harder against the grid, and the corner pops up with a clang. I push it aside and climb up, into freedom, into Theo’s arms.

  He sighs heavily, and I lean against his chest. After this long, terrifying day, it feels so good to be held. I clutch his jacket, pulling him even closer. I only want to stay here, safe and sound, forever.

  But I’m not safe yet. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  Theo grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. I tell myself, Just a few minutes now. Get this Marguerite to safety and rest. Then you can figure out your next move.

  Just as we’re about to dash toward the street, one of the doors to the alley swings open, hard, metal slamming against brick. We startle, and Theo gasps when he sees Paul running out.

  Maybe it’s because Paul has a gun in his hand.

  Paul stops short, staring at us. “I told you to stay put,” he says to me, before looking at Theo. “Where are you taking her?”

  “Marguerite’s okay. I’ve got her, she’s all right.” Theo’s relieved. He assumes Paul could only be here to help, maybe even that he’s with the police. Which is why he steps forward, one hand up. “It’s all good.”

  “Why do you act like I know you?” Paul demands. Something wild lurks within his voice, his eyes; he’s had to pretend to be brave here, to be tough, which means he has no way to deal with fear. His grip on his firearm is tight. “Why do both of you do that?”

  Theo grins. “Can’t help it, pal.”

  He steps away from us, lowering his weapon, no doubt about to run. Even in my terror, I know I will never see this Paul again.

  If I think, I won’t act. So I hurl myself at him. He’s too surprised to raise the weapon right away, which gives me my chance to make contact.

  Even as we slam into the brick wall, even as I look down at the gun in his hand, I manage to grab Paul’s Firebird and press it against his chest—against the dove—and there it is, that tiny warm vibration that means I’ve rescued the next part of his soul.

  Paul curses in pain and shoves me back so hard I fall to the ground. Theo runs toward us, yelling, “What are you—”

  What happens next is so fast that everything blurs together.

  The sounds all seem to roar at once: swearing, screaming, gunfire. The few concrete images I see have no order, no sense, not even motion, as if they were a series of photographs flung in front of me.

  Paul, swinging his gun toward us.

  Theo throwing his arms wide to try to defend me.

  Flashes of fire at the muzzle of Paul’s gun.

  Blood and bone spraying outward.

  Theo falling.

  My own hands reaching for Theo as I sink down beside him.

  And one terrible moment when my eyes meet Paul’s, and I see no regret. No remorse.

  Paul says, “You don’t know me.” And then he runs away, disappearing into the dark.

  The first thing I think is stupid, the product of shock: This is real. It’s all real.

  Then I hear Theo groan, and I pull myself together.

  “Are you okay?” I roll Theo over, knowing he’s not. At first I’m relieved, because he’s conscious and his shirt is only flecked with blood. Then I see his legs. “Oh, my God.”

  “Jesus.” Theo can hardly get the word out; he’s trying not to cry, or scream.

  From the thighs down his legs look like something from a butcher shop: exposed, broken bone, and flesh torn into ribbons. Shards of white jutting from the gory mess must be what’s left of his kneecaps.

  There’s so much blood. It oozes down the wall where it spattered; it drips from my hair, my ear. It pools on the asphalt beneath us, black rather than red in the twilight darkness, and shining as each puddle enlarges. Theo could hemorrhage to death within minutes.

  “Hang on.” I undo his belt and pull it free of the loops, so I can wrap it around one leg as a tourniquet. I need to do the other one too. As loud as I can, I scream, “Somebody help!”

  “Phone.” By now Theo’s voice is hardly a whisper, but that’s enough. I fumble in his back pocket and pull out his cell phone. Thank God it lets me call 911 without the security code.

  The next few minutes aren’t much clearer. Theo’s able to give me the address of our location. Emergency crews were standing by during the police raid, so EMTs get to us within moments. By then Theo’s skin has turned white and his breathing is shallow, but he can still talk. I can tell by the way the EMTs act that they expect him to live.

  But they don’t have to tell me that he might lose his legs.

  Paul shot without hesitating. Without blinking. He savagely destroyed a stranger’s legs for no reason, and ran away without even looking back.

  All that time I was held captive, I thought he wouldn’t hurt me, but I had no idea who I was really dealing with.

  I want to think the splinter of my Paul’s soul within him would have made a difference—but this Paul is still Paul. They are more alike than unalike.

  If we all have one essential self that remains constant through all the worlds, then the evil in this man exists within my Paul, too. Even within the splinters of his soul I’ve already rescued.

  The Firebirds feel heavy around my neck.

  As soon as Theo is settled on a stretcher, the paramedics hook him up to a saline IV. Numbly, I watch the needle enter his skin. While they tape the plastic tubing in place, I lean over Theo. He whispers, “Did you get the splinter?”

  Even after this, Theo is still thinking about Paul’s rescue. “Yeah. I got him.” He nods, then grimaces in pain. I can’t bear to watch him go through this anymore. “You need to go on ahead, okay? You’ll have the coordinates. Now get out of here.”

  “What?” His voice sounds hoarse, drowsy. “I can’t just—it’s my fault this Theo’s screwed up—I have to—”

  “Listen to me.” I’m not sure he’s going to stay fully conscious much longer, especially if the medics have injected any morphine. My hands shake as I manipulate my Firebird to get the proof of his sabotage, unlock the next coordinates, and share that data with Theo’s Firebird, giving him the info he needs to complete this mission. “What’s done is done. I feel like shit about it too, okay? But we can’t help him. You have to take care of yourself now. People in this dimension shouldn’t perceive the Firebirds right away, but at the hospital, they might. Then they’ll take them off you, and who knows when you’ll get them back again—”

  “I get it,” he says. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  “I can’t,” I whisper.

  “Can’t what? We’ve done it. Everything—everything Conley wanted. So we can—”

  He can’t finish the sentence, because he was going to say, rescue the last splinter of Paul.

  But Theo does
n’t need me for that.

  If he goes to Conley now, reports what we’ve done (fudging what happened in the Warverse)—then Conley will give him the coordinates to reach the final dimension where Paul is hidden. Theo will receive the potential cure for Nightthief. Even if Conley is angry that Theo came along with me, he won’t renege on the deal if he thinks I did my part. Everything will be taken care of.

  “I can’t look at Paul right now. I can’t be near him. Not yet.” What I need now is a chance to think about what I’ve learned, and what it means. “I’m going someplace Paul can’t be, where he can never follow.”

  “Marguerite—” Theo breaks off, like he’s on the verge of passing out. So I put his free hand on his Firebird for him.

  “Go to Conley,” I murmur, as the paramedics open the ambulance doors. I brush a lock of hair from his forehead, then take off Paul’s Firebird and put it around Theo’s neck. I whisper, “Take Paul with you. Don’t worry about me. I’m traveling to a safe place. And I promise—I won’t be that far behind.”

  I take my Firebird in my hands. I remember Russia, a thousand images all laced with whirling snow. And I fling myself out of this terrible world.

  19

  I OPEN MY EYES AND SEE AN ORNATELY DECORATED CEILING: cherubs and nymphs painted around embossed gilded medallions, all of it encircling a sumptuous chandelier. As I stir, I realize I’m lying in a bed—one as richly carved as the decorations above me, and topped with an embroidered silk coverlet. Once again, I am Margarita, Grand Duchess of all the Russias, supposedly the daughter of Tsar Alexander V.

  I sit up, then grimace as I realize how exhausted I am; apparently this Marguerite hasn’t slept well, if at all. But what strikes me most powerfully is that I don’t know this room at all. It’s not so surprising, perhaps—when I was in this universe before, the royal family never left the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg. The Romanovs have many other palaces, so perhaps this is one of those.

  Still, it feels . . . off, somehow.

  My eyes widen as I remember—in this world, the tsar wanted to marry me off to the Prince of Wales, heir to the English throne. Oh, shit, is this Buckingham Palace? But there’s no one in the bed with me, and when I look down at my left hand, there’s no ring.

  A memory of Lieutenant Markov comes to me so vividly that it’s as if I’m back in the Winter Palace. He is my personal guard, standing at the door, and he is speaking about my anticipated betrothal to the heir to the English throne—and saying so much more than the mere words would suggest.

  “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. Any man would, my lady.”

  In that moment I knew what he felt. He lived for such a short time after that, not even two whole days after the one and only night we spent together. I hope Lieutenant Markov was able to understand how much I cared. He deserved that—and even more than that, more than he ever got to have—

  I loved him so much. I love him still; I will always love him, I think, to the end of my life. But I’ve spent most of the past three months convinced that my love for him meant that I loved every Paul, everywhere. Every person he could ever be.

  Could I have loved the Paul I met in New York? The one who could savagely attack a stranger and maim him for life? Part of me wants to say no—but as strange as our connection was there, we did connect. I saw how damaged he was by the horrible life he’d been forced to lead. I also saw his brutality. His capacity for cruelty. When I think of the Paul in the Mafiaverse, I don’t know whether I’m moved by the vulnerability I glimpsed in him, or whether I’ll always be afraid of him.

  Both, I think. Somehow that’s the worst answer of all. The only thing I know is that I can’t be near that Paul or any other, now. Not until I’ve figured out what this means. I need safety and solitude.

  Lieutenant Markov died fighting for the tsar, fighting to protect me. I held his hand and watched him die. The horror and pain of that moment will never leave me. But right now, I am taking advantage of his death, which made this a dimension no other Paul Markov could ever enter.

  His death is my shelter. I think, Even now, you’re still protecting me. Tears well in my eyes, but I blink them back.

  A soft rap at my bedroom door makes me sit upright. “Yes?” I call in English. Hopefully that’s the language I’m supposed to be speaking here.

  The reply comes in French. “Are you ready for your breakfast, Your Imperial Highness?”

  “Bring it in, please,” I answer in the same language. (I’ve become better at French through a few of my visits.)

  One woman opens the door for another, who comes in bearing a silver tray. She walks to a small table in the corner and begins setting out a feast: teapot, cream, bread, butter, some kind of pastry.

  And now I know I’m not in any of the tsar’s palaces. If we took meals in our rooms, those meals were simple, by his order. Also none of the servants wore a uniform like the one this woman wears, a long black dress with white apron, and they spoke Russian or English, never French.

  A sky-blue robe lies on the foot of the bed. I reach for it, but the maid hurries from my breakfast to hand the gown to me instead. It’s velvet, thicker and softer than any other I’ve ever felt. As I wrap it around myself, the maid curtsies, then hurries away, leaving me to my meal.

  I ought to begin exploring immediately to figure out exactly where the Grand Duchess Margarita is. But my stomach is too empty; I almost feel sick. So instead, I go to the table and start eating.

  This turns out to be the best thing I could’ve done. Not only because this pastry is amazing, but also because my seat at the window reveals the scene outside.

  I’m about three or four stories off the ground, looking out at a plaza—one surrounded by elegant buildings, with an Egyptian obelisk in the very center. Despite the early hour, and the cloudy sky overhead turned milky by the morning light, many people hurry by outside, all of them dressed in clothes that look more like they belong in the 1910s: women in long dresses wearing big hats; men in three-piece suits and bowlers, all of them sporting mustaches.

  I recognize this plaza. My family traveled to this city a few times when I was young to visit my Kovalenko grandparents before they died. I’m pretty sure that in our universe, something besides an obelisk stands in the center, but I know the locale all the same.

  The grand duchess has gone to Paris.

  After I’ve stuffed myself with pain au chocolat, I feel steadier and begin to explore in earnest. At first I wonder whether the grand duchess is staying in some other royal residence. For all I know, the French Revolution never happened here. I might be the guest of Marie Antoinette’s great-great-great granddaughter.

  But I don’t remember a surviving French monarchy in this universe, and besides, this building stands in the Place Vendôme. My mother explained to me once, when we were visiting almost a decade ago, that this was where the finest hotels in the world were located. I asked why we weren’t staying there, then, which led to my dad giving me a really long lecture about how capitalism works, and how professors usually aren’t the people it works best for.

  On the hotel napkin, embroidered in white on white is a small crest and the cursive letter R. I remember Theo looking at the hotel in the Warverse and saying it wasn’t the Ritz. This is the Ritz.

  This has to be the nicest hotel suite that exists in the world. In all the worlds. Three bedrooms, enormous sitting rooms, a small kitchen, all of them decorated as richly as the room I woke up in. I think the ceilings must be twenty feet high, and—how many chandeliers can you fit in a hotel suite? Whatever the number is, this place maxes it out.

  I must have come to Paris on my own. If the tsar were here, military guards would be all around; if my siblings had come along, they’d be in the other bedrooms. Yet it seems unlike Tsar Alexander V to let me romp to Paris alone.

  Th
e wardrobes are filled with elegant clothing, though much of it appears new and more modern—more flowing silhouettes, a dropped waist or none at all, and deeper colors than the pale shades I usually wore in St. Petersburg. Less lace, more beading. Apparently the grand duchess has done some hard-core shopping while in Paris. Who wouldn’t?

  She would be mourning for her Paul as deeply as I mourn him, probably even more. So she’s consoling herself with this holiday, all the pleasures France has to offer. And the grand duchess has even gained a little weight. I cast a glance at the enormous breakfast behind me, or what remains of it.

  I find a sketch pad sitting next to a box of pastels. At first I reach for it, but then I remember when I got those pastels. Lieutenant Markov gave them to me for Christmas. We stood just outside my bedroom door, the threshold all that lay between us, looking at each other almost dizzy with wanting—

  She will have sketched him. I can’t look at that now. Maybe not ever.

  Instead, I turn my attention to a small leather book that seems like—yes. It’s for appointments.

  Her handwriting is so much better than mine, elegant and flowing, like a professional calligrapher’s; ironically, that makes it harder to read. But I can make out two appointments for today: 11 a.m., Dr. N. Then, 9 p.m., dinner Maxim’s.

  When a maid comes to help me dress, a few careful questions reveal that I’m not heading out to a physician’s office. Dr. N, whoever that is, will be coming to me. The perks of royalty, I guess.

  Is she—am I—sick? Is that the reason for this trip to Paris? Surely if that were true, though, I’d be in a hospital rather than the Ritz. Also, I doubt my family would have let me travel alone; the tsar would of course never leave Russia on my account, but surely Vladimir at least would have come along.

  The maid gets me dressed quickly—the Paris fashions are easier to wear than the long lace gowns from St. Petersburg. Also, thank God someone has invented the bra. It’s kind of weird—triangles of satin, really, without any kind of structure—but even with the extra weight, my breasts have only grown to be “small” instead of “practically nonexistent.” At any rate, I won’t miss the corsets. My drop-waisted gown is the color of roses, and the hem stops well before my ankles. Shocking.