Paul gives me a sidelong look. His grip tightens on my elbow. “I am.”
He didn’t say it to be funny, but any break in the tension is too precious to waste. When I start laughing, his stern expression cracks—just a little—enough for the light to get in.
Another one who loves you, he said to me in Rome. . . .
From the crowd of soldiers just beneath me, someone shouts, “Marguerite!” I turn, and in the middle of the frenzy, I see Theo—this dimension’s Private Theodore Beck—waving his cloth uniform hat back and forth overhead, desperately signaling me.
And I can no longer breathe.
In a flash, it feels as if I’m back in Egypt, pinned on the floor of a tomb, eyes filling with tears and neck crushing in the viselike grip of my own scarf, Theo crying as he strangles me to death.
“Marguerite?” Paul steps closer, and his hand on my arm becomes less possessive, more protective. “You look terrible.”
Blunt in every universe: That’s Paul. I whisper, “Theo. I saw Theo.”
Frowning, Paul looks from me to Theo—still waving, apparently unaware I’ve seen—and then back at me again. “Then why aren’t you happy?”
“They must have told you I died in the Egyptverse. But I guess they didn’t tell you how.”
“No, but what—”
“Theo killed me.” The words haven’t gotten any easier to say. The reality remains almost too horrible to believe. I know it’s true—I could never forget that terror and pain, not as long as I live—and yet nothing will ever make that feel entirely real. “Not my Theo. Not your Theo. The one from the Triadverse. He wrapped my lace scarf around my neck and choked me until I was strangled to death.” I catch myself. As terrible as that was for me, I wasn’t Theo’s main victim. “I mean, I leaped out just before losing consciousness. But that world’s Marguerite would’ve died only seconds later.”
Paul staggers back a step, as though he were the one who had been attacked. When he looks down at Theo again, raw anger darkens his gray eyes. “How could he ever . . .” Then he swears in Russian and turns his head so he doesn’t even have to see Theo.
Meanwhile, poor Theo waves with both hands, broad arcs, desperate to get my attention. Although the sight of him fills me with terror, I know that fear should be directed at the Triadverse’s Theo Beck. Not this world’s, and not mine.
My Theo deserved better, just like this Theo deserves a chance to tell his girl goodbye, if I can bear it.
Determined, I turn to Paul. “I should go to him. Do we have five minutes?”
Paul stares at me in disbelief. “You can’t want to be with your murderer.”
“I don’t, but he’s not my murderer. This isn’t about me, okay? It’s about this world’s Marguerite, and it’s about him.” I point to Theo, who, encouraged, begins struggling through the crowd toward us. “If we’re evacuating the entire city of San Francisco, I’m guessing the situation is beyond scary. This might be the last time he ever gets to see the girl he loves, and he should get a chance to say goodbye. So that’s what I’m going to give him. Could you get over yourself long enough to show some grace?” The anger I’ve felt toward my own Paul’s fatalism has begun to bubble over, but that’s not fair—this is another man, with another fate. “I love you in so many worlds, Paul. Maybe now you can actually see how many there are, and you’ll finally believe me. But this world belongs to Theo.”
With that, I start down the boarding ramp, and Paul lets me go.
“Marguerite!” Theo disappears from my view for a moment, because now I’m too low down to see him through the crowd. He’s lost amid uniforms and shoving and the smells of sweat and salt water. So I push myself toward the sound of his voice until finally I see his face. He pulls me into his arms so tightly—
—and again I remember the lace scarf, the agony of one of my infinite deaths—
—but I don’t forget the lesson I learned on my last journey through the worlds. Each universe’s version is an individual. Triadverse Theo is a deceitful, homicidal son of a bitch. My Theo is one of the kindest, most selfless friends I’ll ever have. As for the Theo holding me close at this moment, all I know is my other self loves him tremendously. That’s what I’m honoring now.
“Where have you been?” Theo kisses my throat, my cheek. “Ever since that weird episode we had at the base—they haven’t let me see you, you haven’t been home, not even once, because God knows I went there every chance I could.”
“It’s classified.” My parents didn’t have to tell me that; it’s obvious. “I’m sorry, Theo. You know I’d explain everything if they’d let me.”
He frames my face with his hands. Theo’s soulful brown eyes drink me in. “Just tell me it’s not dangerous. If you’re safe, the rest doesn’t matter.”
“I’m safe.” For me, actually, that’s far from the truth. But I’m speaking for the Warverse Marguerite, who is now being protected as a key asset in the Firebird project. That’s probably as secure as anyone in this dimension gets. “What about you? Where are they sending you?”
“We’re being sent east, into the Rockies. That’s all I know so far. I’ll write as soon as I can, care of your parents, and tell you everything except the name of the camp. I swear.”
“You better.”
When Theo pulls me in for a kiss, I kiss him back with all the love in my heart. If this Marguerite feels for him what I feel for Paul, this is how she would kiss him goodbye. I embrace him tightly, open my mouth, as the sea breeze ruffles my hair and his warm hands stroke my back. After I leave this dimension, Warverse Marguerite will remember this moment. For her sake, and for his, I want it to be beautiful.
A whistle pierces the air, making Theo break our kiss. Already several of the soldiers around us have begun to surge in another direction, a wave that will carry Theo away. He gives me his lopsided smile, charming as ever. “If you think this was good—just wait till I tell you hello again.”
“I hope it’s soon.” Though the way this war is going, I can’t imagine how long it will be before they see each other. Months? Even years?
Or longer. During a desperate war, every time you say goodbye, you know it could be forever.
Theo kisses me once more and whispers, against my lips, “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
I’m using her voice to say it, using her body and mind and heart. That makes it true.
He gives me one last heartbreaking look, then turns to follow his orders and march into a war that may kill him. I watch Theo go for as long as I can make out his shape among the hordes of soldiers around me, then as long as I can convince myself that maybe I’d glimpse him again. Only when I know he’s truly, finally gone do I turn around and board the Quinteros.
I have said goodbye to this Theo forever. What will I do when I’m reunited with my own?
But I don’t doubt for one second what I’m going to do when I see Triadverse’s Theo again.
I can’t feel the ocean bobbing and swelling beneath me. The enormous scale of an aircraft carrier allows it to remain steady against the waves. But as vast as this ship is—big enough to house dozens of fighter planes and a basketball court on its broad deck—once I go down inside it, claustrophobia closes in. Hallways are narrow, stairs are skinny and steep. Paul takes me to my parents and walks off without a word. I can’t worry too much about his reaction because I’m too busy trying to acclimate to my new surroundings.
The quarters my parents lead me to are about the size of my closet at home, barely big enough for the fold-down bed and the small table and chair bolted to the floor. “I think this room is even tinier than the one on the space station,” I say as I set down the small cardboard suitcase they brought for me.
“Space station?” Mom says, frowning.
“You know. From the Spaceverse. You guys heard of that one, I know you did.”
Dad pushes his glasses up his nose, the way he does when his curiosity is going into overdrive. “Yes, but we
weren’t certain how that world got its moniker. Is it, well, more spacious in some way?”
“Or perhaps livable areas are rare in that universe,” Mom hypothesizes. “And a ‘space station’ could then be a place where people are able to dwell in great comfort.”
After the strange whirlwind of emotions that came from kissing Theo goodbye, it’s a relief to smile. “No, it’s nothing like that. Space as in outer space. You know, outside Earth’s atmosphere.” I point skyward.
Mom and Dad light up, and Dad is breathless as he says, “As in traveling to another planet?”
“Orbiting this one, actually.” As creeped out as I felt being up above the Earth, I can see how the idea fills them with wonder. “Mom was the commander.”
Their bedazzled expressions last only for a moment, fading so quickly that I wonder whether I’ve said something wrong. Then my mother says, “If we weren’t fighting this stupid, futile war—think of the things we could be doing, Henry. The discoveries we could have made. Instead we’re only allowed to look at other dimensions so they can teach us new weapons to build.”
“I know, Sophie.” Dad hugs her from behind, a gesture startlingly familiar despite their military uniforms and these stark, blank, gray metal surroundings. “I know.”
They’re so sad, so lost. My parents find a way to be discoverers and innovators in every world, but I never thought I’d see one where their love of invention had been even slightly soured by the uses for their creations.
“So,” I say as I hang on to my suitcase, trying to move us along. “Do I get a ship’s map or floor plan—or whatever you call it on a ship? I’d like to find the cafeteria eventually.”
That was supposed to be a joke, but my mom and dad give each other a look that clearly means, You tell her. Dad’s the one who finally says, “Well, sweetheart, you’ve got your bed and your table, a few books in your suitcase, plus a door to a private head right here—quite a luxury, by the way—and we’ll bring you your meals personally. So no worries about getting lost, no need to go wandering about.”
I remember the room I appeared in, the half-bedroom, half-office with locks on the door. At the time I was too shaken to analyze it, but now its purpose is clear. “You’re keeping me under guard, in case Wicked decides to drop by.”
“Once the Berkeleyverse warned us of the danger,” Mom says, “you volunteered. I mean, our you, not you you.”
“Got it. Good. That was the right thing to do.” What damage could Wicked possibly do to an aircraft carrier? I don’t want to find out. “It’s okay. I won’t leave this area, no matter what.”
“Of course you understand.” Dad looks at me the same way he did when he realized I’d grown an inch taller than Mom—proud but wistful. “To tell you the truth, Marguerite, when we first learned what was going on, I didn’t understand why Josie hadn’t been the perfect traveler. She’s the one who can’t wait to plunge into the fray.” Josie has dragged me onto countless roller coasters and zip lines; the first time I learned she was the Home Office’s choice as perfect traveler, I knew that made perfect sense. Before I can agree with my dad, however, he continues, “But this role doesn’t need an adventurer as much as it needs someone who can . . . look at each world with fresh eyes. Who can perceive things deeply. Not an adventurer—an artist. You were the one we needed all along.”
It’s like the moment in Egypt when I realized that, in their dimension, I got to be a meaningful part of my parents’ work, but even better. Times a thousand. “Thanks,” I manage to say, despite the catch in my throat.
Mom sighs, both in satisfaction and as a signal that they have to go. “We’ll bring your dinner in a couple of hours, sweetheart. If you need more books, let us know—or I could bring a pack of cards.”
“Actually, could you send Paul down with dinner?” Maybe he’s not ready to talk with me again yet, but who knows how much time we’ll have? I can’t afford to waste a single chance. “We need to talk.”
Within five minutes, I have explored every inch of my Spartan new surroundings. The bathroom, or “head” as they call it here, is clean but tiny, and weird, too—instead of a real shower, there’s just this handheld nozzle and a drain in the floor; basically the whole bathroom is your shower. Instead of glass, the mirror is polished metal, providing a blurry view of myself in the vaguely old-fashioned style I remember: my curly hair cropped to chin-length and pulled to one side with bobby pins, very little makeup besides the dark red lipstick that even Theo’s kiss couldn’t smear.
For once, I don’t have to try leaping out of this universe in every quiet moment. Instead, I get to curl up on the bed. While I’m too on edge to truly relax, it’s a luxury just to lie there. Just to be, for a while. Thanks to the new interdimensional tracking, my parents will be able to tell me when Wicked’s finally moved along.
Through the drowsy haze of my not-quite-a-nap, I think that she seems to be taking her time. Is that because the Home Office thinks I died with the Romeverse? Or is that because Wicked’s figuring out an even deadlier trap? Though I have no idea how anything could ever top that.
A knock jolts me back to the here and now. From the other side of the door Paul says, “Dinner.”
I roll off the bed, take one deep breath, and then I open the door with a smile. Paul remains so stiff he might as well be at attention before the captain, a tray of food in his hands. “Hey,” I say. “Thanks. Please come in.”
He does, setting the tray down on my table as quickly as possible. When I close the door behind him, though, he tenses. Obviously he was hoping for a very brief visit.
“Didn’t my parents tell you I was hoping to talk?” I ask.
“Yes. But I couldn’t imagine what we would have to talk about. Aside from the Firebird project, of course, but you can have those conversations with your parents. That would no doubt be more productive.” Each word is clipped, and his posture is formal. I’ve got my work cut out for me.
“I don’t want to talk about the Firebird. I want to talk about Paul. My Paul.” How can I get through to him? “I love him, but he’s in trouble—so much trouble—and I don’t know how to help. I thought, if anyone could help me understand, it would have to be you, right? You’re so closed off sometimes. So hard to read. Only another you could ever really understand.”
“We’re not the same,” Paul replies.
“No. But you’re not totally different, either.” Not everything from that night in Chinatown was fake, I want to say, but I know better. “Please. He needs us.”
Paul’s stoic face betrays nothing, but he sits on the edge of my bed. His posture remains so stiff that he might as well be seated in a church pew.
I’m nearly as ravenous as I am curious, so I sit at the table to eat the sandwich he brought me. Hungry as I am, though, I can only manage a couple of bites. Warverse bread tastes like cardboard. Given the severity of the rations here, it may actually be cardboard. “Okay,” I say, setting the sandwich down. “You remember how Paul was splintered before. How part of his soul was hidden inside you.”
“I assume you were able to find and reunite all four splinters of his soul. Otherwise we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“Yes, but that wasn’t enough.” I ought to have taken an image of that terrible brain scan from the Spaceverse. If I could point to that now, the damage would be undeniable. “Paul’s messed up. All these darker impulses—violent impulses, even—it’s like he can only barely control them. He doesn’t trust himself around me or around anyone, and he doesn’t believe he’ll get any better.”
“He won’t heal from the injury.” Paul’s tone is so cool, he could be discussing a stranger instead of another version of himself. “If the splinters didn’t synthesize correctly while being spliced back together, they never will.”
I sag back in the chair. “You can’t know that.”
“Injuries to the soul aren’t like injuries to the body. Splintering isn’t the same as cutting through skin. It’s more li
ke—shattering porcelain.” Paul’s hands trace an indistinct shape in the air, some broken thing he has imagined. “You can put it back together again, even glue it so well the cracks barely show. But the cracks will always be there. They won’t heal.”
Then Paul and I will never be together again. I lean my elbows on the table and rest my face in my hands. Every other emotion I could feel is drowned in terrible, final loss.
After a moment, however, Paul says, “But just because something’s been damaged doesn’t mean it’s ruined.” When I look up at him, he continues, “I, uh, manage violent impulses of my own. I’ve never lost control. That’s a choice I’ve made. Discipline I’ve learned. Your Paul could learn that too.”
Could he? I don’t know. But we’ll never find out if my Paul won’t even try. In order for him to try, he has to believe.
“The violent impulses,” I begin. “Those come from your parents, don’t they?”
He always goes so rigid when anyone even mentions them. “That’s obvious. But I don’t have to be the man my father is.”
“No, you don’t. But the cracks still linger, don’t they?”
Paul breathes out heavily. “If this conversation isn’t going to be constructive, then—”
“Wait. No. It’s just that I think something about how you grew up convinced you—made you doubt—” At last I find the right words. “It made you think nobody could ever love you for yourself alone.”
As badly as I needed to say it, I almost wish I hadn’t, because Paul’s flinch tells me that hit him like a bullet.
He doesn’t reply right away, but I let the silence linger. There’s no time for anything but the truth between us from now on.
Finally Paul says, “My parents . . . you know that they’re corrupt people.”
“In my world and a few others, they’re mobsters. Gangsters? Whatever word you’d use here.”
“Mobsters.” He slumps back against the wall, weariness replacing his formal rigidity. “That doesn’t surprise me. Here, they profit from the black market. They resell food, equipment, even medicines at exorbitant prices, all because they bribed the right people to make sure they received those shipments, while ration storehouses remain empty.”