Ten Thousand Skies Above You (20 page)

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 doesn'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.

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.

The 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.

I wonder why I'm getting all fixed up for a doctor who's coming to me. So I have no idea what to expect at 11:00 a.m., but whatever it was, it's not what I get.

“Dr. N” turns out to stand for Dr. Nilsson, and Dr. Nilsson turns out to be female, which has to be unusual for this era. Her thick black hair is swept back into a tight bun, but
her heart-shaped face keeps her from looking severe. She's not mean; she's not motherly; she is calm personified. Her clothes look like any other woman's from the street below, though they're a quiet gray. Instead of the black bag doctors used to carry in the old days, she has only a notebook and pen. And instead of asking how I feel, she takes a seat in one of the chairs nearest the long velvet sofa, takes out her notebook and says, “What shall we talk about today, Your Imperial Highness?”

At first I'm just glad she said it in English. Then it hits me—she's not a medical doctor. Dr. Nilsson is a psychiatrist.

The grand duchess came to Paris for therapy.

Seems extreme to me, but then again, if social history is evolving more slowly here too, psychology would be very new to this world. There might not even be an analyst in Russia yet. Or maybe the tsar didn't want anyone knowing his daughter is seeing a shrink.

Slowly I stretch out onto the sofa, again like in movies.

Dr. Nilsson says only, “Your Imperial Highness?”

I venture, “I guess—I guess I'm feeling, uh, conflicted about my father.”

“Which one?”

“Which what?”

“Which father?” Dr. Nilsson keeps taking notes without ever looking up from her pad. Thank God she's not looking at my face. Instead, she continues, “Or have you given up your fantasy that your tutor is actually your father?”

It hits me so hard I can hardly breathe.
She remembered.

The selves we enter during our cross-dimensional travels aren't supposed to remember anything we do while we're in charge of their bodies. I've seen other versions of Paul and Theo who had absolutely no clue about anything that happened while my Paul and Theo were within them.

But I'm a “perfect traveler.” These voyages are different for me than they are for anyone else. Every single Marguerite I've ever visited must have remembered everything I did and said in her life.

Grand Duchess Margarita tried to talk about what she'd experienced, which is why she wound up in therapy. Nobody believed she'd actually been taken over by a visitor from another dimension; they think she's
cracking up.

“Your Imperial Highness,” Dr. Nilsson says. “Do you wish to answer the question?”

“The tsar is my father,” I say in a rush. “But I'm angry with him sometimes, and it's easy to pretend that somebody else is my father. Someone kind like Professor Caine.”

Did this Marguerite tell the tsar the truth? If so, she might have doomed my father to death by firing squad.

I don't feel as if I can breathe until Dr. Nilsson says, “So it's not a secret you were keeping. Only a secret fantasy.”

Dad's safe. I breathe out in relief. “Yes.”

“Good. You're better able to face reality now. That's progress.” Dr. Nilsson keeps taking notes. “Do you miss your father on any level?”

“I miss my brothers and sister more.” That much is the absolute truth. If I could see little Peter and Katya again—
talk with Vladimir one more time—that would be a gift.

“And Lieutenant Markov?”

At first I think I must trust Dr. Nilsson a lot—but then I realize, after the scene I made at the army camp after Lieutenant Markov's death, everyone must have known about us. About them. “He's dead.”

“You no longer believe he still exists in some . . . shadow world alongside our own?”

I close my eyes. The grand duchess remembered
everything
. “It doesn't matter if he is. I can't reach him there. He's—he's very far away from me now.” My voice starts to shake. “The other Paul might not be my Paul. He might not be as loving, or as strong. As good.”

She tilts her head. It's easy to imagine what she's writing.
Subject retains irrational belief in “shadow worlds” but has begun to say these worlds are cut off from her. She expresses no more desire to visit them. This is a transitional step toward accepting the reality of her lover's death.
“Do you still feel that one of your shadow selves took over your body nearly the entire month of December? That your actions were actually her responsibility?”

“It—it seems like that's what happened,” I venture. “But she didn't do anything I hadn't wanted to do.”