He stops. He stares. I don’t blame him. After a moment, he ventures, “My lady, you are an excellent dancer. I have seen you waltz on several occasions.”
“Be that as it may”—Does that sound regal? Maybe I’m laying it on too thick—“I, um, I feel a little rusty. I’d like to practice before tonight. You’ll dance with me, won’t you?”
Paul straightens, looking as awkward and unsure as he ever did back home. But he says, “As you wish, my lady.”
“All right. Good. First we need music.” In the corner is an old-timey phonograph machine, complete with one of those fluted trumpet things that used to serve as a speaker. They look easy enough to use in old movies; you drop the record down, crank the handle, and presto.
But when I walk over to it, slippers padding against the thick Persian carpet, I realize this phonograph doesn’t use records. I’m familiar enough with those from Dad’s vinyl collection, but these are . . . cylinders? Made of wax?
I cover my awkwardness as best I can. “Markov, select some music for us.”
He walks smoothly to my side, chooses a cylinder. I watch carefully, so I can do it next time if need be. Then he turns the small crank at the side, and soft, tinny music begins to play, the notes beautiful even through the hiss and crackle of static.
I face Paul, ready to begin, but he says, “The smooth floor would be better, my lady.”
Of course. Dance floors are never carpeted.
So I follow him to the part of the room closest to the windows, where no carpet covers the floor. The squares beneath our feet seem to be striped, so rich are the inlays of different woods. Light from the narrow windows falls softly over us, catching the reddish glint in Paul’s light brown hair.
“If I may, my lady.” He holds his hands out somewhat stiffly—near me but not touching—and I realize that’s what he’s asking. He needs permission to touch me.
I lift my face to his, and I realize . . . he wants to touch me.
Somehow I say, “You may, Markov.”
He takes my right hand in his. My left hand goes to his shoulder—that much I know. His left hand closes around the curve of my waist, warm even through the white silk of my dress.
It’s hard to meet his eyes, but I don’t look away. I can’t.
Then Paul begins to waltz. It’s a simple step—ONE two three, ONE two three—and yet for the first few seconds I’m clumsy with it. Dancing is harder to bluff. But I remember something my mother said once about formal dancing; she said you simply had to follow the man’s lead. You had to surrender to it completely, let him guide you and move you, every second.
Normally I’m not very good at letting anyone else be in charge. But now I give in to it. I let Paul take over.
Now I feel the subtle pressure of his hand on my back—not shoving me around, but gently, gently hinting at which way he’ll turn. Our clasped hands dip together; my posture changes, so that I’m letting him lean me back a little. The leaning and the spinning dizzy me slightly, but that almost helps me. I can surrender to him now. I can stop thinking, stop worrying, and exist only within the dance.
As he recognizes the change, Paul becomes more daring. He whirls me in wider and wider circles. My long skirt spins out around me; I laugh in sheer delight, and am rewarded with his smile. It’s as if my entire body knows exactly how he’s going to move, and we’re dancing with abandon, only for the joy of it. Paul’s hand tightens on my back, pulling me closer . . .
. . . which is when the song ends. We jerk to a halt as the music vanishes. Only static is left behind.
For a moment we stand there, in a dancing pose that has become an embrace. Then Paul lets go of me and takes a step backward. “Your dancing remains excellent, Your Imperial Highness.”
“Thank you, Markov.”
Is that how a princess would behave? Walking away easily from her dancing partner without ever glancing back? I hope so. I sit down at my desk, pretending I can read the letters in front of me, that every part of me isn’t completely, utterly aware of Paul going to once again stand guard at the door.
The way he dances with me—looks at me—I have to understand it. What was there between this dimension’s Marguerite and Lieutenant Markov?
That evening, as I wait for my maids to appear and make me ready for the ball, I go digging through the Grand Duchess Marguerite’s things, looking for . . . love letters, a diary, anything like that. When I see a portfolio case, my heart leaps. She’s an artist too! I’d give anything for my oil paints right now.
But this Marguerite doesn’t paint with oils. She draws.
Pencils and charcoal: those are her tools, discovered in a small leather case. My own intense interest in color and depth isn’t a part of her work in the slightest—instead, she’s drawn to details, to precision. And yet I recognize elements in the work that are like my own.
Here’s Peter, reading a book, his eyebrows slightly raised in fascination—Katya, trying so hard to look grown up that she instead seems slightly ridiculous—
—and Paul.
Sitting on the embroidered carpet in my bedroom, I flip through the sheets of paper to see two, three, even more sketches of Paul Markov. When I remember my shredded portrait of him, I feel ashamed—not only for destroying my work because I believed something untrue about Paul, but also because I never really captured his personality in the painting. Not compared to this Marguerite: she’s good.
She’s caught something almost intangible about him in this profile, that sense of purpose Paul has that infuses every moment, no matter how casual. This one shows Paul standing at attention, his shoulders sketched with a loving attention to detail that tells me she notices the way his uniform drapes over his body, the way he moves.
Finally I lift a sketch that’s set in the Easter room. I can’t tell whether Paul willingly posed for the others, but he didn’t pose for this; there’s something softer about portraits done from memory, both more affectionate and yet more unsure. She’s caught that subtle tilt of his head that means he’s paying attention, the stormy cast of his eyes. The eggs are sketched in behind him, more as shadows than anything else, though I can see how she’s penciled in a few fine details: a hint of enameling on one, the sparkle of gilt on another.
I try to pay attention to those, rather than the way she’s drawn Paul here, looking straight at the artist with an expression that is equal parts pain and hope.
(Looking at me. Always, always looking at me.)
Quickly I shuffle together the drawings scattered across the lap of my dress and put them back in their folder. The pencils and charcoals remain out, but—no portraits while I’m here, I think. Maybe it’s time to try landscapes for a change.
What the hell, I think. If I get stuck in this dimension, I can be the one who invents abstract art.
But I won’t get stuck here. I won’t. If all else fails, Dad can save me. I have to believe that.
If I don’t get stuck here, then I never have to ask myself what emotion made this Marguerite draw Paul over and over again. What she saw in him that allowed her to capture his soul more completely than I ever have.
Or how it is that both Paul’s souls seem to be the same.
My maids outdo themselves in preparation for the ball. My dress tonight is pure silver—the silk, the stitching, the beading sewn around the low square neck, the cuffs, and the hem. Once again they nestle the ruby tiara in my hair; they give me diamond earrings so heavy I can’t imagine wearing them all night. My reflection in the mirror astonishes me.
Why do I get to look like this in a dimension with no phone cameras? I think in despair, turning that way and this. I would take selfies for about an hour, and those would be the only pictures I would ever use for the whole rest of my life.
But when I walk out of my room, I see my truest reflection in Paul’s eyes.
He draws in a sharp breath, then says, almost a whisper, “My lady.”
“Lieutenant Markov.” Even though I know he’s supposed to
walk me down to the ball, it’s all I can do not to hold out my arms and invite him into another dance.
Could we dance tonight? Probably I have to dance with the nobles first—and Vladimir, surely, because if he danced with Katya he’ll dance with me—
“Surely you don’t mean I’m not invited?”
The masculine voice rings from the hallway as Paul and I descend the stair. From the way everyone around me freezes, I know this is bad news.
Katya comes thumping down the steps behind me, graceless despite her long white dress. “He came,” she whispers. “They said he wouldn’t.”
“It’s all right,” I say, though I have no idea whether it is or not.
Paul turns to me. “If at any point during the evening you feel yourself to be unsafe—”
“I’ll come straight to you,” I promise.
Vladimir makes his appearance then, expression grim and at odds with his crisp uniform and shining medals. “Come along, then,” he says, offering me his arm. “It looks as though we have to play Happy Family tonight. Let’s face the dragon together, hmm?”
By Vladimir’s side, with Katya ghosting along behind us, I walk into the main hallway. Once again, dozens of bejeweled and beribboned nobles are milling around, pretending not to notice the thinly veiled confrontation in the center of the hallway. There, Tsar Alexander stands stiffly to receive . . . someone. A man a year or two younger than him, somewhat thinner, but equally tall, wearing a look of prideful disdain and a uniform as resplendent as any of the others in the room.
“Uncle Sergei,” Vladimir says, bowing to him. Until this moment, I hadn’t realized even a bow could be sarcastic. “How delightful to see you. And just in time for the holidays!”
Grand Duke Sergei. The facts I memorized in the List come back to help me. He’s the tsar’s younger brother, and his rival for power. I hadn’t known how seriously to take the newspaper reports about that rivalry, but now that I see the sheer venom in Sergei’s glare, I finally understand.
His eyes narrow as he looks at me. “Your flattery deceives no one, Vladimir. But at least you have enough manners to pretend to be glad to see me.”
I summon my courage. “Uncle Sergei. Welcome.” Then I hold out my hand for him to kiss. Sergei stares at it so long that I wonder if I did something wrong, but then he bows over my hand, takes it in his, and presses his lips to my knuckles.
His lips are cold. I sense that he’s imagining what my wrist would feel like without a pulse in it.
Katya offers her hand in turn, her small, stubborn face so unpleasant that I can’t help picturing her flipping him off instead. As Sergei gives her the same oily treatment he gave me, I study the faces of those around me—the tsar, my brother, the nobles, Paul. One and all, they look angry, and in several of them I also sense fear.
A rival for power wants that power for himself. He would try to take it away from the tsar, from the man everyone thinks is my father. He would have to eliminate my father’s heir—Vladimir. And Piotr. And Katya, And—
Becoming this dimension’s Marguerite means taking on all of her life. Not just the dresses and jewels, not just dancing with Paul.
Before, I’d only been afraid of not getting home. Now I’m afraid of not getting out of this dimension in time to escape the danger that I now know is very, very real.
14
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, VLADIMIR WALKS INTO THE STUDY with a packet of letters in his hand.
“Are you in charge of the royal correspondence now?” I smile to turn it into a joke, but I honestly want to know why he’s doing anything so unusual. After a week and a half in this dimension, I know how weird it is for him to bring the mail instead of a servant.
“There was an odd letter this morning. The head secretary asked for my opinion, and I couldn’t think what to make of it, so I brought it to you myself.” Vladimir thumps the entire packet of envelopes against my desk before handing it to me. “It arrived via the French Embassy. Highly irregular—might simply be the work of some madman—but apparently the cover letter was extremely persuasive. Swore you’d want to see this.” He pulls the top envelope from the packet and shows it to me. “Do you?”
Written in fine, elegant English script across the front is Her Imperial Highness Grand Duchess Margarita of all the Russias.
Beneath it is another name: Meg.
Theo! I grab the envelope from Vladimir’s hand so swiftly it makes him laugh in surprise. But he doesn’t interrupt as I peel open the wax seal to read the note inside.
So, I’m a chemist in Paris, which I thought was pretty freakin’ awesome until I read a newspaper and realized what you were up to. How the hell are you the daughter of the tsar? Not sure how that panned out, but—well played, Meg. Well played.
Paul leaped into this dimension, obviously, and you did too; my Firebird tells me that much. Almost a week here, and neither of you has leaped away—I’m going crazy trying to figure out why. I’d be more worried if I didn’t know you were surrounded by guards who can protect you if I’m not around to do the job myself. Have you seen Paul? Did you use your princess powers to have him executed in some barbaric Russian fashion?
It’s startling to read Theo’s words. It’s even worse to remember that, not long ago, I thought Paul was a murderer. I look over the edge of the letter to see Paul standing there at the door. Theo thought I needed guards to protect me from him; instead, Paul is the one protecting me.
In all seriousness, I’m worried about you. I’m not sure why you’re sticking around. Are you waiting for me? Please don’t. Visas to travel within Russia are hard to come by (I checked), particularly when you don’t speak Russian.
The only other possibilities I can think of are that your Firebird got damaged somehow, that you’re sick, or that you don’t remember your true self right now. If it’s the last option—wow, does this letter sound insane. I hope you’re not sick; I keep reading the papers every day, trying to learn more about how you are.
If something has happened to your Firebird, get word to me, all right? It’s going to be easier for you to write to me than vice versa. You might even be able to wrangle a visa for a promising Parisian chemist. Or hey, you could ask for a trip to Paris to buy all the latest fashions, right? Big damn hats seem to be all the rage. Tell the tsar you need some big damn hats. Do whatever you have to do to get here. Then I can help you out, and just see your face again. I had no idea how much I’d miss seeing that face.
Don’t worry about me, by the way. I turned down a job offer to work on radium research, and I live only a couple of Metro stops from the Moulin Rouge. So Paris suits me just fine.
All I need here is you.
I let the letter drop into my lap, overcome with so many emotions I can hardly make sense of them. My joy at hearing from Theo again is coupled with hope (can he fix the Firebird if Dad can’t?), worry (how are we supposed to reach each other?), and guilt . . . because Theo misses me. Worries about me. Cares for me, and I have no idea how I feel about him in return.
Sometimes I think about that night in London, the way he leaned over me in bed and kissed the line of my collarbone. The memory is intoxicating.
And yet it’s not as powerful as the memory of Paul standing in the doorway to my bedroom, watching me paint. Or teaching me to waltz, here in this very room.
Once again I look across the room at Paul, just at the moment he looks at me. Our eyes meet, and something within me trembles. Paul straightens, more formal than before, trying to pretend that moment didn’t happen.
“You look as though you’ve been struck by lightning,” Vladimir says. Although he’s trying to tease me, I can hear the genuine concern in his voice.
“It’s personal,” I say. When I look up, Vladimir seems almost wounded; probably this dimension’s Marguerite tells him almost everything. He seems like a guy you’d confide in. So I hold out one hand, and when Vladimir takes it, I try to smile. “Do you think the tsar would let me travel to Paris to buy some hats?”
“This is about hats?”
“In a way.”
Vladimir shakes his head. “I shall never understand women.”
He leaves us then, so I get to write back to Theo. Then I try to work my way through the rest of the afternoon letters, but it’s impossible to focus. Theo’s letter has reminded me how strange my position is here, how difficult it will be to get out of this dimension if I even can, and of all the emotions for him—and for Paul—that I can’t afford to explore right now.
I drop my head into my hand, weary and overcome. After a moment, Paul says, “Are you unwell, my lady?”
“No. Not at all, I’m—I guess I’m having trouble getting through it today.” I try to come up with something to talk about that isn’t a complete emotional minefield. Not easily done, at the moment. “This letter is to a Rumanian princess who’s visiting St. Petersburg. Why is a Russian grand duchess writing to a Rumanian princess in English? For that matter, why are we speaking English right now?”
“It has been royal custom for some generations,” he says, obviously unsure of where this is going.
Not only is that true in this dimension, but now that I think about my history lessons back home, I realize it was true in mine as well; Nicholas and Alexandra wrote to each other in English. Royal people are weird.
“Would you prefer to speak in Russian, my lady?”
“No, that’s all right. Ignore me. I’m just thinking out loud.”
“Besides—” Paul’s voice hardens, as though he has to work to sound official. “The practice will be of help to you in your future life. My lady.”
What is he talking about? I make my question as casual as possible. “Do you think so? Why in particular?”
Paul straightens. “I was referring to—to your anticipated betrothal to the Prince of Wales. Forgive me for speaking out of turn, my lady.”