“Go!” he shouts as he runs back toward my father’s car.
I dash from the train into the snow. It’s even higher than I thought—nearly to my knees. Running through it is work, but I do my best.
Wet snow sticks to my coat, my hair, and my eyelashes. Everything is heavy and white, thicker than fog. I can hear gunfire, but less frequent now, and more distant. The fighting is hand-to-hand, loyalist against traitor, and in places the snow is stained red.
“Marguerite!” Peter’s high voice carries over the din. I look toward the sound to see him in Dad’s arms; Dad is running for the woods as hard and as fast as he can, though he looks back for me, his expression desperate. I change the angle of my escape in an attempt to follow them.
I try to run faster, but only trip myself up. As I stagger, a hand catches me at the elbow; the cruelty of his grip tells me this is an enemy. I yank my arm away, but he has a knife and he’s right on me—
“Get off my sister!” Katya literally jumps on the man’s back, pounding at him with both fists. It’s as stupid and reckless as anything I could imagine, and yet I’d do the same for Josie.
“Katya, no!” I try to pull her from him, to swing her free so she might escape even if I don’t. But another loyalist soldier catches up to us. His knife finds the traitor’s gut, and the loyalist grabs Katya in his arms as the dead man falls. He begins running with her back toward the train.
She’s safe—as safe as any of us can be right now. Time to run.
I continue in the direction my father ran. At least, I try. The snowfall is thickening moment by moment, obscuring my vision and the tracks of footprints. I’m no longer certain of the right way to go, but I continue on, knowing that even a moment’s hesitation might kill me. Every second, I imagine a bullet finding my head, blossoming red within my skull as I fall.
Distant gunfire pops behind me as I finally stagger into the forest. But the tree branches only block a little of the thick snowfall, and I see no one else—not my dad, not Peter, not any member of my family. And no soldiers at all. I am alone.
What do I do? Nothing in my experience, in any dimension, can guide me here. If I call for help, the wrong person may hear me. If I stay put, the soldiers loyal to Sergei might get to me. But if I run, I might get so lost that I can’t be found by anyone, not even Paul.
Finally I decide to believe that I’ve gone in the right direction. Dad and Peter are surely somewhere close by. If they went deeper into the woods, then that’s what I should do too.
I start walking, half in a daze. Thank God I have my coat; without it, I’d surely be hypothermic already. At home, I refuse to wear fur because I think it’s disgusting, but I’m grateful for its warmth now. Sorry, little sables. I swear this time you gave your life for a good cause.
However, this coat is more decorative than functional. The black toggle closures allow plenty of cold, wet wind to sweep through. I’m wearing slippers, not boots, and by now they’re soaked through; my ankles sting from the chill until they begin to go numb. My fur hat is back in the train car, so the snowflakes fall through the pines into my hair, dampening it.
My teeth start to chatter. My steps become clumsier, and my thinking more confused.
You have to keep going, I tell myself. You have to find Dad. Nothing else matters.
I stumble and catch myself against a tree. The bark crumbles against my palms, but I can hardly feel it. My hands are red and stiff. The gloves are back in the train car, too.
Keep going, I think, though by now I’m walking so slowly that it’s hard to believe I’m making any progress. Keep going.
No Dad. No Firebird. No Theo. No Paul. I don’t know where I am any longer. Who I am. I only know that I’m tired. At least I no longer feel so cold; there’s a strong, seductive warmth rising up within me, telling me that everything’s well, that I can stop now, stop and rest for as long as I want.
Keep going—
I sink to my knees beside one of the larger pines. As I lean my head against the trunk, I tell myself I’m not stopping, not sleeping, only taking a moment to get my strength back.
When I feel myself fall backward, the snow is as soft as a bed beneath me, and I’m not afraid.
I wake to the crackle of fire, cozy and comforting. I’m warm—not the deadly illusion from the forest, but real heat from a real stove.
I feel the softness of a mattress beneath, fur above, and next to me . . .
I open my eyes to see Paul lying by my side.
“My lady?” he whispers, his face alight with sudden hope.
“Where—where are we?”
“A dacha in the woods. A few supplies remained behind, enough for us to use.”
Many Russians keep dachas, small cabins in the countryside where they go in summertime to grow vegetables and swim in the lakes; these houses remain vacant throughout the winter, isolated as they are. As I look around, I can see the simple whitewashed walls, an icon of the Holy Mother, and a small woodstove glowing orange with heat. My wet dress, and Paul’s uniform, hang on hooks on the wall to dry.
Beneath my fur coat and some blankets, Paul and I lie together, wearing hardly more than our underclothes, in the dacha’s simple bed.
He stammers, “I—I meant only to revive you, my lady—”
“Of course.” This is what you’re supposed to do for people with hypothermia: warm them with another person’s body heat. Even if I didn’t know that, I’d understand Paul only wanted to help. I roll over to face him. “Where is my father? My brothers and my sister? The tsar?”
If Paul notices that I refer to the tsar and my father as two separate people, he writes it off as grogginess. “The tsar has survived, my lady, and the Tsarevich Vladimir. As for the others—I do not know. Our forces reclaimed the royal train, of that much I am certain. But I could not long remain, as it was my duty to find you.”
Have I come all this way only to endure my father’s death again? Is he doomed everywhere, a good man destined to be torn apart by the cruelty and greed of others?
If Dad was killed, he died trying to protect Peter. The thought of that little boy lying dead in the snow destroys me almost as much as my fear for my father. And Katya! My little sister turned prizefighter to try to rescue me. Did they cut her down? I can’t bear the idea of her dying for me, for an imposter.
And if my father was killed today—if he was lost in the snow, in the woods—the Firebird is probably gone, and I will never go home again.
“My lady,” Paul whispers, “don’t be afraid.”
“You can’t tell me whether they’re alive or dead. Don’t try to comfort me with lies.”
“I wouldn’t.” And it’s true; Paul can be harsh, or awkward, or blunt, but he’s always honest with me. How could I ever have thought he had deceived us?
I try to smile for him, though I know the expression must look as wrong as it feels. “If you aren’t lying, then how can you tell me not to be afraid?”
“I only meant that you are safe, my lady. Once you are warm and rested, tomorrow morning we can set out for the royal train.”
My hopes rise. “The others will be there?”
“No, my lady. It is believed that troops loyal to Grand Duke Sergei are just outside St. Petersburg. The tsar and tsarevich have gone forward to establish an encampment in preparation for battle. I am to see you to the train so that you can be conveyed in safety to Moscow, which remains loyal.”
If my father and Peter survived, they, too, will go to the encampment. By now I know it is Tsar Alexander’s belief that his youngest child should learn to be a soldier; he’ll insist that Peter be near the battle, as brutal as that is. My father would never leave Peter alone there. He would insist on being at Peter’s side to comfort the little boy, even though it would mean risking his life again. “No. I won’t go to Moscow.” The only reason I ever had to go there was to look for Azarenko, but he’s going to be in the fighting too, isn’t he? “You must take me to the encampment.”
“My lady, I have orders.”
“I can give you orders too, can’t I? You have to take me there. I can’t go to Moscow.”
“You must.” Paul’s voice takes on more urgency, and unconsciously he shifts closer to me, trying to make me see it as he does. “Otherwise the danger is too great.”
“If my father dies, I want to die too.”
“Don’t say that. You must think of your duty. At least one member of the next generation of the House of Romanov must remain safe.”
“I’ll go to the encampment with or without you.” All I have to do is follow the railroad tracks back toward St. Petersburg, right? Of course it can’t be that simple, but I refuse to admit it. I have to find out whether I still have any hope of going home, or I have to die trying.
Paul says, “You must stay alive, my lady.”
“Why?” I clutch at the neck of his shirt. “Why, when I’m trapped in a life that’s not my own?”
He can’t answer me. He only stares.
My hand begins to shake, as does my voice. “I’ve failed everyone. I failed my father. My mother, my sister, Theo, you—everyone. I failed at everything. I won’t be trapped here. I won’t marry a man I don’t even know. But I don’t see any other way out. If this is all that’s left, if this is the only life left to me—I don’t want it.”
For a few moments Paul can’t reply. We lie there, face to face, my hand against his chest, our feet touching. This is the closest we will ever be. We will never have a chance to be truly alone together again.
Paul says, “If not for yourself, my lady, stay alive for me.”
Our eyes meet.
His next words are a whisper. “I have no need for a world without you in it.”
I don’t know if what I feel is for this dimension’s Paul, for my own, or for both of them. I can’t tell the difference any longer, and in the moment, I don’t care.
My fingers trail up his throat to the edge of his jawline, along the line of his close-cropped beard, to find the corner of his mouth. His lips part; his breath catches.
“Paul,” I murmur, “call me by my name.”
“You know I cannot.”
“Just once. Just once I want to hear you say my name.”
Paul brings his face close to mine, so close we are nearly touching. “Marguerite.”
And we are lost.
I’m the one who breaks the last rule, the final taboo—the one who kisses him. But then he surrenders. He holds nothing back. We tangle together, kissing desperately, clutching at the few clothes we still wear, hardly able to breathe or think or do anything other than lose ourselves in each other.
When I tug at the hem of his shirt, he lifts it up to help me toss it away. Then I shrug the straps of my camisole away from my shoulders; I’ve never thought of my skinny body as beautiful, not until I’ve seen Paul’s eyes darken at the sight of me, not until he lowers himself over me to kiss me more passionately and hungrily than before.
“Marguerite,” Paul pants against my shoulder. “We must not—we must not—”
“We must.” I arch my body against his, an invitation no man could ever mistake. He kisses me again, our mouths open, and the way we move draws us even closer.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Paul, yes, please—”
His mind is fighting it even as his body responds. “Forgive me. Forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to—oh. Oh.”
My fingers dig into his shoulders, and I bite my lower lip. Yet I move my body to meet his, to welcome him completely.
Paul buries his face in the curve of my neck. His entire body shakes with the effort to go slow. He gasps, “You’re—are you—”
I kiss his forehead. My hands trace the length of his back, the bend of his hips, reveling in the firmness of muscle and bone. Instead of answering him with words, I move against him. He groans, rakes his teeth along my throat and follows my lead.
“I love you,” he whispers. “I’ve always loved you.”
“I love you, too,” I say, and I mean it, even if I’m not sure whether I love one of him, or both of him, or all.
When I awaken again, it’s the dead of night. The one tiny window reveals a sliver of midnight blue above a sill inches deep in snow. Our stove still glows with warmth, and Paul lies next to me, holding me in his arms, pillowing my head with his shoulder.
The enormity of what I’ve done is obvious, but I can’t regret it. Realizing how the Grand Duchess Marguerite felt about her Paul, I suspect she would have wanted this just as much—made the same choice—but there’s no getting past the fact that I made the decision for her. The night she spent with the man she loves belongs to me instead; it’s a theft I could never repay.
As for me, well, back home, I’d made out with guys. Way more than made out, really, though I never quite got this far. Yet I’m no less amazed, no less stunned.
Paul’s lips brush along my hairline, and I think, I’ll never love anyone else like this. I never could.
Guiltily, I remember Theo. If he’d been a little more selfish, a little less caring, we would have spent the night together in London.
I also think about my Paul Markov, the one who told me that I could only paint the truth. He’s with me now, asleep deep within the man I made love with. I don’t know if he’ll remember this later, which would be—weird. I don’t know him well enough to predict how he’s going to react.
But I know this Paul in every way it’s possible for a woman to know a man. He’s proved his loyalty and his devotion time and time again. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for me.
“Golubka,” he whispers. It’s a Russian endearment; it means “little dove.” That’s ordinary enough, in Russian. They’re always calling each other little animals of one kind or another.
When Paul says it, though, there’s something about the way he holds me—cradling me against his chest, his embrace strong and yet his broad hands cupped so tenderly around my back—it’s just the way someone would hold a little bird, something fragile and fluttering, if he were trying to protect it and keep it close.
My mind is made up. I lift my face to his, and Paul smiles softly as his fingers brush through my hair. “Are you well, my lady?”
“‘My lady’? Even now?”
“Marguerite.” It’s obvious he still feels wonder at simply being allowed to speak my name. His gray eyes look searchingly into mine. “You don’t regret this?”
“No. I never will. Never could.” I kiss him again, and for a while we’re lost in each other once more.
When our lips finally part, Paul is slightly breathless. “You must know, I will never betray what has happened here. Not by word or by deed.”
What we’ve done is completely forbidden. If the tsar ever learned we’d had sex . . . well, I doubt he’s medieval enough to have Paul killed for it, but he’d demote him and send him off to some remote garrison, perhaps in Siberia. What would happen to me? I’m not sure, but I know it wouldn’t be good. “This remains between us,” I say gently. “Tonight is ours, and no one else’s, forever.”
“Forever.”
I touch Paul’s cheek with one hand. “Now I need to tell you another secret. Do you promise to keep this one, too?”
“Of course, my—Marguerite.” Paul frowns, obviously puzzled but willing to follow where I lead. “What is it you need to tell me?”
Deep breath. Here we go. “The truth.”
16
MOM AND DAD HAVE TOLD ME HOW INTELLIGENT PAUL IS. I’ve seen physics equations flow from his pen while he’s talking about something else entirely. Also he helped develop interdimensional travel. So I know he’s smart.
But I never believed in his genius as much as I do now, when—after less than half an hour of my talking him through my story—he’s pieced together the rough theory of parallel dimensions.
“You are both the Grand Duchess Marguerite and another Marguerite,” he says. “You are the same individual, living two
separate lifetimes.”
“Not so separate, right now.”
“And you believe I am both myself and this other Paul, the one who was privileged to go to university and become a scientist.”
The way Paul phrases this stop me short. Only the sons of the wealthy can dream about higher education here. No wonder he cherished that book on optics I gave him. “It’s true. He’s—asleep inside you now. Unaware. But he’s a part of you.”
He folds his arms across his knees, serious and intent even though we’re still in bed together, covers rumpled around us, fur coat draped across our feet. Paul’s face wears an expression I’ve long been familiar with but only recently learned to understand. This is Paul turning a situation over in his mind, weighing every question and permutation, puzzling out its secrets.
Finally he says, “This explains my dreams.”
“Dreams?”
“For the past two weeks, my dreams have been—rich and strange.” His smile isn’t for me; his gaze is on the images that have flickered within his mind. “I dreamed of you painting instead of sketching, your hair wild and loose. And of your mother, alive again, teaching me physics. Professor Caine, acting almost as a father to me. Rooms not so grand as those in the palace, but containing marvels, such as machines that are like a library containing every fact imaginable.”
“Those are computers. My mother is alive, back home, and she really is your teacher. Your adviser at college. Oh, my God, you remember.”
“I also dream of a friend—or a brother, I’m never sure—always making trouble but always meaning well.” His eyes narrow as he prepares to test me. “Tell me his name.”
“Theo. His name is Theo.”
Paul takes a deep breath. “Then what you say is true.”
I laugh out loud. “You actually believe me. Most people would think I had gone insane.”
“If you ever went mad, you would do so in a more melodramatic manner.”
His bluntness catches me off guard.
He notices my reaction. “I only meant—you have a passionate spirit. You crave excitement and create it where you can. If you were unsettled in your mind, your impulses would govern you. Instead you are putting forth a very unorthodox explanation in an entirely reasonable manner. Therefore, you are telling the truth.”