I admit, I can’t help sympathizing with his eagerness to have a grandchild.
By all means, rest and take care of your health. Let me know how you’re feeling, and whether I can send you anything you might need.
This letter says far more than it first appears to.
If this world’s Marguerite remembers her night with Paul, that means she also remembers the truth about her parentage, which was the result of a brief, clandestine affair between the late tsaritsa, my mother, and the royal tutor, Henry Caine. She’s kept the secret, and she and Dad have built a relationship.
The Grand Duchess Margarita finally has a dad who loves her. I cling to this, the one thing I’ve given her after taking so much else away.
Dad clearly knows about the pregnancy, too. A grandchild, he wrote. Probably he helped devise this plan to get the grand duchess out of the tsar’s sight for a long while.
But if my father has any ideas about what happens next, they’re not in this letter.
Hearing from Katya and Peter warms me more than I could have anticipated. I’ve missed them ever since I left the Russiaverse, which was one thing none of the others ever fully understood. You only knew them for a month, Josie said once, irritated. They weren’t your siblings like I am. Come on!
They weren’t, and they were. There’s a kind of magic to seeing yourself reflected in this entirely new person. When you’re related to someone, you wind up sometimes connecting in ways that go beyond logic. I didn’t just fall in love with Paul in Russia; in some ways, I fell in love with my other family, too. All of them.
I go through all the fallen letters time and time again, searching for one from my older brother, Vladimir, heir to the throne. It breaks my heart when I don’t find one.
He’d write. He would. Vladimir’s kindness was nearly the first thing I noticed about him. Whenever I wished I had a protective, loving big brother instead of the big sister who wouldn’t let me use her skateboard, I envisioned someone exactly like Vladimir. And this Marguerite is close to her brother—that was obvious from the beginning.
They’re close enough that she would have told him about the pregnancy.
And he’s said . . . nothing.
Vladimir hardly seems like the Scarlet Letter type, but I have to remember what a different world this is. Their morality resembles that of a century back, when people thought racism was A-OK but freaked out about premarital sex. Would he hate her for that? Even if he didn’t, Vladimir might feel that he had to cut her off, possibly forever.
Did I cost this Marguerite her brother, too?
Throughout the day, I keep expecting Theo to call—not literally, as the Suite Imperial doesn’t have a phone, but by sending a message via the hotel. I check the appointment book, hoping to see more restaurant bookings, but there’s only one note, and that’s for tomorrow: Word from Cousin Karin. Though I search my memories, I can’t recall writing a note to any “Karin” when I was in this dimension in December; then again, I’m supposedly related to half the royal families in Europe, so that could be anyone.
Not one line tells me when—or if—I’ll see Theo again.
Could I ask one of the security guards to track down the chemist Theo Beck? Maybe. But I’m not sure how much they know about the grand duchess’s friendship with this world’s Theo, or how much they’ll report back to the tsar. I need to be discreet if at all possible. If only I had some idea where Theo might be, or when—
—but then I realize, I do know. Really, I should’ve been able to guess on my own, but Theo himself told me in one of his letters in December.
So when night falls, I eat an early supper in my room and have my maid fix me up to go out (this time a dress in dark red velvet, with kimono-style sleeves, subtle gold embroidery on the chest, and black fur trim at the hem). Then I call for my car.
“Where to, Your Imperial Highness?” the chauffeur asks.
It’s kind of a thrill to reply, “The Moulin Rouge.”
When we drive up, I hardly know what to look at first: the red windmill sign, the mix of hoi polloi and bohemians streaming through the doors, or—holy cow, a ginormous statue of an elephant with a pagoda on its back. I thought that was something made up for the movie. Guess not.
As I walk inside, I spot clues that I haven’t merely stepped back in time. I see several people of color—black, East Asian, Indian—and while a few are obviously entertainers, others are well-heeled guests. I bet that wasn’t as common back home; points go to this universe for not being as racist. Plus there’s a vivid poster on the wall in a kind of Art Nouveau style, featuring a beautiful woman with dark skin wearing a golden dress that glitters with a thousand lights; her hair curls around her in sinuous curves that remind me of Medusa’s snakes. The name written at the top, in flowing elaborate type, is Beyoncé. At the bottom of the poster are the dates of her next performance.
Mostly, though, the scene is pure bacchanal. The club is enormous—and hundreds of people dance on the wooden floors or cheer from the balconies. A full orchestra crashes its way through a number that it takes me a moment to recognize as a Taylor Swift song, which in this universe she apparently wrote for the cancan.
My guards don’t look thrilled to have escorted me anyplace so bawdy, but at least one of them has fetched a person in charge. I nod politely as he welcomes me, then say, “Can you show me where Mr. Theo Beck is? The chemist? I know he comes here often. Is he in tonight?”
“But of course! Let me show you to the Jardin de Paris.”
This turns out to be the back patio of the Moulin Rouge. The elephant towers over the scene while frilly-skirted dancers cavort on an outdoor stage, brightly colored feathers in their hair. Everyone around us is eating, drinking, laughing, smoking cigarettes, smoking stuff that might not be cigarettes . . .
Sitting at the end of the farthest table with nothing but bottles and a glass for company, is Theo. His ascot is askew; his hat is missing. I’d guess he’s already sampled the bottles.
I motion for my guards to step back. They’re not thrilled, but they obey. Alone, I go to Theo’s table and take the seat closest to him.
He doesn’t look at me as I approach, but he must have recognized me just from the corner of his eye. “Interesting place,” he says. “Paris.”
“If you know where to go,” I reply.
Theo points at the elephant. “For the price of one franc—just one franc!—I can go inside the elephant. It has stairs in one of its legs, you see. If you climb up there, you’re entertained by belly dancers who’ll give you all the opium you want.”
“You’ve gone up already?” The last thing I need is Theo getting high while we need to concentrate.
But he shakes his head. “Just what I’ve been told.” Then he pulls himself together, or tries to. “Can I fix you a drink?”
Instinctively, my hand covers my stomach. “No, thanks.”
“C’mon. You’ll never have another chance to drink absinthe like this. Yeah, you can get it back home, but they don’t brew it the old way, with the wormwood. So you don’t get the hallucinogenic quality.” As if he hadn’t heard my refusal, Theo slides his empty glass between us, then pours in what I assume is absinthe—a pale green liquor the exact same shade as peridot. Then he puts a strange, perforated piece of silver atop the rim, and sets a single sugar cube atop that.
“Next comes the ice water,” Theo says as he lifts a bottle, frosted by its inner chill. “You have to go slowly if you want to do it right. Drop by drop, until the sugar cube dissolves.”
“How long have you been practicing this?” I demand.
“Most of the night,” Theo admits. Though he never takes his eyes off the water dripping onto the sugar cube, he adds, more quietly, “Listen—some of the stuff I said yesterday—I was out of line.”
“No, you weren’t.” After I finally admitted it to myself, admitting it to Theo is easy. “I’ve been unfair to you. I let the things that other Theo did keep me from seeing you. The real you,
I mean. This whole trip, you’ve proved that you’re one of the most courageous, loyal, good people I’ve ever met.”
Theo’s never been shy; he loves being praised. That’s what makes it so astonishing when he actually blushes. “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.”
“Please. I’ve been such an idiot.”
“Hey. None of that.” His laugh is sloppy from the absinthe, but the sincerity comes through. “Seeing you in action like this—Marguerite, it’s been incredible. The way you jumped in after the bomb during that air raid; you were bandaging wounds while I was still pissing myself with terror.”
I can’t help laughing. “Not literally.”
“Close. You don’t want to know how close.” By now Theo has begun to smile, a lopsided, absinthe-tilted grin. “You size up these dimensions so fast. You hit the ground running. Hell, you got kidnapped by the freakin’ Russian mafia and you escaped on your own!”
“You pried off the metal grid.”
“Okay, you only did ninety-nine percent of it.” He takes a deep breath. “Yeah, you drive me crazy sometimes. But you’re amazing. I think you’re the most incredible person I’ve ever known.”
This conversation feels like it’s going in a direction it maybe shouldn’t go in. So I say, “You’re right. We should go on to the home office, so we can reach the last dimension with Paul.”
“Always Paul. You keep finding him in dimension after dimension. That’s got to be destiny, right?”
“Maybe,” I say, though it’s hard for me to believe in destiny right now.
Theo’s eyes meet mine. “But it seems like you find me almost as often.”
“Yeah. I guess I do.”
Suddenly I want to tell Theo about the pregnancy. Talking it over with someone would help, and he’d understand more of why I’ve been feeling so confused. As I open my mouth, though, Theo puts down the water bottle—sugar cube only halfway dissolved—and takes one of my hands in both of his. “Listen,” he says. “I’m just drunk enough to say this, so I’m going to say it, and then we can move on. Okay?”
Oh no. But I can only answer, “Okay.”
“I love Paul as much as if he’d been born my brother. And—and I think you know by now that I love you too. Not exactly like a sister.”
“Theo—”
He holds up one hand, determined to finish. “Hopefully we’re always going to be a part of each other’s lives. You, me, and Paul, all three. If you and Paul work this out, if you end up together, then I’m happy for you. And I’ll be your good buddy Theo forever and ever, et cetera.” Theo takes a deep breath, as if trying to clear his thoughts from the fog of absinthe. Nearby, accordions play and people dance, the hubbub swirling around me and Theo without ever touching us. “But maybe—maybe you and Paul don’t end up together.”
Even two weeks ago, I would have laughed at the idea of Paul and me drifting apart. We were destined, I thought. Fated. Eternal. Now the future stretches before me, blank and unknowable.
Theo speeds up as he gets the final words out. “I’m not the kind of guy who’d try to break up someone else’s relationship, even if the ‘other man’ wasn’t my best friend. And I am one hundred percent positive that you shouldn’t split up with Paul because of what some other guy with his face did in another dimension. But—if that’s not all there is to it, if your relationship with Paul isn’t what you thought it was and you walk away—well. After the so-called ‘decent interval,’ if you think you might be interested . . .” Our eyes meet again, and he smiles, and then his voice breaks. “I know I would be.”
People talk about their heart being torn in two, but I always thought it was a metaphor, no more. But it really feels like that, like something precious at the core of me is being ripped into halves, neither of them complete.
He lifts my hand to his mouth. The brush of his lips against my fingers is featherlight—the ghost of a kiss, over in an instant, and then he lets go.
“That’s enough serious talk for tonight,” Theo says, suddenly glib again. He laughs—too loud and hard to sound real—as he resumes pouring the water over the sugar cube. “See how the absinthe is turning that milky color? Like an opal. That’s how you know it’s ready to drink. Can’t wait to give you your first glass of this stuff.”
“I’m not drinking,” I say.
“Hey, no legal drinking age here. Or if there is one, we’re both over it.”
I just blurt out the words: “I’m pregnant.”
Theo laughs again—but then his face falls as he realizes I’m serious. His jaw drops, and he whispers, “Oh, my God.”
The music and laughter around us seem to taunt me, and all I know is that I want out of here. I push back my chair and return to my guards. “Take me back to the Ritz immediately.”
They begin shepherding me out under the watchful eyes of the elephant. Only once do I glance over my shoulder at Theo, just in time to watch him down the glass of absinthe in one gulp.
22
THE ENTIRE DRIVE HOME, I TALK TO MYSELF. IT’S NOT LIKE you didn’t know Theo had feelings for you. He’d said so before.
I also argue with myself. Not like that! Theo never laid it out there like that, not even once.
Theo’s confession moved me, but it changes nothing. I hurt for him without longing for him; I love him without wanting to be with him romantically. Even when I reached out for him in London that one night, I just wanted comfort and closeness, and in my drunken grief, sex was the only way I knew to ask for that. His feelings tear me apart inside because they force me to hurt someone I care about so much.
But that’s not the only reason I was so shaken tonight. Not the reason I reacted so strongly to the relationship between the Marguerite and Theo of the Warverse. It’s not that I want to choose Theo instead of Paul—it’s that I’ve seen another choice is possible.
Do Paul and I truly share a destiny in every world, every life? Or is he just one of a thousand potential paths for my life? Theo Beck may be another path, another choice made by Marguerites in other worlds; I understand that now, but my heart still tries to deny it. Paul believes in destiny. I want to believe too.
Even after the blood and the betrayal, the emptiness inside me yearns for Paul. Only Paul.
And the way I told Theo about the pregnancy—could that have been any clumsier? I don’t think so. Not without my actually vomiting or something. At the time I felt like I had to say something, anything, to change the subject from Theo’s confession. Well, it worked.
Maybe it’s just as well that I got it over with quickly and left Theo to deal with it on his own. By the time we discuss my pregnancy again, Theo will have had time to come up with some jokes and some theories and all the other things he uses to shield himself. He’s more vulnerable than he lets on.
What will Paul say when I break the news? Although I know him more intimately—more than Theo, more than anyone else—I can’t imagine his reaction. But of course I have to tell him. My Paul was within Lieutenant Markov, a part of him, when this child was conceived.
“Your Imperial Highness?” my driver says. “Are you well?”
Only then do I realize I’ve started crying into my handkerchief. I just shake my head. Let the chauffeur make what he can out of that.
Walking back into the Suite Imperial at the Ritz feels like stepping within the walls of a gilded fortress. In some ways, I’m locked in, but at least the rest of the world is locked out tonight . . . or so I think, before I see the potted orchids on the desk next to a small yellow envelope. A card on the flowers says: With regards.
I rip open the envelope. When I pull out the thin yellow paper inside, I realize it’s a telegram, the first real one I’ve ever seen. Each word is written in flat block capitals. Yet before I read anything else, I see the name of the sender: WYATT CONLEY, NEW YORK CITY.
He’s a millionaire inventor in this dimension, someone this world’s Marguerite has never had the slightest contact with. So I know the sender isn’t this un
iverse’s Conley, and the message isn’t meant for the grand duchess. It’s for me.
YOU FOUND A LOOPHOLE IN MY RULES -(STOP)- VERY CLEVER -(STOP)- DON’T TRY MY PATIENCE -(STOP)- COME TO MEETING AT THE HOME OFFICE WITHIN 48 HOURS AND THE FINAL SPLINTER WILL BE RESTORED TO YOU -(STOP)- DELAY ANY FURTHER AND WE WILL RENEGOTIATE TERMS LESS IN YOUR FAVOR -(STOP)- BETTER TO WORK FOR ME THAN AGAINST ME MARGUERITE REMEMBER THAT -(STOP)- GOOD WORK SO FAR -(STOP)-
The last sentence sickens me—or maybe that’s pregnancy nausea again. I don’t know. Maybe both.
It doesn’t matter whether I feel ready. I have to save Paul, and that means I leave tomorrow.
I’d go this moment, if I didn’t feel like I should speak to Theo one more time before we face Conley again. We need to present a united front—and right this second, if I leaped out of this dimension I’m not sure Theo would follow.
No, of course he would. He’d do it for Paul.
After I climb into bed, and only the one glass-shaded lamp beside my bed is lit, I take a deep breath. Finally I pick up the grand duchess’s sketch pad and open it. Drawn on the top page is the portrait I couldn’t look at before: Lieutenant Markov. Paul. The man who made me fall in love.
She’s etched him in the softest, most precise lines. Only hinted at color. Yet she has captured something in him that blazes with life.
I know the expression on his face; I even know where he’s standing, from the quality of the light. She drew this thinking of Paul leading her to the Easter Room where she could admire the Fabergé eggs. The portrait of my mother hung in the heart of a wine-colored egg he placed gently into my hands; I remember looking up from the intricate gold mechanism inside to see his face—strong, yet uncertain. Just like this. Like my Paul, too.
The next page is Lieutenant Markov again, this time standing at attention beside my door, the military uniform he wears outlining his broad shoulders and narrow waist, the scale revealing how tall and powerfully built he is.