“Told me what?”
He turns back to me, once again cocky as he leans against the stone wall, arms folded across his chest. “Haven’t your parents discovered the danger yet? The possibility of splintering?”
My parents have never said word one about “splintering,” unless they were talking about literal splinters to be removed with tweezers. I open my mouth to tell Conley to stop playing games—
—before realizing my parents did talk about this. They didn’t have a name for it yet, but they’d glimpsed the danger. But we’d had no idea how close that danger really was.
Did that conversation happen only five nights ago? It feels like long, hard years have passed since then.
“We ought to have recognized the potential before,” my mother said, talking about what I now know is called splintering. “Consciousness is energy. Energy consists of packets of quanta. It stands to reason that those packets could become . . . disassociated.”
“Fragmented,” Paul said, his mood black. “The danger—”
“Is remote,” my father cut in. The three of them were seated around the rainbow table, piles of paper and a glowing laptop evidence that they were hard at work, even after dinner on a weekend.
Normally, Theo would have been working alongside them, but it was my turn to do the dishes, and he’d volunteered to help. Still, he couldn’t resist weighing in. “Are you sure of that, Henry?”
“Incredibly sure. The odds against it are staggering. You’d almost have to do it on purpose, not that anyone’s likely to try such a damn fool thing.” Dad began typing on the laptop with such gusto that I knew he was trying to find something similarly unlikely to compare it to.
“Great,” Theo muttered as he dried the salad spoons. “Like the Firebirds needed to get any more dangerous.”
I tried to reason with him. “You’re like one of those people who’s more scared of flying than driving, even though you’re way more likely to die in a car.”
“Yeah, but if I’m in my 1981 Pontiac, at least I’m going out in style,” he said, and I laughed.
Paul, from his place at the far side of the great room with my parents, shot me a look—not jealous, but hopeful. He wants things back to normal with Theo. That has always meant laughter.
The two of them have always been such good friends. They seem to have so little in common besides their interest in physics: Paul in his plain secondhand clothes, clueless about pop culture, while Theo wears fedoras and Mumford & Sons T-shirts. Yet they’re both young for doctoral students: Theo is twenty-two, and Paul just turned twenty. They both believed in Mom and Dad’s Firebird project when few others did. And they became a part of our weird little family. During that time—while everyone was involved with rewriting the laws of the natural universe as we knew them—emotions got confused.
(“We ought to have expected it,” my mother said the first time I talked to my parents about all this. “Isolating individuals for long periods of time, away from any other likely romantic partners, particularly at this highly active stage of sexual development—strong emotional bonds were all but inevitable.”
“We don’t care about each other only because we spent so much time together!” I protested.
“Of course not, sweetheart.” Dad patted my hand. “Still, you have to admit it helped.”)
Both Paul and Theo fell in love with me. I fell in love with Paul.
It’s not that I don’t care about Theo; I do, deeply. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been attracted to him sometimes. For a brief time—when Paul had been framed for my father’s murder, and I was sick with grief and betrayal—I wondered whether Theo wasn’t the one for me after all.
But Paul and I came back to each other. And Theo was left on the outside looking in. Even though all three of us know nobody did anything wrong in this scenario, both Paul and I haven’t been able to help feeling awkward when Theo sees us together.
That night, however, I could almost believe nothing had changed. Our house in the Berkeley Hills looked exactly the same, with houseplants in every corner and on every shelf; the hallway black with chalkboard paint and thickly covered with equations; the rainbow table exactly where it should be; and stacks of books nearly as high as the furniture around us. Paul’s plain backpack and Theo’s battered messenger bag were nestled by the door along with my denim jacket and Mom’s bike helmet. The guys still practically live with us, like most of my parents’ grad assistants over the years.
Yet Paul and Theo have always been different from all the rest. Closer to us, more important. I knew that even before they finished assembling the first Firebird.
“Thought Josie was going to get here tonight,” Theo said. “Wasn’t she coming in from San Diego?”
“No, she said the surfing was too great today to pass up.” I squirted a little more dishwashing liquid into the sink. My rubber gloves were bright pink; Theo doesn’t bother with them, so suds covered his wet hands. The bubbles smelled like lemons. “She’ll fly in tomorrow.”
Theo shook his head. “If the waves are that good, I’m surprised she’s coming at all. Not like Josie to pass up a chance to surf.”
“After what happened to Dad, or what we thought happened to Dad . . .” I didn’t have to finish the sentence; the look Theo gave me told me he got it. My family has always been tight-knit, but now that the world’s turned against us—and we know what it would mean to lose each other—it’s like we can’t be close enough. With a smile I said, “So that’s her spring break. What about yours? Doing anything fun?”
“I learned my lesson,” he said. Last year Theo dragged Paul to Vegas. Paul got thrown out of Caesar’s Palace for counting cards, because he didn’t understand that casinos consider “mastering probability theory” the same thing as “cheating.” He got to keep his winnings, but apparently he had to spend all that cash buying back Theo’s muscle car, which he’d wagered on a losing round of baccarat. They came home better friends than ever, but Paul said he didn’t see the point of spring break.
Theo would always see the point of a party. But no matter how casual he acted about hanging around here, he wanted to stay close too.
Still, there are other ways to travel. . . .
I had meant to ask this for a while, but that night I finally felt comfortable enough with Theo to speak. “When are you going to take a trip of your own? See some other dimensions for yourself?”
He was quiet as he placed another plate in the dishwasher. Finally he said, “I don’t know that I ever will.”
“Not ever?” During the past two years, Theo had been more psyched than anyone else at the thought of seeing new worlds.
He turned to me, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen his expression so serious. “I’ve seen what it’s like from the other side, Marguerite. That part isn’t as much fun.”
Last fall and winter, whenever we talked to Theo, whenever he persuaded us to do something—we weren’t talking to our Theo. It was his body, but the consciousness inside belonged to the Theo Beck from another universe—acting as Conley’s ally and his spy. That Theo was the one who arranged my father’s kidnapping and framed Paul for his murder. The one who turned me into Conley’s ideal “perfect traveler,” then persuaded me to take my first voyages with the Firebird.
The one I clung to after I thought my dad was dead—the one I kissed in another dimension, and at my weakest moment nearly slept with—and the one Theo blames for destroying whatever the two of us might have had.
Theo’s wrong about that. For me it was always Paul; it could never have been anyone else. But the other Theo’s shadow hangs heavy between us.
“I still crave it sometimes, you know.” Theo stared out the kitchen window into the darkness beyond. “The Nightthief.”
Nightthief is the one and only way to cheat the rules of traveling between universes. It’s a drug—emerald-green, injectable, invented in the Triadverse—that allows a dimensional traveler to maintain control. See, a traveler on Nightthie
f remains as much in control as I am. But the drug has certain serious drawbacks. One, it’s addictive and can cause seizures. Two, Nightthief can be made out of what we’d consider common household chemicals—but if you’re in a universe where those aren’t common, you won’t be able to supply yourself. (While consciousness can travel through dimensions easily, it’s very, very hard for physical matter to travel. So forget bringing any Nightthief with you.) Three, the drug wears off after a day or so, which means if you don’t have more on hand, you’re screwed.
When the other Theo took ours over, he took that drug for months on end. My Theo—the one who stood beside me that night, our elbows brushing—he had to go through the withdrawal. Worse, he had to live with the memories of another Theo using his body to endanger and betray us all.
“It’s not always like that,” I said quietly. “Paul and I take care of our other selves. We try to live their lives, as much as we can. We’d never make them do anything they wouldn’t want to do on their own.”
Though at least once, in the Russiaverse, I might have stepped over the line.
“Not judging you guys. I know it’s different, the way you and Paul handle the journeys. It’s just—” Theo went very still. “I’ve seen who I am as a traveler. I justified some of the worst stuff you could ever do to anybody, because I told myself I was ‘protecting’ you. Really I was delivering you straight into Conley’s hands.”
“Hey. Nobody got hurt.” I nearly touched his shoulder before I remembered I was wearing wet rubber gloves.
He shook his head, and his smile was hard. “No thanks to me. Come on. I helped them kidnap Henry.” Theo gestured toward my father, who at this point might as well be Theo’s adoptive dad too. “I framed my best friend for murder. And I dragged you off on an extremely dangerous trip, just to prove Wyatt Conley could use you after all.”
“You didn’t do any of that!”
“A version of me did. You’ve said a hundred times—every one of our other selves out there is the same in some important way. We have the same framework or essence or soul, whatever you want to call it.” Theo leaned against the refrigerator and sighed. “Listen to me. When a physicist starts talking about souls, we are officially off the map.”
“I don’t think it’s silly or crazy—talking about souls.” I never did, really, but after these journeys began, I learned how real they are, how much they mean.
Theo shrugged. “The point is, we’ve all seen the danger. Apparently, when I get a little bit of power, it goes to my head. Never, ever would I want to turn into a guy who could do anything like what that other Theo did to all of you. So I think it’s better if I stay on the sidelines.”
Although I wanted to reassure him, I couldn’t. I’ve come to believe that there really is something that flows through every version of us, one common identity that outweighs our different situations in the various worlds. The ruthlessness and self-delusion of that other Theo—they have to be a part of this Theo, too, don’t they?
When our eyes met, I knew he could tell what I was thinking. Theo cast down his dark eyes with shame for things he never even chose to do.
The shadow that had haunted us these past three months fell between us again. He turned back to the dishes, attacking them with new vigor; I took my place at his side just like before. Neither of us spoke, because there was nothing more to say.
Afterward, Theo buried himself in his work, taking his laptop onto the back deck. “I need some quiet,” he said, and my parents had the good grace not to ask why. Paul walked him out, though, and it took all my self-control not to eavesdrop on their conversation.
As soon as the door to the deck was closed, Mom blithely said, “Is Paul staying over?”
“Mom.”
“I’m not prying.” She took her seat at the rainbow table again, ready to get back to work. “I simply need to know what I ought to plan for breakfast.”
Our living room might as well be an unofficial university dorm. When grad students work that closely with my parents, they practically move in.
But Mom wasn’t asking whether she should grab blankets for the couch.
Most parents would be freaked out even thinking about their teenage kids having sex. Mine haven’t got around to the freaking-out stage yet, because they are so completely thrilled Paul and I are together.
(Back in January, during that first conversation with my parents about my new relationship with Paul, Mom—prompted by absolutely nothing I’d said, by the way—made a suggestion. “You’ll need a method of birth control. We’ll have to review efficacy rates for condoms, birth control pills, hormonal inserts—”
“Oh, my God.” My face had to have turned carnelian red. “That’s—we’re not—it isn’t an issue yet.”
Which was not addressing what happened in the Russiaverse, but that’s between me and Paul. And another Marguerite, a few dimensions away.
“Will be eventually,” Dad said smoothly. “You and Paul are young, you’re healthy, obviously attracted to each other—it’s only a matter of time. And you don’t want to fall pregnant this early in life, do you?”
Mom brightened as she looked at Dad. “Though the genetic combination—their various talents and potential—think of it, Henry. Were they to reproduce, our grandchild would be extraordinary.”
“Wouldn’t she? Or he?” Dad leaned back on the sofa, where they were relaxing and I was staring in disbelief. “The two of you should have a baby together, by all means. Just not now.”
“Whoa. Slow down.” I held up my hands, like I could physically stop them from this whole line of thought. They didn’t listen.
“Pregnancy and child rearing would seriously interrupt your art studies, and Paul’s defense of his dissertation, at least in the immediate future,” Mom mused. I think if I’d handed her a calendar, she would have started counting off months until the ideal conception date.
Dad took her hand. “You know, Sophie, we could help out. Even be primary caretakers while Marguerite and Paul finished their education. We always wanted another little one around. So the kids might as well get started.” My mother beamed at him, like this was the best idea ever.
When I could speak again, I said, “You guys—you’re—you two are the worst role models ever.”
“We are, aren’t we?” Mom’s smile became so wicked that I finally realized they’d been putting me on—mostly. I balled up one of Josie’s discarded T-shirts and threw it at them, which made them laugh. Much later that night, as my mother and I sat out on the back deck, she finally spoke to me more seriously. “You know how much your father and I like Paul. No—how much we love him.”
I nodded. We were side by side on the wooden steps that led down into our small, nearly vertical scrap of a backyard. The light around us was provided by the strings of tropical-fish lights Josie had put up a long time ago. “This isn’t going to mess things up between everyone, is it?”
Mom put her arm around me. “Marguerite, as dear as Paul is to me, you are my daughter and always my priority. If you and Paul have problems, or break up, I’m on your side. Even if you’re in the wrong! You know you come first.”
Which was really sweet, but not what I’d been asking. Splitting up with Paul—that wasn’t ever going to happen. Really I was worrying about Theo.
She continued, “We are all very much a part of each other’s lives, and our work. To some extent that will always be true. No matter what happens between you and Paul in the future, that connection will remain.” Her fingers combed through my hair, just as curly-ratty as hers. “Lifelong relationships are complicated. It’s a great deal for a new romance to carry.”
“I know,” I said. But I’d already realized Paul and I were meant to be. Destined, in a real, literal, provable sense. You can’t fight destiny, and I didn’t even want to try.)
Paul hasn’t slept over at my house since we got together in this world. Partly that’s because we feel hyperobserved, partly out of consideration for Theo’s feelin
gs, but mostly because we’re taking this slow. Making sure the moment is right.
In the Russiaverse, we rushed it and then some.
That night when they discovered the risk of splintering, Dad returned to the great room just when Paul came in from the deck. As he took my hand, Paul said to my parents, “Do you want to run the numbers again?”
Mom and Dad exchanged a look before she said, “We’ve got enough for tonight. We’ll run it through at the lab tomorrow morning and take it from there.” She raised one eyebrow. “In other words, yes, you two have some free time.”
This was less of a treat than they seemed to think. Making out in my room isn’t as much fun when I have to wonder if my parents can hear, or worse, if they’re cheering us on. I used to be considerate and listen to my music on headphones. These days, I turn the speakers up to eleven.
Paul stood there awkwardly; he still hasn’t figured out how to navigate the path between “respect for his mentors” and “desire for their daughter.” So I did the talking. “Okay, we’ll just—”
That’s when we heard a thump on the deck.
“Theo?” I let go of Paul to walk toward the sliding door, but Dad got there first. He pulled it open, startled, and swore as he rushed outside. I hurried after him, then stopped short, frozen in horror.
Theo lay sprawled out on the deck. His laptop rested where it had fallen a few feet away, and the light from the screen illuminated Theo’s face—the blankness in his eyes, the slackness of his mouth.
Oh God. Is he dead? He looks dead—
Theo’s body shuddered, then convulsed. His limbs tensed as they started shaking so hard they hammered against the deck. I gasped. “Oh, my God. He’s having a seizure.”
“Call 911,” Paul said, just behind me, and I heard Mom’s footsteps pounding as she ran for her cell phone.
“What do we do?” Dad said as we both kneeled by Theo’s side. “Do we put something in his mouth so he won’t swallow his tongue?”
“No! Definitely don’t do that.” I’d heard that was a bad idea with seizure patients, but I didn’t know what else to do. “Just—be here with him.” Could Theo hear us? I had no idea. I only knew that my blood seemed to flush hot and run cold, back and forth, over and over again. My hands were shaking. As frightened as I was, I knew Theo had to have been so much more scared than me. So I whispered, “It’s all right. We’re going to get you to the hospital, okay? We’ve got you, Theo.”