“PAUL—” I CAN’T TALK. FOR A MOMENT I CAN HARDLY breathe. His gaze burns into me with the cold blaze of ice, and he steps closer, as if preparing to do his worst.
I remember Lieutenant Markov shooting the traitorous guard who would’ve murdered the grand duchess, and, from another world, the Russian mafia lord’s son who blew away Theo’s knees in cold blood. The potential for violence, whether for good or for evil, lies within every Paul—including the one I love.
My own Paul had overcome that, long before his splintering. Before I even met him. He’d struggled through the darkness in his past to become a good person, and a strong man. But the cracks in his soul remain, and at any moment the good man I love could fall apart. Become someone else, someone dangerous.
So I’d better defend myself.
“Okay,” I begin shakily. “I just got hijacked for the first time in my own body, because Wicked—”
“Wicked?” Paul squints, as if assessing a suspicious stranger.
“Oh, right! That’s what I’m calling her, the one from the Home Office, because—well, it’s easier, for one, and I don’t even think she deserves to be called Marguerite. But she knows about Nightthief, doesn’t she? Then—then I bet she doesn’t know about that terrible spring break you and Theo had in Vegas—”
“Stop.” Paul takes a deep breath, and then he looks like himself again. My nauseating dread fades. Of course I didn’t have to be afraid of Paul. Splintered or not, he’s still himself. He has to be. “I knew it was you as soon as you told me you nicknamed the other one Wicked.”
I don’t want to ask this next, but I have to. “What happened in the Londonverse?”
“What do you think happened? Do you need me to say it out loud?”
I nod like the hypocrite I am, demanding that Paul speak when I lack the courage to even ask the question.
“She’s dead,” Paul says heavily. “I watched her die.”
The knowledge crashes into me, nearly as hard and cold as the water of the Thames must have been for her. I would give so much to have stayed in one second longer, to have spared her the awareness of her fall until the very last instant, when she might not even have had time to understand what was happening.
You can’t cut it that close, I remind myself. It wouldn’t save her, and it would only endanger you. True. Doesn’t make me feel any better.
Paul and I remain silent for a few moments. The ancient gods surrounding us stare with their identical, arched eyes, and now this passageway feels like the tomb it used to be. Did you think death was a game you could cheat? The painted figures seem to say. The people buried here thought that too. Now you’re digging up their bones.
“I waited for them to find the body.” Paul stares at the wall behind me, looking past my face as if I were just another hieroglyph—no. That’s not it. He sees the dead Marguerite in his memory more clearly than he can focus on the real me, here and now. “I realized seeing her wouldn’t tell me anything—even if it had been you, and the Firebird had been around your neck when you hit the water, surely the impact would’ve broken it. Or the current could’ve snatched it away. But I still thought I needed to see her for myself.” He closes his eyes. “I wish I hadn’t.”
They say that hitting water from that high up is just like hitting concrete. My Londonverse self might have been in pieces. Nausea ripples through me, and I have to swallow hard. “Did—did Aunt Susannah have to—”
“I identified the body for her.”
“Thank you.” Aunt Susannah wouldn’t have been able to bear that, I don’t think. Then I realize the full meaning of what Paul has just told me. “Wait. Aunt Susannah knew you? Well enough for you to—well, to do that?”
Paul nods. “After you left the Londonverse the first time, your other self remembered who you were. Everything she’d done. So apparently she looked for Paul Markov at Cambridge, hoping he had some explanation. Then they began . . . spending time together.”
It breaks my heart all over again. Another world where Paul and I might have been together, maybe forever—and Londonverse Marguerite finally had some kind of shot at happiness—ended in one fatal plunge.
“Aunt Susannah explained some of it to me, while we were waiting for—while we were waiting,” Paul continues. “The rest I put together for myself.”
“See? We really do have a destiny. Because if there was any world where you’d think we didn’t have a chance, that had to be the one.” I feel shallow, talking about my love life at a time like this. But I’m not doing it for me—I’m doing this for Paul. He needs something to hold on to. Otherwise, the grief and guilt he feels from all these universes will continue to drag him down. The cracks left within him from when his soul was splintered could deepen and weaken until he truly falls apart.
My distraction works, at least a little. Paul takes another deep breath and straightens. “Did you say Egypt?”
I hold out my hands to gesture at the hieroglyphics. “No, actually, this is Wisconsin.”
He almost smiles. “Egypt. My accent is stronger here—”
“You’re the tsar’s own Egyptologist, working with Mom and Dad on the expedition. We have these huge tents, and this crazy strong coffee, and real live camels. Mom’s even wearing a turban.”
Paul’s dismay brings me closer to laughing than I’ve been in a long time. “Do we have to ride the camels?”
“I don’t know. Hasn’t come up yet.”
“I hope not.” Just when I feel like we might be getting past the worst of it, he tenses again. “Wait. The other one—Wicked—she came here to kill you? Just like the last Marguerite?”
“She’s slamming doors—shutting me out of more and more universes.” The twisted plan has become clearer to me after a night to mull things over. “Triad is trying to make sure that I can’t save the universes in question. I can’t save a universe I can’t reach. I can’t reach a universe where I’m already dead. So they’re going to kill all these Marguerites—one after another—unless I follow Wicked and put things right. I have to keep after her, Paul. I have to save the other Marguerites. Not only because it lets me reach those dimensions and protect them, but because . . . I can’t just let the other versions of me be slaughtered. Not if I have the power to stop it.”
Paul wants to object, I can tell. No doubt he thinks my plan for rescuing the other Marguerites is too dangerous. Honestly, I agree. It is too dangerous. But that’s what I have to do. Maybe he senses my determination, because instead of arguing, he simply asks, “What happened in this dimension? How did she attempt to murder you?”
“She tried to bury me in a cave-in. One of the passageways wasn’t as stable. I got through it fine, except for the part where an actual ancient mummy fell on me. Way less fun than it looks in Raiders of the Lost Ark.”
Paul frowns. “That sounds survivable. Obviously. But—”
Quickly I explain why Wicked’s methods are going to be less immediately dangerous in the future, and at first Paul nods, agreeing with me. But his gaze slowly becomes more distant, even confused. Then he strokes his short beard—a gesture that seems familiar, even studied—and says, his consonants thick and blurred with his Russian accent, “Wait. Remind me, I know this. Who is Wicked, Miss Caine?”
Crap. This world’s Paul is bleeding through again. I step closer, which ignites hope in his eyes until the moment I reach into his shirt, take hold of his Firebird and set a reminder.
Paul staggers back, swearing under his breath in Russian—even though he’s my Paul again. “Let me reset this for more frequent reminders.”
“You could make some Nightthief.” No sooner have I spoken the words than I realize how unlikely that is. “We probably don’t have the supplies out here in the desert.”
“Probably not. I’ll look later. Right now I want to set the reminders just in case.”
He starts manipulating the controls, his large hands surprisingly deft with the tiny mechanics. Instead of stepping back, I remain close in an attempt to preserve the fragile bond restored between us.
So of course that’s when I hear Theo shout, “Hello in there!”
“Hey, Theo,” I call back. Paul steps back and drops his Firebird back within his shirt just in time for Theo to appear.
Somehow Theo’s grin looks even more devilish when set off with that mustache. He could pass for a lothario from some old silent movie. “How goes the sketching, Marguerite?”
“Oh, it’s—” Great, I want to say, but the sketchpad is closed and Theo isn’t a fool. “Still getting started. I’m a little nervous in these passageways after what happened last night.”
“Who could blame you?” Theo steps closer and puts one hand on my shoulder, an unmistakably flirtatious touch. “Next time we’re in Cairo, I’m making it my sworn duty to distract you from your troubles. What about a trip to the moving pictures?”
Oh, my God, even movies are new here. This would be amusing if it weren’t for Paul’s gaze on us, heavy and disapproving. I step out of Theo’s reach, clutching my sketchpad to my chest. “Drawing is the only distraction I usually need. Which is why I should get started.”
The rebuff doesn’t affect Theo much. He simply shrugs. “Let me know what you think, next time we’re in Cairo.”
“Sure. Definitely.” I mean it as a brush-off, but Theo grins again.
As soon as he’s gone, Paul says, “You’re with him, here.”
“No, I’m not!” I would have picked up on some sign of that last night or this morning. “He’s only flirting, or maybe just being Theo.”
“Maybe you have a destiny after all.” Paul turns away to follow Theo out. “It’s just not with me.”
“Why are you acting like this?” I could shake him. “Why are you being so—so jealous, so angry—when you know that I—”
Paul whirls around. The anger is back, but subsumed in grief that’s even more terrifying to see. “I’m not angry. I’m not jealous. I’m relieved. You shouldn’t be tied to me anymore, Marguerite. Theo would be better for you.”
“Excuse me, but who I love isn’t something you get to prescribe for me, like a doctor with some pills.”
“Don’t you understand?” His voice rises nearly to a shout, echoing from the stone walls. “I see Theo near you and I remember shooting him. I see you near him and I want to shake you until you fall. This brutal . . . thing my father tried to turn me into—I thought I’d buried it. Maybe I had. But the splintering set it free. I’m no good for you any longer, Marguerite. I never will be again.”
“It’s only been a few days. How can you know?” I’m sympathetic to what Paul’s going through, but this defeatist attitude has to stop. “Paul, you didn’t hurt me. You would never hurt me.”
“You don’t know that. And neither do I.” When I start to protest, Paul holds up one hand. The wind blows at the collar of his white linen shirt, ruffles his reddish hair. “You don’t know what it feels like, being splintered. You don’t know how it is to know that . . . that you’ve been stolen from yourself.”
That catches me short. I hadn’t thought of it that way before. The profoundness of the violation—the intimacy and brutality of it—makes me shudder. “You’re back together now. I know it was terrible, but you’ll get better.”
“This isn’t a cut you can fix with a Band-Aid. It goes deeper.” Clearly struggling for the right words, Paul remains silent for a few long seconds before he speaks again. “My thoughts don’t unfold the way they should. My feelings control me too much. From as far back as I can remember, I fought to be a different kind of man from my father. But sometimes I find myself wanting to react the way he would. Other times, the anger or sorrow seems to come out of nowhere; it doesn’t have anything to do with me but it takes me over.”
“You’re not going to turn into your father.” This much I believe absolutely.
“Maybe not. But I have no idea what I am going to turn into. Only one thing is certain. I’m not the same person you fell in love with. I’ve changed more than you could ever realize. And I will never be the same again.” His gray eyes finally meet mine. “You should get out while you can.”
He walks away, so now we are both in despair, both alone.
After a moment, I decide to stay in the tomb.
I wasn’t lying when I told Theo my work would be the ideal distraction. That day, I remain in the passageway for hours, sketching as delicately and accurately as I can. The beauty of the paintings on the walls touches me even through my misery, and I imagine my long-ago counterpart, no doubt wearing the thin white cotton robe and elaborate beaded collar they always show in movies about ancient Egypt. Copying that person’s work with every detail, every highlight, is the highest tribute I can pay to the original artist. And getting it right lets me feel like I’ve succeeded at something amid all this failure. I need that feeling more than I should.
The only time my work becomes difficult is when tears blur my vision. But I dab them away and keep going.
Although I want to go after Paul, I don’t. As badly as he’s hurting, maybe right now that’s what he needs. When we’re in pain, people are too quick to say, Get over it, move on, it’s not that bad. But we don’t get over grief by denying it. We have to feel it. We have to give it its due. Sometimes that means doing the exact opposite of “moving on.” We have to dive down to the very depths of our sorrow, relive every terrible moment, and endure the torture of asking what could have been—and what will now be. We have to bleed out before our hearts can start beating again.
That’s what Paul is doing now. Bleeding out.
After a few hours, I finally hear footsteps in the stone passageway. Hope lifts me away from my work, and I look in that direction, eager to see him. Instead, Theo walks in. It takes all my self-control not to let my disappointment show.
“How’s the work going?” Theo steps closer, hands behind his back. “Our Russian friend seems to be in a terrible temper. Has been ever since he left you behind.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about it.” This Theo probably believes Paul and I had a spat, and this is his big opportunity. I have exactly zero patience to deal with that.
He wipes his brow, which has a fine sheen of sweat. “The only escape from the damned heat is in the homes of the dead. Strange, isn’t it?”
“Never thought of it that way.” The air is cool and musty in here, which wouldn’t seem like such sweet relief if the alternative were anything but the scorching sun of the desert. “I should probably go back to the campsite, huh?”
“No rush. Take your time, Meg.”
Meg.
No wonder he sounded so familiar. The Triadverse Theo has followed me here.
I turn to look at this Theo—the one who kidnapped my father, framed Paul for murder, and helped Wicked hijack my body. When he sees the recognition in my eyes, he sighs. “I knew it. Am I really the only one in the multiverse who nicknamed you Meg?”
“Yes. Are you here to inject me with Nightthief again?” I demand.
“No,” Theo says as he steps closer. Now I can see that he’s pale, and his movements have become slow, reluctant. Whatever he’s here to do is bad.
My only potential weapons are a box of colored pencils and a sketchpad. But I bet a pencil to the eye would stop almost anyone.
“Listen to me.” He holds up his hands, and I pause, unsure what he’s going to pull next. “I know you’re angry with Conley and Triad, and I don’t blame you. But don’t let your temper blind you to what’s really going on here. You can turn this whole thing around in a second, just by agreeing to cooperate.”
“Stop trying to negotiate with me!” I back away from him, although this only leads me farther into the tomb, away from the exit. “When will you guys at Triad get it through your thick skulls that I’m never, ever working for you? How do you not see that this is crazy?”
“Actually, yes, I do see it,” Theo says, and this may be the first time he’s ever told me the entire truth. “If I’d known at the start this was what I was getting into, no way in hell would I have signed up. But now I’m here. Now I know. And if any universes are going to be destroyed, I intend to be in one of the ones left standing.”
I can’t argue with his goals, but I have a big problem with his methods. “This isn’t just about saving your skin. It’s about saving trillions of lives. Literally! How can you not fight this with everything you’ve got?”
“Because everything I’ve got isn’t enough to stop them! Meg, will you calm down and think? It’s too late. Triad is too far ahead. You want to start running a race with them while they’re about an inch short of the finish line. How pointless is that? Conley and Triad still want you on their side, despite everything—”
The sound I make can only be called a snort. “Oh, yeah, they’ve got so much to forgive me for.”
Theo grimaces in exasperation. “Dammit, why are you doing this to yourself? There’s still time for you to save your whole dimension! Billions of people there, every animal, every plant on the entire Earth—you’re risking them all in this crazy chase. Don’t you owe them your loyalty first?”
I never thought about it in terms of loyalty. If I could only protect one dimension, wouldn’t it have to be the one I call home?
But I refuse to let Theo turn this around on me. “I’m not the one putting my universe in danger. That’s Triad’s responsibility.”
“All I’m saying is, your actions have consequences.” Theo’s face is heavily shadowed in the dim passageway. He has yet to take up the heavy flashlight dangling from his belt. “Those other universes could be no more than—choices nobody ever made.”
For the length of one breath, I am no longer in Egypt. Instead, I lie beneath warm furs in a dacha in Russia while a snowstorm rages outside and Paul holds me close. At the same time, I sit in an opulent Parisian hotel room, hand splayed across my belly, dizzy with the new knowledge that in that dimension I carried Paul’s child.
I have regretted making that choice for the grand duchess ever since—and yet it would be infinitely worse to erase that choice, all those lives, that dimension forever.
“Those people deserve a chance to live,” I tell Theo. “They have the right to create their own destiny.”
“You haven’t always respected your other selves’ choices so carefully, have you?” Even in the darkness I can see the spark of anger in Theo’s eyes.
“I’ve messed up,” I admit. “More than once. But what you’re talking about is different.”
Theo shoots back, “So where do you draw the line, Meg? Anywhere you like, as long as I’m on the wrong side of it?”
I could scream. “Cut out the stupid word games! I made a mistake, but you’re deliberately committing genocide! That is way, way off the scale of anything I would ever do. And you know what else? My Theo wouldn’t ever do that either. So how did you get so screwed up?”
He lunges toward me. His tackle catches me under the ribs, knocking the breath out of me and sending my pencils flying. I claw at his face as Theo grabs my lace scarf, which comes loose from my hat. His knee presses down my left arm as he straddles me and fumbles around my throat.
The Firebird! He’s going to steal the Firebird! I struggle to get him off me, but I can’t, not even when I realize he isn’t going for the Firebird at all. Not even as the lace scarf tightens around my throat.
I can’t breathe.
Theo is strangling me.
My larynx feels like it’s being smashed into my spine. My pulse is fast and hard and with every beat the scarf seems to be cutting into my skin.
“Jump,” Theo says. He’s crying; tears trickle down the cheek he’s turned toward me so that he won’t have to see my face while he does this. “I left you one hand free. Grab the Firebird and jump.”
I could do it, but then this Marguerite—and maybe this entire dimension—dies.
Desperately I thrash beneath him, or try to thrash. I paw feebly at his tense arms. It’s no use. Theo has me pinned with all his weight and strength, and I can’t breathe. Dizziness floods me. My tongue feels too thick for my mouth. I can hardly hear over the roar of my own blood in my ears.
“Meg, please!” Theo sobs once. “Please, don’t make me kill both of you.”
I’m about to black out. With my last strength, as Theo begins to blur and darken above my eyes, I hit the controls on the Firebird and—
I am surrounded by the void.
Complete darkness. Complete silence. I have no weight, no body.
Oh, God.
I’m dead.