THIS TIME I GO THROUGH THE BEDROOM LIKE A FORENSICS team scouring a crime scene. Her closet is emptied out across the bed, every pocket in every coat or pair of jeans searched through. Each and every drawer gets inspected. The spines of each book on this Marguerite’s shelf, and the titles of all the ones in her e-reader, are reviewed. I learn a few things about her—she’s confident wearing heels, she shares my mother’s passion for yoga, she’s a bigger fan of the surrealists than I am. But I don’t find the stuff that would tell me what I want to know.
What happened with Paul?
No blog. No journal. I don’t keep those at home either, but why couldn’t this have been another way she’s different from me? The various apps on her phone show me the photos she’s shared, her latest updates; all of it looks much the way it does on my own phone at home, except that, of course, she has lots of dog photos.
When I scroll all the way back to January, I finally see a picture of Paul. In it, he’s sitting on our red sofa, Ringo happily in his lap. Paul looks completely at ease. At home. And now my parents don’t even want to see his face.
Slightly heated by the exertion of ripping up this Marguerite’s bedroom, I push up the sleeves of my sweater. When I do, beneath my thumb I feel the crooked ridge of the scar on my right arm. The scar seems darker now, which I know is my mind playing tricks on me because the ache has returned.
Well, if I can’t find out anything else about this world’s Paul, I can at least learn how to contact him.
A little time on her tablet turns up Paul’s contact information without too much trouble. The university lists his housing and his email address, at least his school account. With a flick of my fingers, I open a window to write to him, then hesitate.
Mom wanted Paul thrown out of Cambridge—the same guy they practically adopted in at least a dozen dimensions. Anytime my parents and Paul have wound up at odds, Paul was the one who drew the line between them.
The fourth and final splinter of my Paul is here, sheathed within the body of this other Paul Markov. No matter what he’s done, or what he’s capable of, I have to face him. We have to be alone.
Until then, I refuse to worry. During my time traveling through the dimensions, I’ve been kidnapped, held at gunpoint, bombed from the air, nearly crushed in a submarine, exposed to the Russian winter until I nearly died of hypothermia, and chased by a torch-bearing mob intent on burning me for witchcraft. Every time, I’ve kept myself together. Every time, I survived.
Whatever happens next, I have to believe I can handle it. For Paul, I will.
The email I send to Paul is simple and direct.
You and I should talk, soon. Are you free tonight? If so, let me know what time, and I’ll drop by your flat.
(At the last minute, I remembered to use “flat” instead of “apartment.”)
It would be easy to spend the next however-long staring at my in-box, hoping every second to see his reply. But that would only drive me crazy, and besides, Mom made spaghetti.
“Susannah keeps insisting we should visit her in London this summer,” Dad says as he covers his plate with more Parmesan than most people could eat in a month.
Mom looks nonplussed. “But we go every summer, at least for one or two of the plays. I think I read that they’re putting on Julius Caesar at the Globe in June.”
My father shakes his head. “Oh, no, she’s having none of our weekend jaunts. Susannah wants us for a fortnight at least.”
More than a weekend sounds like a very long time to stay with Aunt Susannah, let alone two weeks or however long a fortnight is. To judge by the sound my mother makes, she agrees. It’s kind of sweet that my aunt wants us there, though. At home, our relationship is so much more distant, because my dad and his sister are practically scientific proof of just how different two offspring of the same parents can be. I like that we all found a way to get along here.
As I eat, it’s tough to keep my aching fingers tightened around anything as slender as a fork. My mother is watching me, her face falling as she sees me struggle with my utensils. Quickly I change the subject. “I had the strangest dream last night.”
“Oh, really?” Dad raises an eyebrow in mild curiosity. At his feet, Ringo sits, panting, alight with hope that one of us will drop food.
I try to sound casual. “Yeah. In my dream, we all lived in San Francisco, and we looked and acted like ourselves but had these different lives—and then I realized, this wasn’t my dimension. I’d traveled to another dimension with the Firebird, to see how we lived there. It was so weird how I knew the Mom and Dad and Josie I saw there weren’t you guys, but at the same time they kind of were. I felt like I remembered the whole house, the whole neighborhood, everything.”
Mom and Dad give each other a wistful look. “I suppose it might have been like that,” she says, idly twirling her fork in her pasta. “Sometimes I still daydream about it—truly standing within another dimension.”
“It could still happen,” I venture. “Couldn’t it?”
Dad sighs. “No point in going back to it now. The Firebird project might have been our greatest glory, but it could also have been our greatest folly. Better to turn our energies to more productive ends.”
Oh, come on. No way Mom and Dad would give up on their dream just because they thought it was impractical.
At least now I understand why Conley sent the final splinter of Paul here. Since the Firebird technology had been scrapped, there was no chance my parents would figure out what was going on—and no chance they could have used devices of their own to get him back home.
Then my mother says, “Sending information will be so much more useful than sending consciousness.”
I pause, spaghetti slithering off my fork as I hold it above my plate. “How, exactly?”
She looks dubious, and I wonder if I’ve exposed myself; this world’s Marguerite would surely know more about her parents’ current research. Instead, Mom says, “You’re right to insist that I keep explaining myself. If we don’t revisit our first principles, we run the risk of losing our way.”
Dad goes into professor mode. “Now, Marguerite, what do you know about information? What is the most peculiar thing about it?”
Maybe that sounds like a really broad question, but I understand what he’s driving at. “Information is the only thing we know of capable of moving faster than the speed of light. The universe knows things it shouldn’t know, before it should be able to know them. Like—like when a quark is destroyed, and another is created instantly to take its place.” Paul told me this, too, as we stood in the redwood forest, looking up into infinity.
“Exactly,” my mom says. “Transferring consciousness—as exciting as it would be, and as revolutionary as it would be even to identify and isolate consciousness—it’s not the best way of learning more about the other dimensions of the multiverse. We can structure ‘messages’ in the form of asymmetrical subatomic sequences and see how other quantum realities respond.”
“If we figure out how best to handle this, we might even be able to speak directly to other versions of ourselves—or, at least, to the other scientists doing our kind of work,” my father adds. “Much better than popping into someone else’s body unannounced.”
I think of the Grand Duchess Margarita, even now hiding out in a Danish country house until she gives birth to a baby—one I conceived for her. Of a Theo in New York City who’s still in the hospital, wondering if he’ll ever be able to walk again. Of Lieutenant Markov dead in my arms. I admit, “The ethics are a lot better.”
Mom nods, but I can tell to her this is only a theoretical consideration, one she’s never had to truly face. “We’ll have far better reach, as well. Instead of only visiting universes where we ourselves exist, we should be able to learn something about virtually any dimension in the multiverse— Henry. Stop giving noodles to the dog.”
“He likes noodles,” Dad says, as Ringo slobbers down his one strand of spaghetti.
My parents the illustrious scientists begin debating whether or not pasta gives the dog gas. It offers me a moment to consider what I’ve just learned, the possibilities expanding in my mind every moment.
The Home Office and the Triadverse must have dismissed this dimension as a threat because Mom and Dad abandoned the Firebird project. What Conley never realized was that they would instead turn their attention to another way of contacting other universes. If we got that power—my world, and the Warverse, and even the Paul and Theo from the Home Office—and we could communicate with each other constantly, without the risks of jumping dimensions . . . we could form an alliance much larger than Triad’s conspiracy. Much more powerful. We could prepare ourselves against any attack the Home Office could make.
This could be how we take them down.
As precious as the treatment for Theo is, as eager as I am to rescue my own Paul, I now know I’m bringing home a third treasure—or, at least, a chance. The coordinates to this dimension could save us all.
“How long?” I ask.
Mom huffs, “Until the dog begins stinking up every room he’s in? Two hours at most.”
“No. I mean—how long until you can communicate with other dimensions?”
“Sweetheart, you know we can’t pinpoint these things,” my father says, but with a smile. “Of course, if next month’s test goes as well as we hope . . . wait and see.”
It’s all I can do not to laugh out loud.
As I walk back to my room, I’m already strategizing. I’m not going to “de-cloak” yet; first I should talk with my parents back home about everything we’ve learned. But as soon as I do that, we can start planning my return to this dimension. Then we can tell the truth, the whole honest truth, and get these versions of ourselves to join forces with us. Exhilaration bubbles inside me until I want to spin around and do some stupid victory dance. Once I’m alone in my room, I might.
However, when I look at my email, every other thought fades, replaced only by the sight of Paul’s name in my in-box.
When I open his reply, it says only 8:30 p.m.
He’s not exactly Mr. Talkative in my dimension either. This is all the information I asked for, the only thing I need.
Still, when I remember Mom’s distrust of Paul, her fear for me, Paul’s terseness becomes . . . unnerving.
But it won’t stop me from going to him, and bringing my own Paul home.
Cambridge must be a relatively safe place, because when I tell them I want to go to the theoretical late show of whatever movie it was this world’s Marguerite wanted to see on campus, Mom doesn’t even look up from her reading as she nods. Dad says only, “Wouldn’t you rather take the car?”
Of course he lets me drive only in a universe where I’d have to stay on the left side of the road. “I’m good.”
“I’m glad you’re exploring your interest in film,” he says. “Definitely something to pursue.”
Mom chimes in, suddenly much more interested. “So many people talented in one art form prove to be talented in another.”
Maybe this world’s Marguerite is thinking of becoming a movie director. I can’t quite imagine it, but that’s kind of cool.
As I cycle through the streets of Cambridge, my phone chirpily tells me where to turn and how far to go. Not all of the city is as picturesque as the university; I cross a few busy roads lined with buildings more blandly modern. The chain store signs lit for nighttime bear unfamiliar names: BOOTS, COSTA, PIZZA EXPRESS. But my directions keep me near the university and finally steer me toward a group of small, basic apartments immediately recognizable as the kind of place where students live.
I lock my bike, walk straight to Paul’s door, and ring without hesitating.
Before my hand is back at my side, Paul opens the door.
He looks thinner in this dimension, and not in a good way; his clothes are the same shabby stuff he wears at home, but they hang on his frame, like he doesn’t even care enough to get stuff that fits. Still, he’s neat, and from the faint smell of shaving foam, I can tell Paul cleaned up for me. He’s trying.
“Hi,” he says. “Thanks for reaching out. It—it means a lot.”
“Can I come in?”
Paul seems astonished. Did he really think I’d stand here and question him from the doorstep?
But he stands back for me to walk into his apartment. It’s as small and plain as I would have thought, with worn, mismatched furniture bought at the Salvation Army or whatever the British equivalent is. Tidy, though—especially for a male college student. My Paul keeps things neater than virtually any other guy I’ve ever known; I wonder if the white-glove cleanliness of this room is something this world’s Paul shares with mine, or whether it’s the subconscious influence of my own Paul peeking through.
I ought to just press the Firebird against him now, get my Paul back, and get out of here. But something about this Paul’s quiet misery touches me. He’s hurting—terribly—and he seems to think talking with me would help.
I can give him that. His body has kept the last part of Paul’s soul safe; we owe him.
Instead of hi or how have you been, Paul says, “Will you let me explain?” When I blink, surprised, he continues, “I guess that’s why you’re here. If it’s not—”
“It’s complicated.” About a thousand times more complicated than you could possibly guess. Still, I ought to hear this. “Yeah, go ahead. Explain.”
Paul stands there, looking lost in the way that always makes me want to shelter him. “It was an accident. Even your parents must know it was only an accident. I hate myself for it more than they ever could. Even more than you.”
His eyes don’t meet mine; instead, he’s looking down at my forearm, at the ragged red welt I noticed earlier today. The ache has sunk down to the bone. I glance down at the scar, then back up at him.
“I was upset. We both were. So I shouldn’t have been driving. You’re not wrong to blame me for that.” By now Paul is pleading. “But your dad seems to think I did it on purpose. Marguerite, I would never, ever have wanted you to get hurt.”
We were in a car accident while Paul was driving. It screwed up my hand. But why do my parents hate him? A car accident could happen to anybody. Why have I refused to even see him?
Then I remember what Paul said first. I venture, “We . . . were upset.”
“It all seems so stupid now,” he says. “I wasn’t going to come around the house anymore, and you said I should get over it. Deal with my disappointment, forgive your parents. God, I wish I had. Then you’d be fine, and we’d be happy, and you could still—”
Paul chokes on his own words, then sits down heavily, too upset to notice my confusion.
Slowly I say, “If you could do it over—without yelling this time—if we were back in that car, what would you tell me?”
He wasn’t expecting that. But he tries to work with it. “I would say that just because I disagreed with Sophia and Henry about the Firebird technology didn’t mean I felt any differently about you. When I avoided the house, I wasn’t avoiding you. Only them. I felt like the greatest work of my life had been taken away from me.”
Of course. Paul would have hated their decision to abandon the Firebird project. Once he tackles a question, he doesn’t want to rest until he has the answer.
Paul continues, “I shouldn’t have said angry things about your parents—at all, but especially not in front of you. It put you in a terrible position. And I guess it made it easier for them to hate me afterward.”
If I’d had time to calm down after this awful argument in the car, honestly, I probably would have understood. As much as I love my parents, they still drive me crazy sometimes. And I would have realized what a crushing blow this was to his research and his hopes. So I still don’t get why he’s so freaked out about the accident.
Until he says, very quietly, “Are you any better? I mean—have you been able to paint?”
It all comes together, then: Paul’s crushing guilt, my parents’ anger. The lack of any art supplies or new paintings in my room. Spaghetti falling off a fork that hurts to hold—a fork that’s still wider than most paintbrushes. My parents encouraging my new “interest in film,” because they’re afraid I’ll never be able to paint again.
This tragedy belongs to the other Marguerite, not me. When I go home, my arm will be fine—unmarked—and I can paint as much as I need. But still, I feel the pain of this Marguerite’s loss. Art is the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do. It’s my vocation, my passion. And dammit, I’m good! Not many teenagers get their own gallery showings. Not many have the skills that could get them into RISD, much less Ruskin. As hard as it is to make a living as a professional artist, I honestly believe I have a chance.
In this world, Marguerite’s chance has been taken away.
Maybe my hand will get better, I think. But already I know this Marguerite’s doctors don’t hold out much hope. If there were hope, Paul wouldn’t be sitting here in misery. My parents wouldn’t hate him.
And this Marguerite wouldn’t either.
I say the only thing I can think of. “It didn’t help that we were arguing when it happened. That I was already mad at you.”
He shakes his head. “No, it didn’t. But you’re not wrong to blame me. I drove the car. It was my responsibility to pull over if I was—distracted. I didn’t, and I hurt you, and I swear to you, if I could go back in time and change things—even if I had to get between you and the other car, take the hit myself—I’d do it. I would.” Paul makes a small sound, something that might have been a laugh but didn’t quite make it. “Too bad we never tackled time travel.”
“Mom and Dad shouldn’t have tried to throw you out of the department. Not for that.”
“Sophia and Henry felt guilty for not protecting you. For bringing me into your life.” Paul meets my eyes only for a moment. “No, they weren’t—reasonable. But there are worse things parents can do than loving their child so much that it made them unreasonable.”
Worse things, such as being mixed up in organized crime, and being more loyal to the mob than to your own son. His betrayal by his parents makes him willing to forgive mine for turning on him.
I remember the way my mother talked to me after I first told her Paul and I were together. She said that as much as they cared about Paul, they’d always be on my side—even if I was wrong. I guess she was telling the truth. And now, after the Home Office, I’ve seen how my parents react to grief. It twists them up. Makes them lash out.
Paul dismisses the near-ruin of his academic career with a shrug. “I’m going to ETH Zurich for my postdoc. I’ll move away as soon as I possibly can. You don’t have to worry about me anymore, or ever again. I promise you.”
“I believe you,” I say. He breathes out, like he’d been holding his breath for a very long time. Paul doesn’t ask for or expect forgiveness or redemption. He only wants me to feel safe.
What will happen to this world’s Paul? Will he find other people to love him in Zurich? Mentors who become adoptive parents, like mine, can’t come along that often.
Paul studies my face; I wonder what he sees there. Finally he says, “Is that all?”
“Not quite. Do me one favor?”
“Anything.”
I get to my feet and take the spare Firebird from around my neck. He looks at it, uncomprehending; apparently the project didn’t progress far enough in this dimension for him to recognize it on sight. So I simply say, “Hold still.”
Paul nods, and remains rigid in his chair, not even looking directly at me as I drape the chain around his neck. Once all four splinters of my Paul’s soul are reunited, he should awaken within this body.
Please let it work. Please let Conley not have lied to me. Please, please, let me have him back again.
I take a deep breath, hit the final sequence and drop the Firebird.
He jolts, grabs the arms of his chair, and opens his eyes wide. When he looks up at me, he whispers, “Marguerite?”
My Paul, at last.
We reach for each other at the same instant, and somehow I wind up in his lap, and we’re embracing each other so tightly we can scarcely breathe. Everything I’ve had to do, everything I’ve gone through—it was all worth it for this. For him.