Tasha’s Music Studio, Evening Maybe Wednesday, Maybe Not

Ethan

My science education has been mostly self-taught. I have little knowledge of the time-space continuum. But I know magic when I see it. Even with that, I’m not prepared for how strange it feels to stand here—not in a dream, but in what can only be described as real time—watching myself with Tasha.

Can they see us? They don’t seem to. I clear my throat loudly. Next to me, Anne startles. But Tasha and my past self don’t react.

“Well, that’s good,” Anne whispers. “I mean, I guess so. It’s like with me and Tess. All those crazy Cossacks just rode right by us like we weren’t even—Wait. That’s not exactly right. The Cossacks didn’t see us. And your father didn’t see us. But for one second, you saw me. I know you did.”

“Well, let’s hope that this version of me isn’t that observant,” I say.

Anne grins. “Chances are good.”

I frown at her. And decide she’s probably right.

“Come, dearest,” Tasha says. “We don’t want to be late. Wouldn’t want your friend Viktor thinking ill of us, would we?”

I watch myself press a kiss to Tasha’s forehead, then take her hand. The room is suddenly familiar with its burnished wood floor and shining grand piano in one corner. We’re in Tasha’s music studio—the small but thriving business that was sustaining her. It sat on the first floor of a building near Trafalgar Square, right below the tiny flat she rented. The room smells exactly as I remember—a heady combination of paper and furniture polish and the cut flowers she insisted on keeping in a crystal vase on the small table near the window. It was her one consistent luxury.

She smiles, then traces one long, graceful finger over his-my lower lip. My own lip feels the touch of her fingertip. Like the room itself, the gesture is familiar. So much comes flooding back that I feel almost paralyzed with it. We had been lovers, Tasha and I. I had slept with women before her, although not many. My Brotherhood vows had slipped away slowly, then quicker as the years began to turn and the Revolution seemed farther away. Always there was my search for Anastasia. But then there had been Tasha. And something inside me had changed.

“Ethan.” Anne’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. I focus on her—those luminous brown eyes, auburn hair pulled back, tiny sprinkling of freckles over her nose. How long have I been standing here, pondering the past?

Anne gestures toward the door. “We need to follow them, right? I mean that’s got to be the whole point of this. That and figuring out how to get back to my house before my parents realize I’m gone. Although I guess the other alternative is that they realize you’re spending the night. I’m not really sure which would freak them out more.”

With a jolt, I realize that Tasha and the other me have left the studio. Anne and I stand alone in the room, the perfume of the stalks of forsythia in the cut-glass vase filling the air with their scent.

Anne squeezes my hand. “You loved her. It’s okay.” But there’s wariness in her eyes that I’d rather not be there.

I wrap my free hand over our clasped palms. “I know this is strange. I—”

“Ethan. It’s your past. And it might not even be the way it was. We need to remember that, right? Like what Tess and I saw. Maybe we’re seeing what was. Maybe we’re not. We don’t even know why this is happening exactly. So no worries. You loved her. She was your girlfriend. I get it. Lots of people have exes. Except I guess normally the new girlfriend doesn’t get quite so up close and personal with the past. Lucky me, huh?”

I let Anne pull me to the door, then stop at the threshold and look back. Memories flood through me. Me leaning over Tasha as she sat at the keyboard. Kissing the back of her neck. Caressing her long hair. Drinking tea with her in the late afternoon. Making love to her as the last of the sun filtered in thin shafts through her bedroom window. And later, leaving her with only a note of apology. But never, ever the truth about who and what I was then.

Love requires truth. Did I love Tasha? I think I did. But not enough. Not in the right ways.

Outside, there’s a noise—a car horn and the sound of horse hooves clipping against the pavement. Like me, I think suddenly. Old and new colliding for dominance, both existing in the same space. Even when I’m not magically transported to the past, I’m there anyway, just through my existence.

“Hey,” Anne says quietly. Her cheeks look slightly flushed and it takes a few seconds before she meets my gaze. “Ethan. I know you’re thinking about her. But you need to think and walk. We don’t want to lose them, right?”

She looks down at herself. “Terrific. My first time in London, and I’m wearing old shorts and tacky flip-flops. Let’s hope we stay invisible.”

She rolls her eyes, and in that moment it’s Anne who’s familiar again and Tasha who’s the distant memory. What was is not important. Only what is. We need the past to explain the present, to understand how Viktor is once again immortal. And I need to figure out how to save Anne from a fate with Baba Yaga that she absolutely does not deserve. Anne to whom I always owe the truth. Anne who I love in a way that transcends past, present, and future.

•••

We head out. The noise and bustle of London envelops us. Tasha and my past self are still visible about half a block from us, walking at a brisk clip.

We follow them, dodging a family pushing a baby carriage and a cluster of uniformed schoolboys laughing and jostling each other. If they see us, they make no show of it. We seem to be as invisible to them as we were to Tasha and my past self.

Anne points ahead of us. “Look. They’re turning.”

We do the same, and as we round the corner, I get my bearings.

“We’re not far from the theater,” I tell Anne. “The one where the Royal Ballet performed back then. Assuming that the details of what we’re experiencing are accurate to what actually occurred. Actually I don’t think it was even called the Royal Ballet then. I think—”

“Doesn’t matter, Ethan. Whatever it was, it’s where we’re going. You guys were meeting Viktor, right? That’s the important thing. It’s got to be.”

She’s right, of course. And once again I’m painfully conscious that many things in my past meant more than I ever understood.

The other Ethan and Tasha step from the crooked sidewalk to cross the crowded boulevard to the other side. My gaze stays on them as I take Anne’s hand and we step off the curb. Then she’s yanking me back as a carriage pulled by two black horses comes inches from colliding with us. The side of the carriage scrapes against my arm as we scramble out of reach.

Anne huffs out a breath. “Can we try not to get killed?”

We dash the rest of the way without incident. At the opposite curb, Anne comes to a sudden halt, a curious look in her brown eyes.

“If I hadn’t pulled you back, would that carriage have hit you? The Cossacks didn’t seem to be able to touch Tess and me, but is that really how this works? What if it doesn’t? When Tess fell, she hurt herself. What if colliding with the carriage is like that?”

I rub my arm. There’s a definite abrasion. And thus a clear risk. I work to keep my tone light. “Don’t know,” I say. “So how about I just watch where I’m going? That should work for now.”

Anne narrows her eyes at me, and I know my attempt at humor has fallen flat, but we leave it at that and continue walking.

Is she right? Could I—could she—have been hurt? Somehow we always circle back to the same issue. I can love Anne all I want, but I can’t promise to keep her safe. And I despise how that makes me feel. Just as I despised myself for leaving Tasha without ever telling her the truth.

Tasha, who now walks into the theater with me, even as I follow behind her with Anne. Already I can make out the posters advertising the evening’s performance of Giselle. The ballet troupe was new then, just starting out. But there’s a buzz of excitement in the air from the entering patrons—all of whom seem wholly unaware of our presence.

In front of the doors, Anne turns to me, her voice low. “So does any of this feel familiar? Do you remember going with Tasha to meet Viktor? I know it was a long time ago, but you have to remember something. Don’t you?”

“Yes and no. It’s not as easy you think. Time is a funny thing, Anne. We don’t always know that big moments are big. Certain things—like when Anastasia was taken, when her family was murdered—they’re unforgettable. But a random moment of a random day that you had no idea wasn’t necessarily random? So much else goes on. So many other memories fill the space.”

“Well, start thinking.” She flashes a brief smile. “We’re here for a reason, right? But it’s your past, Ethan, not mine. I may be sneaking peeks into your head, but you’re still the one who knows what’s real and what’s not.”

We stand at the wooden doors, ballet-goers angling around us and into the theater. Anne’s tone hints at an annoyance I haven’t felt until now. Something sparks inside me—rises quickly and with a dark intensity I don’t consciously summon. Without meaning to, I read her emotions. They rush into my head, a tangle of fear and confusion and, yes, anger. The ease with which her thoughts meld with mine shocks me.

Anne looks at me sharply. Presses a hand to her forehead.

“Hey,” she says, and now it’s more than annoyance that I hear. “Don’t do that. You’re poking around in my head again, aren’t you? That is so not fair. Let me make it easy for you. I don’t want to be here, but I am. And in case you’re wondering, yes, it’s totally weird to watch you making out with your old girlfriend. So there it is, okay? You can stop trying to pick it out of my brain.”

“I wasn’t—”

“And don’t bother apologizing,” Anne says. “If I wasn’t in your head too, I probably wouldn’t be so pissed right now.”

Oh.

“Let’s do this,” she says.

I open the door. We step inside.