“MARGUERITE?” THE BROWN-HAIRED YOUNG MAN KNEELS next to me and takes my hand; we’re both wearing gloves of white leather so thin and soft it’s like a second skin. “Margarita? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Honestly. Only clumsy.” Oh, my God, where am I? What is going on? I thought the last universe was different, but this—is something else altogether.
“You’re worrying like an old woman, Vladimir. Again.” The largest of the men in our group frowns; his voice is deep and resonant, and from the way he speaks, I can tell he’s used to being obeyed without question. His ivory-jacketed uniform bears more medals than anyone else’s. He’s well over six feet tall.
“I’m a babushka, then,” says the young man—Vladimir—as he gives me a reassuring smile. Quickly I gather together all the fragments of the Firebird; a small silk purse dangles from one of my wrists, and I slip the pieces inside.
“Why are you worrying about that trinket?” commands the large man who appears to be in charge of this . . . costume party. Or whatever this is. “The Tarasova pearls are all over the floor, and you simply let them roll away from you.”
“We have them, Your Imperial Highness,” a woman whispers as she and a few others—dressed less grandly than the rest, including me—begin scrambling to collect every last one of the pearls. I lift my hand to my throat and discover that, besides the Firebird and the now torn, dangling string for the pearls, I’m wearing some sort of enormously heavy choker.
His Imperial Highness?
“Papa, if I had such beautiful pearls, I wouldn’t fall and break them,” says a girl a few years younger than me—even though I’ve never seen her before, she too looks familiar.
A bit like Vladimir, and a bit like . . .
“If you had such beautiful pearls, Katya, you would lose them long before the ball.” The tall man doesn’t even look at her as he speaks, and Katya’s head droops. “Marguerite, can you still dance tonight? Or must we make excuses for you?”
“I’m fine, really. Please, let me catch my breath.” Wait, what am I saying? Dance? What kind of dance? Maybe we’re actors, in some sort of performance. That would explain the costumes, right?
But already I know better. The marble steps, the red velvet carpet—they’re only part of the enormous space around us, with forty-foot ceilings and molding gilded in what looks like real gold. This is a palace. And we’re not tourists being led through roped-off lines and warned about flash photography.
As Vladimir helps me to my feet, the tall man says to him, “Margarita has servants to help her, Vladimir. The son of the tsar should be above . . . nursemaiding.”
But Vladimir’s eyes flash with fire, and he lifts his chin. “How can it be above any man’s dignity to help his sister? Shouldn’t the daughter of the tsar be able to expect assistance from anyone, at any moment?”
Sister. My eyes widen in shock as I realize why Vladimir seems so familiar to me. He—and Katya, now that I study her face again—they look a lot like my mom.
Our mom?
No. Absolutely not. They’re the children of the tsar—oh, crap, there are still tsars here? What kind of dimension is this?—okay, this guy is the tsar, and these are his kids, but I can’t be. It’s not possible for anyone other than Dr. Henry Caine to be my dad. Like every other individual ever born, my genetic code is unique, incapable of being re-created. The only way I can be born, in any dimension, is to the father and mother I’ve always known.
Mom? I look around the grandly dressed group, hoping to see her. Whatever version of my mother exists in this dimension, I need her now.
But I don’t see her anywhere.
Okay. I know one thing for sure; I can’t fake my way through this. Right now I need some time alone to figure out what’s going on.
I fall against Vladimir’s shoulder in a swoon that’s only partly feigned. “I’m so dizzy,” I whisper.
“Did you hit your head?” Vladimir cradles me with both arms, his forehead furrowed with worry. He obviously believes he’s my older brother; his gentle concern would be incredibly comforting if I’d known him for more than three minutes. “Father, we must fetch the doctor for her.”
“I didn’t hit my head,” I protest. “But I wasn’t feeling well earlier today. I—I think I ate something that disagreed with me.”
The tsar breathes out in exasperation, seemingly irritated that anything in the world is beyond his control. “You ought to have had the sense to keep to your bed. Return to your rooms. Vladimir and Katya will have to represent the family.”
Secure in her spot behind the tsar’s crooked arm, Katya sticks her tongue out at me. She seems like a total brat.
“Let me go with her,” Vladimir says. I can’t get over how much he looks like Mom . . . and like me. “I can be back down in minutes.”
“Now you push this too far,” the tsar growls. “Why does she have ladies in waiting? Why does she have a personal guard? They are the appropriate people to see to her. Even you should understand that.”
“I’m all right, Vladimir,” I whisper. I don’t want to start some kind of family argument, and besides, I need to be alone. “Go.”
Vladimir looks reluctant, but he nods and releases me. The hands of my ladies in waiting flutter around me, attempting to support me without actually daring to touch.
The tsar motions to someone else in the group, someone slightly behind me. “You, there. Lieutenant Markov. See her to her room.” Then a firm hand clasps my elbow.
I turn to see Paul standing nearby, just outside the circle around me.
In that first instant, I’m afraid of him. But that fear is swiftly followed by hope, because I see the recognition in his eyes. This is my Paul—he’s here—and I’m not as alone as I thought.
He is crisp in his infantry uniform, a neatly trimmed beard edging the line of his jaw, with high boots and a sword strapped to his side. Yet at the collar I see the glint of a chain; his Firebird is there.
Paul bows his head, then begins escorting me back up the stairs. The rest of the royal party watches me go: Vladimir with concern, Katya with open glee that she gets to go to the ball while I don’t, and the tsar—supposedly my father—with no more than bored contempt.
“Are we doing this right?” I whisper.
“How would I know?” Paul replies in the same hushed tone. “Nobody’s saying anything. Keep going.”
As we reach the landing at the top of the steps, I catch sight of myself in the long, gilded mirrors that line the wall. The diamond choker around my neck is several rows wide, and each jewel glitters, like the rubies in my tiara. My frilly white gown sparkles slightly too, because the thread looks like pure spun silver. Paul might only be a soldier, but his scarlet-jacketed uniform looks as grand as anything I’m wearing. It feels like we’re dressed up for Halloween, or the most over-the-top prom ever.
The moment we’re alone, Paul turns to me, furious. “I told you to go home.”
“You don’t get to give me orders! You think you’re in charge just because, what, you’re a genius and I’m not?”
“I should be in charge because I’m older than you and I understand what’s going on, while you don’t,” he retorts.
“The only reason I don’t understand is because you won’t explain.”
“Look, Conley is dangerous. You need to go home,” he repeats, and there’s something about the way he says it that makes me realize what he actually means. Paul’s not telling me to get out of his way. He actually means there’s some reason I need to be back at home, a reason my presence there is important.
Not that this gets him off the hook. Not by a long shot. But it calms me enough to focus on the most critical problem we have. I palm the little silken purse and show Paul the fragments of the Firebird locket. “I’m not getting home with this.”
Most guys would swear. Paul just presses his lips together into a pale line. “This is bad.”
“Understatement of the year.”
Paul takes the purse from me and begins examining the pieces one by one. I resist the urge to keep arguing with him. If he’s fixing the Firebird—i.e., my only shot at not living in this dimension forever—I’m going to let him concentrate.
Finally he says, “It can be repaired.”
“Are you sure?”
“Almost sure,” Paul answers, like that’s just as good when it so is not. He must catch the look on my face, because he adds, “The Firebirds are made to be easily reassembled. We wanted them to snap apart into their components for repair, adjustments, that kind of thing. It looks like that’s what happened here.”
“So you can pop it back together?” Relief rushes into me, makes me giddy. Talk about dodging a bullet.
“I need better light, and I’ll want to double-check it against my own Firebird.” Paul hands the silk purse to me and pulls at the chain around his neck; the locket gleams dully against the scarlet of his uniform coat. “Come on. Let’s get this done and send you home.”
I jerk back. “I’m not going home until you tell me why you’re here!”
Paul’s not one of those people who gets louder when he gets angry. He gets quieter. Goes still. “This isn’t the dimension I was looking for. That much is already obvious. I need to keep moving, but I can’t leave here until you—”
“What is the meaning of this?”
We both straighten, startled to see another Russian officer walking toward us. He has gray hair, a beard to rival the tsar’s, and a monocle. Paul stands at attention, or at least what looks like attention to me; I don’t guess either of us has any idea what proper Russian military protocol would be.
The officer says, “Markov, I’m surprised at you. Pestering Her Imperial Highness like this instead of doing your duty.”
Oh, that’s me. I’m the Imperial Highness. I have to stifle a laugh. “I, uh, I asked him to look at something I broke.” I hold out the Firebird locket pieces to show him.
The officer’s puffed-out chest falls a little; he seems smaller, robbed of his indignation. But his eyes light up as he finds something else to say. “And what is this? Out of uniform while on duty?”
And he grabs the Firebird from around Paul’s neck.
I gasp. Paul’s eyes widen. We’re both too startled to think, much less move.
“Now that you’re finally in appropriate uniform, Lieutenant Markov, you may carry on,” the officer says, tucking Paul’s Firebird into his pocket as he continues down the long hallway.
We watch him go in mutual horror. I’m the one who finds words first: “Oh, crap.”
“We have to get the Firebird back.” Paul takes a deep breath. “I have to go after him.”
“Surely he’s going to give it back to you. Eventually. Right?”
“How would I know? Besides, we don’t have much time. My memory—it’s already getting cloudy. The Paul Markov from this dimension is going to take over again, any minute.”
The rest of it hits me: If Paul can’t remember who he really is, he can’t fix my Firebird. Meaning unless and until Theo finds us—if Theo even exists in this dimension—we’ll be trapped in this dimension. Potentially forever.
“Okay, you’ll go after him and—” I put my hands to my head, trying to think, and only when my fingers touch the tiara do I remember who I am here, what I can do. “Wait! No, I go after him, and I order him to give back the locket. He has to do it. I’m a princess! Or a grand duchess, whatever they call them in Russia—”
“Yes! Good. Right. Go.” Paul nods his head, almost comically fast.
I take off down the hallway toward the stairs, running down them as fast as I can—which isn’t that fast, because I’m wearing a long dress cut narrow through the skirt, plus high heels that don’t even have a strap across the foot to hold them on. My jewelry jangles around my neck; my tiara slides to one side, and I lift one hand to hold it to my head. “Sir!” I shout, wishing I’d thought to ask the guy’s name. A name would work better. Could I just yell, I command you to stop?
But as I reach the bottom and turn the corner, I see an enormous gathering of people all walking through a broad hallway. This isn’t the party itself, but the entrance for most of the guests. Dozens of women in a rainbow of gowns and jewels nearly as fine as mine, from girls my age with feathery fascinators in their hair to elderly dowagers seemingly bent low by the weight of their diamonds—young men in elegant evening suits, brilliant scarves knotted at their throats—
—and military officers. At least fifty of them, all wearing uniforms that look identical to the one on the man who took Paul’s Firebird. I strain to catch a glimpse of his face—he had a monocle, they can’t all wear those, can they?—but it’s impossible to pick him from the crowd. He might already have gone into the ball.
Should I run in there, create a scene? I have a feeling that wouldn’t get me very far.
As quickly as I can, I rush back upstairs. Paul is leaning against the wall, as though he were exhausted. “I lost him!” I call out. “He’s in the party, but you could recognize him, couldn’t you? Help me find him?”
“I—I think so.” He winces and puts his fingers to his temple, like he has a headache. His confusion reminds me of Theo, back in London, in the last moments before he would have forgotten himself completely.
“Paul, don’t! You have to stay with me.” I take his shoulders in my hands and get in his face. “Look at me. Look at me.”
“You have to get the Firebird,” he says, slow and careful with each word, as if he doesn’t trust himself to force them out. “You have to use it to bring me back.”
“How do I find that guy again?” How do I do anything in this dimension? My hands are shaking, and the diamond choker around my neck feels like a noose. “Oh God, oh God, he had that big beard, and a monocle—”
“Colonel Azarenko,” Paul says absently.
I stare at him. “What?”
He looks at me as though he hadn’t seen me before. Then he straightens, pulling out of my hands. “Your Imperial Highness.”
This is not my Paul any longer. This is Lieutenant Markov.
He continues, “Forgive me, Your Imperial Highness. I can’t think why—I don’t remember how I came to be here. Was I taken ill?”
“You . . . became lightheaded.” I cover as best I can. “I wasn’t feeling well either. So you were to take me to my room, so I could rest.”
“Very well, my lady.” He bows his head and begins walking briskly through the corridor, his shining boots dark against the red velvet carpet. In something of a daze, I trail along behind.
At least one of us knows where my room is.
Paul and I are trapped here. With no idea how to contact Theo, if I even can. All I have to go on is the name “Colonel Azarenko.”
Tomorrow, I tell myself. I’ll be able to ask about him tomorrow, have him brought to me, and get Paul’s Firebird back.
If I can’t—
—but no. I can’t think about that right now. Instead I straighten the tiara on my head and pretend I know what the hell I’m doing.