“PROFESSOR CAINE.” IT’S SO BIZARRE, CALLING HIM SOMETHING besides Dad.
But what about this isn’t bizarre?
Dad walks into the Easter room, escorted by Paul, who went to fetch him at my command. When he sees the wine-colored egg in my hands, Dad nods, anticipating my request. “It’s that hook, isn’t it? Really, someday soon, you should have the Fabergé jewelers reset that properly, Your Imperial Highness.” He reaches into his jacket and withdraws a small leather roll—his packet for his watchmaker’s tools. “But I can put it right for now, never fear.”
“Of course you can.” I smile at him, hoping to butter him up for a favor. Then I realize that’s sort of ridiculous. When you’re a grand duchess of the House of Romanov, you don’t ask for favors; you make commands.
But this is still my father, and more than ever, I want to treat him with respect.
“I had another project for you, if you were willing to take a look at it.” Carefully I place the broken egg on a small side table, then reach into my pocket. There, wrapped carefully in my lace handkerchief, are the pieces of the Firebird. “This locket of mine is broken.”
Dad glances from the egg over at me, smiling. “I believe you’re trying to make a jeweler of me, to avoid any future exams in French.”
“No, I promise. This is important to me, and it’s complicated—” I stop talking before I begin to sound panicky. If Dad (or Paul, standing guard at the door) realizes how worried I am about the Firebird, there might be questions I won’t be able to answer. “The locket’s meant to be more than decorative, you see. When all the pieces are put together properly, then it will function again.”
“What does it do?” Dad pushes his glasses up his nose as I unwrap the handkerchiefs a little to reveal the bronze-colored pieces within. “Play music?”
“No.” But what am I supposed to tell him? He’d hardly believe the truth. “I’m afraid I’m not sure.”
“Then I doubt I’d be able to set it right, not knowing how it should work. Of course I want to help you, Your Imperial Highness, but this might be a task best given to a professional.”
Oh, no. If Paul and I are going to have any backup plan for getting out of this dimension, I need someone like Dad to work on the Firebird. Okay, he’s gotten stuck playing tutor in this lifetime, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s a genius. He’s my best chance, maybe the only one I have.
There’s no guarantee Colonel Azarenko won’t have thrown away or sold Paul’s Firebird locket by the time he returns from Moscow; if mine doesn’t get fixed, Paul and I will both be trapped here forever.
To still my rising panic, I take a few deep breaths and watch as my father works on the red Fabergé egg. He deftly works with a tiny pair of prongs to twist the hook back into shape, but it’s what he does next that takes my breath away.
Dad picks up the charm portrait of my mother, the one commissioned by Tsar Alexander V, who probably never looked at it again. But Dad holds the charm for a long moment, his eyes drinking in the image of her face, and within him I glimpse the deepest sadness and longing I’ve ever seen.
(“I had no idea what your father looked like, the first time he came to visit me,” Mom said once as we cooked out in the backyard on a hazy summer afternoon. “But I was already half in love with him.”
Dad had laughed as she hugged him from behind. “And I’d picked out the wrong faculty photo, so I thought this ‘Dr. Kovalenka’ was rather elderly.” He lifted her hand to his and kissed it. “Still, some very enticing equations had already been exchanged. I was half in love too. So you see it was a very intellectual courtship—at first.”
“At first.” Mom’s smile became positively wicked. “Now, the other half of falling in love came when we met at the airport and I discovered you were incredibly sexy.”
“Same here,” Dad confessed. “I came near tackling you at baggage claim.”
Josie and I had made gag-me faces, because we were younger and still thought it was gross to see our parents cuddling like that. It was before I realized how incredibly rare it is to watch two people actually stay in love their whole lives.)
Maybe it’s wrong of me to use his feelings against him, but down deep I know Dad would want to help me, and to comfort the version of Mom back home who’s mourning him and desperate for me to return to her. So that makes this all right. At least, I hope so.
“This was my mother’s,” I say, holding out the lace-wrapped Firebird again.
That does it. Dad turns from the Fabergé egg. “Your mother’s?”
“She always used to show it to me, when I was little.” The first rule of lying, Theo once explained, is Keep It Simple, Stupid. “I can’t remember the trick, the thing it did—but I remember loving it. Mom always used to share this with me, so when I found it a few days ago, I was so excited. But you see, it’s in pieces. Someone’s got to put it together again. You could—I know you could.”
Very gently, Dad hangs Mom’s tiny enameled portrait back within the wine-colored egg and closes it again. Then he takes the lace handkerchief in his hands and lifts one piece of the Firebird, an oval bit of metal with computer chips inlaid. There’s no way he has any idea what the hell a computer chip is, I realize, my heart sinking. Am I fooling myself to believe this is possible?
“Do you have any idea of its basic framework, Your Imperial Highness?” he says.
I tap the locket cover. “It all fits in this locket, folds up until you’d think it was only a piece of jewelry. And I don’t think anything’s missing or broken, just knocked apart. But—more than that—no.”
Dad considers it for another moment, then says, “Most devices have a sort of internal logic. I might be able to work it out, given time.”
“Would you try?”
“Why not? I always enjoy a good puzzle.”
Hope leaps within me, bright and wild. “Oh, thank you!” My first impulse is to hug him, but I manage to hold back.
Dad smiles as he folds the remnants of the Firebird back in the lace hanky. “My pleasure, Your Imperial Highness. Always a pleasure to help you.”
“You’ll never know what it means to me.” Is it possible I’ll actually get out of this?
“I understand,” is all he says, but in those two words I hear his love for my mother, and the depth of what he’d do for her memory.
Not even my father is such a genius that he can instantly repair a complicated device he’s never seen before. Nor can he create more hours in the day. Christmastime is the heart of the season here in St. Petersburg, which means virtually every night involves another dinner, or a dance, or a social gathering. My dad is exempt from few of these occasions; I am exempt from none. Azarenko is still in Moscow, and without that time machine Mom never got around to inventing, I can’t make New Year’s come around any faster.
For the time being, I have to make myself at home.
I start with the basics. I memorize as much of that Royal List as I can. A calendar of my appointments turns up in my desk, so I’m able to figure out what I should be doing next, and I find a map of the Winter Palace that helps me learn my way around. (If I get lost in my own house, that’s probably going to tip them off that something’s up.)
The strangest part is how strange it isn’t. After a few days, it feels completely ordinary to wear floor-length dresses every day, and wear my hair piled atop my head in a complicated wreath of braids. My palate gets used to the taste of briny caviar, the pickled flavor of borscht, and the strength of Russian tea. I can read and speak English, French, and Russian without any difficulty switching between them—and I make sure to practice a lot, hoping to carry a little of the French and Russian back home with me.
Each morning, the servants prepare me for my day, doing everything I need, from slipping the stockings over each of my legs to polishing my earrings before screwing them tightly upon my earlobes. (No pierced ears for a grand duchess: in this dimension, at least in St. Petersburg, any kind of body piercing is as good as wearing a T-shirt that says, PROSTITUTE HERE, ASK ME ABOUT MY HOURLY RATES.) They even take care of everything when, on my fourth morning here, my period starts. It’s a huge hassle, involving this contraption like a garter belt but not one bit sexy, and actual cloth towels folded between my legs. I have to stand there, blushing so hot I must be turning purple, while they change it every few hours and take the towels away to be hand-washed by some unlucky individual. Why couldn’t I have had my period in the dimension where I lived in a futuristic London? They probably had, like, miracle space tampons or something. But the servants don’t seem to think anything of it, so I try to endure it without giving away how completely freaked out I am.
Each day, I go to the schoolroom and study French, economics, geography, and anything else I can talk Dad into reviewing. He responds to my greater curiosity, introducing more science lessons about the innovations of the day, like the race to develop airplanes. (They’ve already been invented here, but only just, and planes are still cloth-and-propeller jobs. The longest flight in history, so far, lasted about twenty minutes.) Peter loves it, asking so many questions that I wonder whether he inherited Mom’s scientific curiosity; Katya pouts about the additional homework, but I can tell she’s intrigued despite herself.
Seeing my father again never gets easier, but I’m glad even for the pain. To have this one last chance to spend time with him is a gift I could never take for granted.
And Paul is always near me. Always with me. If he’s not in the room with me, he is outside the door.
At first the reassurance I take from having him near is simple. As long as Paul is nearby, I can make sure he stays safe. I can believe we’ll get his Firebird back or my dad will fix mine so that I’ll be able to remind Paul of himself—and then I’ll be sure that we can get home.
Another grand ball is scheduled, only one of more than a dozen leading up to Christmas. I won’t be able to fake another fainting spell to get out of this one. Unfortunately, the kind of dancing they have at grand balls is not the kind I know how to do. Waltzing seems to play a major role.
I have no idea how to waltz. If the tsar’s daughter goes out on the dance floor and makes a total fool of herself, people are going to wonder what’s wrong with me.
That afternoon, when Paul and I go to the library, I don’t even bother sitting at my desk. Instead, as soon as Paul closes the tall doors behind us, I say, “Lieutenant Markov, I would like to learn how to waltz.”
He stops. He stares. I don’t blame him. After a moment, he ventures, “My lady, you are an excellent dancer. I have seen you waltz on several occasions.”
“Be that as it may”—Does that sound regal? Maybe I’m laying it on too thick—“I, um, I feel a little rusty. I’d like to practice before tonight. You’ll dance with me, won’t you?”
Paul straightens, looking as awkward and unsure as he ever did back home. But he says, “As you wish, my lady.”
“All right. Good. First we need music.” In the corner is an old-timey phonograph machine, complete with one of those fluted trumpet things that used to serve as a speaker. They look easy enough to use in old movies; you drop the record down, crank the handle, and presto.
But when I walk over to it, slippers padding against the thick Persian carpet, I realize this phonograph doesn’t use records. I’m familiar enough with those from Dad’s vinyl collection, but these are . . . cylinders? Made of wax?
I cover my awkwardness as best I can. “Markov, select some music for us.”
He walks smoothly to my side, chooses a cylinder. I watch carefully, so I can do it next time if need be. Then he turns the small crank at the side, and soft, tinny music begins to play, the notes beautiful even through the hiss and crackle of static.
I face Paul, ready to begin, but he says, “The smooth floor would be better, my lady.”
Of course. Dance floors are never carpeted.
So I follow him to the part of the room closest to the windows, where no carpet covers the floor. The squares beneath our feet seem to be striped, so rich are the inlays of different woods. Light from the narrow windows falls softly over us, catching the reddish glint in Paul’s light brown hair.
“If I may, my lady.” He holds his hands out somewhat stiffly—near me but not touching—and I realize that’s what he’s asking. He needs permission to touch me.
I lift my face to his, and I realize . . . he wants to touch me.
Somehow I say, “You may, Markov.”
He takes my right hand in his. My left hand goes to his shoulder—that much I know. His left hand closes around the curve of my waist, warm even through the white silk of my dress.
It’s hard to meet his eyes, but I don’t look away. I can’t.
Then Paul begins to waltz. It’s a simple step—ONE two three, ONE two three—and yet for the first few seconds I’m clumsy with it. Dancing is harder to bluff. But I remember something my mother said once about formal dancing; she said you simply had to follow the man’s lead. You had to surrender to it completely, let him guide you and move you, every second.
Normally I’m not very good at letting anyone else be in charge. But now I give in to it. I let Paul take over.
Now I feel the subtle pressure of his hand on my back—not shoving me around, but gently, gently hinting at which way he’ll turn. Our clasped hands dip together; my posture changes, so that I’m letting him lean me back a little. The leaning and the spinning dizzy me slightly, but that almost helps me. I can surrender to him now. I can stop thinking, stop worrying, and exist only within the dance.
As he recognizes the change, Paul becomes more daring. He whirls me in wider and wider circles. My long skirt spins out around me; I laugh in sheer delight, and am rewarded with his smile. It’s as if my entire body knows exactly how he’s going to move, and we’re dancing with abandon, only for the joy of it. Paul’s hand tightens on my back, pulling me closer . . .
. . . which is when the song ends. We jerk to a halt as the music vanishes. Only static is left behind.
For a moment we stand there, in a dancing pose that has become an embrace. Then Paul lets go of me and takes a step backward. “Your dancing remains excellent, Your Imperial Highness.”
“Thank you, Markov.”
Is that how a princess would behave? Walking away easily from her dancing partner without ever glancing back? I hope so. I sit down at my desk, pretending I can read the letters in front of me, that every part of me isn’t completely, utterly aware of Paul going to once again stand guard at the door.
The way he dances with me—looks at me—I have to understand it. What was there between this dimension’s Marguerite and Lieutenant Markov?
That evening, as I wait for my maids to appear and make me ready for the ball, I go digging through the Grand Duchess Marguerite’s things, looking for . . . love letters, a diary, anything like that. When I see a portfolio case, my heart leaps. She’s an artist too! I’d give anything for my oil paints right now.
But this Marguerite doesn’t paint with oils. She draws.
Pencils and charcoal: those are her tools, discovered in a small leather case. My own intense interest in color and depth isn’t a part of her work in the slightest—instead, she’s drawn to details, to precision. And yet I recognize elements in the work that are like my own.
Here’s Peter, reading a book, his eyebrows slightly raised in fascination—Katya, trying so hard to look grown up that she instead seems slightly ridiculous—
—and Paul.
Sitting on the embroidered carpet in my bedroom, I flip through the sheets of paper to see two, three, even more sketches of Paul Markov. When I remember my shredded portrait of him, I feel ashamed—not only for destroying my work because I believed something untrue about Paul, but also because I never really captured his personality in the painting. Not compared to this Marguerite: she’s good.
She’s caught something almost intangible about him in this profile, that sense of purpose Paul has that infuses every moment, no matter how casual. This one shows Paul standing at attention, his shoulders sketched with a loving attention to detail that tells me she notices the way his uniform drapes over his body, the way he moves.
Finally I lift a sketch that’s set in the Easter room. I can’t tell whether Paul willingly posed for the others, but he didn’t pose for this; there’s something softer about portraits done from memory, both more affectionate and yet more unsure. She’s caught that subtle tilt of his head that means he’s paying attention, the stormy cast of his eyes. The eggs are sketched in behind him, more as shadows than anything else, though I can see how she’s penciled in a few fine details: a hint of enameling on one, the sparkle of gilt on another.
I try to pay attention to those, rather than the way she’s drawn Paul here, looking straight at the artist with an expression that is equal parts pain and hope.
(Looking at me. Always, always looking at me.)
Quickly I shuffle together the drawings scattered across the lap of my dress and put them back in their folder. The pencils and charcoals remain out, but—no portraits while I’m here, I think. Maybe it’s time to try landscapes for a change.
What the hell, I think. If I get stuck in this dimension, I can be the one who invents abstract art.
But I won’t get stuck here. I won’t. If all else fails, Dad can save me. I have to believe that.
If I don’t get stuck here, then I never have to ask myself what emotion made this Marguerite draw Paul over and over again. What she saw in him that allowed her to capture his soul more completely than I ever have.
Or how it is that both Paul’s souls seem to be the same.
My maids outdo themselves in preparation for the ball. My dress tonight is pure silver—the silk, the stitching, the beading sewn around the low square neck, the cuffs, and the hem. Once again they nestle the ruby tiara in my hair; they give me diamond earrings so heavy I can’t imagine wearing them all night. My reflection in the mirror astonishes me.
Why do I get to look like this in a dimension with no phone cameras? I think in despair, turning that way and this. I would take selfies for about an hour, and those would be the only pictures I would ever use for the whole rest of my life.
But when I walk out of my room, I see my truest reflection in Paul’s eyes.
He draws in a sharp breath, then says, almost a whisper, “My lady.”
“Lieutenant Markov.” Even though I know he’s supposed to walk me down to the ball, it’s all I can do not to hold out my arms and invite him into another dance.
Could we dance tonight? Probably I have to dance with the nobles first—and Vladimir, surely, because if he danced with Katya he’ll dance with me—
“Surely you don’t mean I’m not invited?”
The masculine voice rings from the hallway as Paul and I descend the stair. From the way everyone around me freezes, I know this is bad news.
Katya comes thumping down the steps behind me, graceless despite her long white dress. “He came,” she whispers. “They said he wouldn’t.”
“It’s all right,” I say, though I have no idea whether it is or not.
Paul turns to me. “If at any point during the evening you feel yourself to be unsafe—”
“I’ll come straight to you,” I promise.
Vladimir makes his appearance then, expression grim and at odds with his crisp uniform and shining medals. “Come along, then,” he says, offering me his arm. “It looks as though we have to play Happy Family tonight. Let’s face the dragon together, hmm?”
By Vladimir’s side, with Katya ghosting along behind us, I walk into the main hallway. Once again, dozens of bejeweled and beribboned nobles are milling around, pretending not to notice the thinly veiled confrontation in the center of the hallway. There, Tsar Alexander stands stiffly to receive . . . someone. A man a year or two younger than him, somewhat thinner, but equally tall, wearing a look of prideful disdain and a uniform as resplendent as any of the others in the room.
“Uncle Sergei,” Vladimir says, bowing to him. Until this moment, I hadn’t realized even a bow could be sarcastic. “How delightful to see you. And just in time for the holidays!”
Grand Duke Sergei. The facts I memorized in the List come back to help me. He’s the tsar’s younger brother, and his rival for power. I hadn’t known how seriously to take the newspaper reports about that rivalry, but now that I see the sheer venom in Sergei’s glare, I finally understand.
His eyes narrow as he looks at me. “Your flattery deceives no one, Vladimir. But at least you have enough manners to pretend to be glad to see me.”
I summon my courage. “Uncle Sergei. Welcome.” Then I hold out my hand for him to kiss. Sergei stares at it so long that I wonder if I did something wrong, but then he bows over my hand, takes it in his, and presses his lips to my knuckles.
His lips are cold. I sense that he’s imagining what my wrist would feel like without a pulse in it.
Katya offers her hand in turn, her small, stubborn face so unpleasant that I can’t help picturing her flipping him off instead. As Sergei gives her the same oily treatment he gave me, I study the faces of those around me—the tsar, my brother, the nobles, Paul. One and all, they look angry, and in several of them I also sense fear.
A rival for power wants that power for himself. He would try to take it away from the tsar, from the man everyone thinks is my father. He would have to eliminate my father’s heir—Vladimir. And Piotr. And Katya, And—
Becoming this dimension’s Marguerite means taking on all of her life. Not just the dresses and jewels, not just dancing with Paul.
Before, I’d only been afraid of not getting home. Now I’m afraid of not getting out of this dimension in time to escape the danger that I now know is very, very real.