“CAN’T WE GO ANY FASTER?” I FEEL BAD EVEN FOR SAYING it; the horses are doing their best, pulling the sleigh across the snow faster than any motorized vehicle could travel. And yet I feel like I could outrun the horses, like if I gave into the sheer power of my fear for Paul, the bonds of gravity would snap and I’d fly away from here, straight to Paul’s side.
“Steady on,” Dad says. He’s the one who volunteered to take me, which is a mercy. I don’t know that I could bear to be with anyone else right now, anyone who didn’t know the truth. “We’ll be there within the hour, at this rate.”
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s only that I—” But what can I say?
He says it for me. “It’s only that you love him.” When I turn to him in astonishment, Dad simply shakes his head ruefully. “I know what forbidden love looks like, Marguerite. I learned to recognize it in your mother’s eyes.”
I hug his arm. “He has to be all right.”
“If Lieutenant Markov doesn’t survive, does your Paul die too?”
“Nobody knows for sure. But—probably he would.”
Dad glances over at me. “Which one of them are you afraid for?”
“Both of them.” The sharp cold air stings my cheeks as we dash forward. “I’m tied to Paul—everywhere, perhaps—the same way you’re tied to Mom.”
Dad is quiet for a few moments before he says, “We aren’t together, in your world. Your mother and I.”
“I told you—”
“Yes, you told me, and I’ve never seen anyone look so sad while she gave supposedly happy news.” Dad’s words are gentle, as they usually are, but he’s always known when, and how, to push me. “It’s comfort enough to know that there are infinite worlds. Infinite possibilities. Now I know somewhere, somehow, Sophia and I had our chance. But you mustn’t lie to spare my feelings.”
“You were together, always. Nothing could have torn you two apart.” The truth: Dad deserves it. “Nothing but death.”
He breathes in sharply. “I would never have forced her to continue having children.”
“Not her,” I whisper. “You.”
We ride on in silence for a moment after that, with no sound near us but that of the horse’s hooves, the sleigh rails in snow, the jingle of the reins. Is Dad freaking out? What would it be like, to hear that you were dead?
Then he puts one arm around me. “My poor darling girl.”
My eyes fill with tears as I lean against him. He hugs me closer, comforting me. I realize that this is what being a parent means—facing the most horrible thing that could ever happen to you and yet thinking only of how it will hurt your child.
“Was it very recent?” Dad says quietly.
I nod against his shoulder. “Right before I left.”
“It must be difficult for you, seeing me.”
“No. It’s been wonderful to be with you again. Because you really are the same in more ways than you’re different.”
“Was I a good father to you? I always wondered how it would have been, if I’d had the chance.”
“You were the best.” All the little irritations I ever had with my dad—the way he refused to let me borrow the car, or made fun of my addiction to the Vampire Diaries, or sometimes just would not stop doing the Monty Python Spanish Inquisition bit—none of it mattered, not in the least. “You let me be myself, me and Josie both. Our home was always so weird, not like any of the other kids’, and I never cared. Everybody else had to fit in. They had to worry about what other people would think. You and Mom—you never did that. You wanted us to find our own way in the world, but you were always there to help out. You told us you loved us every night before bed. At night, after dinner, you’d wash the dishes and hum Beatles songs. ‘In My Life’ was your favorite, and I’m never going to be able to hear that song again without thinking of you. I wouldn’t want to. I love you so much.”
I bury my head back against his shoulder, and his arm tightens around me again. After a very long while, he says, “How do insects come into it?”
“Insects?”
“Beetles?”
“The Beatles were a rock band.” That’s not going to make any sense to him; I laugh through my tears. “Singers. They were singers you liked.”
His hand pats my arm. “And your mother and I were happy?”
“Almost ridiculously happy.”
“Sophia has a good life?”
“She’s a well-known scientist, working on the research that interests her more than anything else. She has me and Josie, and—she’s a pretty great mom, but I guess you got to see that for yourself. I think she would have said her life was nearly perfect, before she lost you.”
“Thank you,” Dad says. “It will help, remembering that.” Then he pauses. “What about the Grand Duchess Marguerite?”
“What do you mean?”
“If and when you leave, what is the effect on the grand duchess? Will she remember any of this? Will she—” His voice catches again. “Will she even know I’m her father?”
My first impulse is to tell him no. I saw how the Paul in the London dimension behaved after my Paul had moved on; he lost memory completely, had no idea what had happened to him.
But Paul and I travel through dimensions very differently, it seems.
So who’s to say what the other Marguerites will and won’t remember?
“I don’t know,” I say to Dad. “For her sake, I hope so. She needs you.”
“I need her, too.”
Remember, I think, trying to sear this moment in my brain so that the traces will be left even after I’m gone. Dad’s arm tightens around my shoulder, as if he understands what I’m attempting to do. Maybe he does. Always remember.
We finally glimpse the battlefield from atop a high ridge, and at first it looks only like speckles of black and scurries of movement across the vast expanse of white. But as we draw closer, I begin to see the red stains in the snow. The wind shifts, bringing the scent of battle: gunpowder and something I can only call death.
Dad has scarcely stopped the sleigh. A few of the soldiers have rude looks on their faces—a lady sweeping into their midst?—until one of the generals recognizes me. When he calls me “Your Imperial Highness,” the others snap to attention. I draw myself up like the grand duchess I am and demand, “Take me to Paul Markov.”
I knew medical care in this dimension was far more primitive than in my own, but I’m not prepared for the first sight of the infirmary. Soldiers lie on cots, makeshift bandages binding limbs that have lost a foot or a hand. Metal bowls hold medical instruments and blood. The men are in terrible pain, most of them; morphine exists here, but there’s little to go around. I can hear screaming, moaning, prayer, and one boy younger than I am pitifully crying for his mother.
Paul is silent.
I come to his side, looking down at him in horror. He’s swaddled in bandages: around his shoulder, both knees, and worst of all, his midsection. I’ve read enough war novels to know what a gut wound meant in the days before antibiotics.
No. It’s not possible. Paul won’t die. He can’t. I’ll see him through it, somehow. I’ll write Theo in Paris and tell him to leave the petri dishes out overnight so he can invent penicillin. I’ll stay with him every second. Paul will pull through.
When I kneel beside his cot and take his hand, Paul stirs. His head lolls to one side, like it’s too heavy for him to move. He opens his eyes, and when he recognizes me, he tries to smile. As badly wounded as he is, he wants to comfort me.
“Everything’s going to be all right,” I say. The lie is bitter in my mouth. Even if he survives, I know his legs will never be the same. Can he even remain a soldier? It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except saving him. “I’m here now. I won’t leave you.”
Paul tries to speak, but he can’t. His fingers shift around me as if he wants to hold my hand, but he’s too weak.
Surely the doctors are nearby; surely other soldiers can hear. To hell with them all. I bend my head to his hand and kiss it. “I love you, Paul. I love you so much. I’ll never, ever leave you again.”
“Marguerite—” Dad’s hand rests on my shoulder, but when I shake my head, he draws away.
Paul takes a deep breath, then closes his eyes. I can’t tell if he’s awake after that, but in case he is, I keep telling him how much I love him, and I keep holding his hand. Even if he’s mostly out of it, even if he can’t see or hear, he’ll be able to feel that touch and know I’m by his side.
I’m aware that the other soldiers and the doctors are staring at us. What I just said to Paul is something no grand duchess should ever, ever say to a common soldier. But I also know that not one of them will dare to breathe a word of this. Spreading rumors about a member of the royal family is a good way to find yourself transferred to Vladivostok.
With my free hand, I check at his throat, hoping against hope he’ll have the Firebird around his neck. I don’t care any longer what happens to me. But I could make sure that my Paul traveled onward, that he at least would survive this.
Yet I need this Paul to live too.
It doesn’t matter. The Firebird isn’t around his neck, and when I command one of the healthy soldiers to search through Paul’s trunk, they find nothing even remotely resembling it. Colonel Azarenko died in the fighting, so there is no one else to ask.
The Firebird remains lost, and even now, I am watching two men die in one body.
At nightfall, Paul stirs once more. His eyes flutter open, and my smile for him is wrecked with my tears. “Paul? I’m here, golubka. I’m here.”
“Every Marguerite,” he says, and then he dies.
For a while after that, nothing is very clear. I think that I stand up very calmly, walk outside, and make sure I am far from the infirmary before I begin to scream. The wounded soldiers need their rest. They shouldn’t hear me scream, and scream, until my throat is raw and my eyes water and I fall to my knees in the snow.
When I can scream no longer, I remain outside, alone, for several minutes. My knees and feet are almost numb from the cold; I will my mind and heart to follow suit. Let them freeze. Let them lose feeling. Then the rest of me can stagger on.
Yet every time I think I’m past the point of being able to feel any more pain, a memory comes to me: Paul in the Easter room, cradling one of the Fabergé eggs in his hands; Paul leading me through a waltz, the broad warmth of his hand against the small of my back; Paul kissing me over and over as we fell asleep tangled in each other.
Finally I manage to stumble to my feet. One of the doctors stands not far away. Probably they made him follow me, afraid I was on the verge of collapse. I ask him, “Where is Professor Caine?” My voice is hoarse, more like an old woman’s than my own.
I’m led to a tent, apparently designated for me, but Dad is inside. When I walk in, he rises to his feet. “They told me it was over. I thought you needed a few moments to yourself.”
“I did. Thank you.”
“I’m so sorry, my dear. So incredibly sorry. Markov was a good man.”
Hearing his kind words rips the wound open again, but I fight back the tears. Then I see what Dad’s been doing all these hours. There, on his camp table, lies my Firebird—apparently back in one piece.
His gaze follows mine. “I dedicated myself to it. Maybe I’ve got it. But I’m not comfortable letting you do something so dangerous without at least a test.”
“I can test it,” I say, my voice hollow. I pick up the Firebird and go through the motions to create a reminder—metal layers clicking beneath my fingertips—until the shock jolts through me. Pain, intense and electric and almost unbearable—but it’s welcome. That kind of pain is the only thing capable of numbing my heart. I’m grateful for even a few seconds’ respite from the grief.
“That looks like it hurt.” Dad tries to take the Firebird back from me, but I don’t let him.
“It’s supposed to hurt—what I just did.” I attempt to smile. “You put it together again. See, I knew you were a genius.”
Dad runs one hand through his rumpled brown hair. “Are you absolutely certain that’s what it’s supposed to do?”
He’s worried. I can’t blame him. Even I feel uneasy at the thought of taking my next trip with this thing. However, my only alternative is to wait for the weeks, or even months, it will take to either summon Theo to Moscow or travel to Paris myself.
I need to get back to Mom. I need to tell her about Conley, and soon. Theo’s Firebird will alert him I’ve moved on, so he’ll follow me. The question is where I’ll go—my Firebird is still set to follow my version of Paul, who just died in my arms. But it almost doesn’t matter where I go, as long as I wind up someplace where Theo can find me. I trust Theo to get me home.
Above all, I trust my father.
“It works,” I say, and hopefully it sounds confident. “I’m going to go now.”
Dad nods. His eyes are sad. This may be the last time his daughter ever knows him for who he truly is.
It may be the last time I ever see my father’s face.
I fling myself into his arms and close my eyes as he wraps me in his embrace. “I love you,” Dad whispers. “I have loved you every moment of every hour since you were born. Even before that.”
“I love you too, Dad. I told you that almost every day, and I still didn’t say it enough. I couldn’t have said it enough, no matter what.”
It’s too much to let him go. So I’m still in his arms as I touch the Firebird; the last thing I feel in this dimension is his kiss on my cheek. Goodbye. Goodbye.