Well, if “under psychiatric observation” counts as fine.

Dr. Singh decides I should rest in my own room, so Mom and Dad take me there. My quarters turn out to be private, which is nice. They’re also small, which I guess I should’ve expected. In here the walls are covered with some white resin, and decorated with my own charcoal drawings, which are kept in place by magnetic metal corners. The bunk is hard-molded into the wall and comes complete with a safety harness, just in case we lose gravity in the night, I guess. No window, thank God. I open a few drawers, looking for something more comfortable to put on, but apparently in space it’s all jumpsuits, all the time.

“Do you need anything else?” Mom gently pats my shoulder. “Anything at all?”

“Maybe something to eat?” I’m not hungry. But my parents need something to do, to feel like they’re helping. They nod and hurry into the corridor, which gives me my first moment of privacy in this universe.

I slump onto the bunk and rub my head with one hand in an attempt to massage away a headache before it begins. If I think any more about what happened to the last Marguerites—the two Triad killed, the two I lost—I’ll lose it completely. The flashbacks shake me up too much to think straight. Concentrate on something else, I tell myself. Anything else.

The charcoal drawings interest me the most, so I focus on them. Sometimes analyzing the artwork of another Marguerite tells me how she’s different from me, or a little more about what her life is like. Here, Marguerite either isn’t as motivated by color as I am or she doesn’t have as wide an array of art supplies to choose from. The more I study her work, the more I think it’s the latter, because I see energy in her work. Vitality. Every stroke is bold. Josie’s eyes are as vivid in black, white and gray as I’ve ever painted them in color.

This Marguerite lives under tight constraints, I think. The rules for living in space must be strict on every score, from the exercise regulations to the infinitesimal amount of private space. So she finds ways to be creative within those boundaries. It helps me to connect with her, get some sense of the life she lives, because she’s the only one I’ve been able to save so far.

That’s as long as it takes for my parents to return with my meal (a fairly ordinary sandwich and juice, though everything is bagged and sealed). Then they make me lie down under the covers as if I were a little girl again, running a fever. “You should rest,” Dad says. “Rest helps everything.”

I smile up at him. “I thought that was tea.”

“Tea solves everything. So I’ll bring you a cuppa later on.” Dad leans down and kisses my forehead, something he hasn’t done in years.

“We’ll restrict access to your room,” my mom promises, “and there’s an electronic sentry on your door. You can leave whenever you want, but you’ll be tracked when you do. I realize that’s a high level of surveillance, so if you’d rather we didn’t—”

“No. Keep on tracking me. This isn’t something you can leave up to my mood on any given day, all right?” My parents have to understand. “I’m going to be fine, as long as you keep watch.”

“Then watch we shall.” My father smiles at me, though worry has dulled the usual twinkle in his blue eyes. “Call us if you need us.”

Then they’re gone, and for one moment I simply lie there, indulging in the luxury of stillness. But then I put my hand to my Firebird. Lucky thing medical exams in space don’t require you to strip down; while people native to each dimension find it difficult to see a physical object from another—i.e., the Firebird—they can spot it if they look hard. A doctor performing a physical would be looking hard. The automated instruments ignored the Firebird completely.

Obviously I should attempt to leap out of the Spaceverse immediately—but after two terrible deaths, it’s hard to brace myself to dash into yet more mortal peril. The first time I tried in this universe, I was almost relieved not to move on. Not only will I have to face danger, but I’ll also take on the responsibility for saving another life . . .

You saved this one, I remind myself. Now try to save another.

One deep breath, I hit the controls—and nothing. Wicked still hasn’t moved on. I slump back down on the bed, suddenly so tired I think I could sleep for days. Maybe that’s the best thing I could do, for now. Let this Marguerite rest, take what comfort I can in my dreams.

Then the door chime sounds as the door swooshes open automatically. My parents had promised to seal my quarters, so whoever this is has permission to enter. Probably it’s Doctor Singh . . .

Instead, I look up to see Paul, clad in his own Astraeus jumpsuit. He’s with us in space, too. Before I can say anything, he reaches his thumb under the neck of his jumpsuit and reveals his Firebird.

“Paul.” I want to jump up, to hug him, to bury myself within his strong arms and imagine he can protect me from everything. That’s a lie—but the illusion would be so comforting right now, like the warmest, softest blanket in the world.

Yet I remain on the bed. He’s pushed me away so many times that I don’t think I could bear another rejection. Besides, right now Paul looks even more shell-shocked than he did when he first appeared in the Egyptverse.

For a long moment, neither of us speaks. Finally Paul says—very quietly—“Was it me?”

“Was what you?”

“Was it me who hurt you?” Paul’s voice shakes. The only other time I’ve ever seen him so close to the brink was when I told him my father had died. “No. Am I the one who killed you?”

“No. No!” I scramble up from the bed to stand in front of him, close enough to touch—even though we don’t. “It was Theo. The Triadverse’s Theo. He followed me there.”

Paul slumps against the plastic wall, like he couldn’t have held himself up one moment longer. “I was between reminders—I didn’t know. When I came back to myself, I saw you dead again.” He breathes out heavily, like someone struggling not to cry. “Again.”

“Hey.” I step toward him and put my hands on his shoulders. “I’m here, okay? I’m your Marguerite, and I’m all right.”

His gray eyes search mine, and I wonder whether I’m still his Marguerite.

“Your parents found the body,” he says quietly. “Theo had left on some kind of errand—nobody knew who had done it—but when Theo doesn’t return, I guess they’ll realize who the murderer was.”