Then the earth trembles again. Nothing falls. The lanterns hanging from the ceiling sway in only the shortest arcs.

“Aftershocks,” I say out loud. My parents nod, not overly concerned. Earthquakes have aftershocks. That’s normal.

But my hair is standing on end, and I know—I know—that I must find out what’s really going on.

“Mom, Dad, I have to go.” I put the broom down and grab my cloak.

“Where can you possibly be headed at a time like this?” Dad says.

I slip the cloak over my shoulders. “The Castel Sant’Angelo.”

My parents know what that means. Mom folds her hands in her lap. “Oh, sweetheart—I know how badly you must want to see him, especially after a scare. But is it safe for either of you? Is it kind to Father Paul?”

“The two of you chose to end this madness.” My father sounds grave. “Don’t let your resolve falter now. If you do, you’re endangering Father Paul’s standing within the church. Her Holiness may have agreed to protect our research, but if she ever learns you’ve tempted a priest from his calling . . .”

Me, a temptress. “I have to talk to Paul,” I say as I head out. “Even if it’s for the last time.” When I shut the door behind me, my parents don’t follow.

I ask for directions from some of the many people in the streets cleaning up earthquake-related messes in the last of the orange sunset light. Luckily, I soon come across a cart leaving the masons’ guildhall, whatever that is. Some of their members have been called to help with repairs at the Castel Sant’Angelo, and they offer me a ride and an earthenware cup of weak beer.

I drink it. Beer’s not my favorite, but I need some courage, even of the liquid variety.

When I see Paul again, he might be this universe’s Father Paul—tender with love for me, so greatly at risk because of the clandestine relationship we must have recently ended. But of course I’m hoping for my Paul. If he ran the final tests right away, and those tests worked, then he could have saved the Spaceverse already. Of course he’ll go back to the Londonverse and Egyptverse first, at my well-meaning-but-in-retrospect-unnecessary request. How long will it take him to construct the necessary stabilizers? It could be a while, especially in the Egyptverse, where Paul will have nothing more to work with than the few, low-tech materials my parents took along on their archaeological dig.

However, I have to think positive. Paul said the machine wasn’t actually that complicated on its own, so it’s possible he could put one together pretty quickly, right? Then he could show up here in the Romeverse at any moment.

Or hours from now. Or days.

I close my eyes tightly and hope against hope that I’m wrong about the tremors.

* * *

By the time we reach the Castel Sant’Angelo, dusk is falling. The castle guards are the exact same two guys I saw last time. Same mustaches, same brilliantly colored, striped costumes, and the same sarcastic looks on their faces: Seems like old times. One of them says, “The usual chamber?”

“Yes, please. And if you could let Father Paul know I’m here, I’d appreciate it.”

The other guard ambles off to find Paul, muttering under his breath, “Some people never learn.”

I’m shown to the same small chapel I visited last time. One of the stained glass windows has broken, littering the stone floor with green and scarlet shards, but the earthquake seems to have caused no other damage. If the iron frames holding the hundreds of small candles near the altar fell over, they’ve been righted, and all the little flames burn brightly enough to provide some light.

Each candle represents a prayer, I think. My nonreligious parents mostly taught me about various doctrines in a historical context, not about details like this. But I’m pretty sure you light a candle for someone when you’re afraid for them, praying for them, wishing that someone up there would take care of them. I take one small candle, devote it to the two lost Marguerites, and light it with the flame of another.

I can’t truly pray for people who are already lost, but at least I can remember them.

Then I hear my name spoken softly. “Marguerite?”

I turn to see Paul in the doorway of the chapel wearing his long, black priestly robes. The glint of gold around his neck pierces me with sudden hope. The Firebird. It’s my Paul! He’s saved all the other worlds and come here to save this dimension too!

No. The item hanging around his neck is a cross. It promises salvation, but not the kind the multiverse currently needs.

“You’ve come.” Father Paul steps closer to me, his hands clasped together as if to keep himself from reaching for me. “I didn’t think you would.”

He’s so different from my own Paul, and yet so familiar, too. When I look through the priest’s garb and longish hair, searching for traces of the man I love, I feel as if I’m seeing Paul again for the first time. . . .

A new grad student, a head taller than anyone else in the room, more muscular than a construction worker. His cheap, faded clothes, bought from Goodwill with the few dollars he had left over from his scholarship, because his parents had shut him out. He never even looked up from the floor except to talk physics with my parents, as though he spoke only in numbers rather than words. I looked at his strong jaw and hulking form and mentally dubbed him “the caveman.”

Songs and movies tell us that when you meet the one you love, the planet stops spinning, the clouds open up, and your heart begins to sing. Reality is messier than that. The truth is, we meet new people all the time, but we can never tell exactly what they might mean to us. You never know who you’ll forget, or who you’ll need forever.

Father Paul says, “You had told me we shouldn’t meet again.” The sorrow in his voice sounds too familiar. For the length of one breath, I’m back on the Astraeus, standing in front of the computer readouts that reveal just how shattered my Paul’s soul has become, and the pain is as fresh as it was the moment he told me to let him go.

We share this, Father Paul and I—the terrible knowledge of what it means to love someone more than life, and still to have to give them up.

“I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it. “But when the earth shook like that—it felt like the end of the world.”

Paul crosses the space between us in two steps and folds me against his chest. I hug him tightly, grateful for his comfort, and for his love.