Despite the holy vows keeping us forever apart in this dimension, Father Paul’s love for me is so pure. So uncomplicated. He doesn’t question why we care for each other. He doesn’t demand that the entire mathematical foundation of reality work out in favor of our relationship. No one has tortured him by splintering his soul. He remains whole, and gives his entire heart to me.

I imagine running endlessly through the multiverse, through world after world, finding the one where we know how to love each other, where no one is chasing us down or keeping us apart. Everything that can happen must happen, so there has to be a world like that out there. One perfect world where Paul and I get it right.

“Are you still afraid?” Paul murmurs against my forehead.

“Yes,” I admit. By now I’ve figured out that even in the worst-case scenario, this plan won’t kill me. If there’s any warning about the collapse of the dimension (and there would have to be, right?)—well, I’ve still got my Firebird. I can’t leap into the same dimension where Wicked currently resides, but I could always head back home, or into another dimension altogether.

But I’m afraid for Father Paul. For the versions of my parents who are gazing at the planets through a telescope for the first time. For the Sistine Chapel that deserves to be finished. And for this Marguerite, too.

I already failed two other versions of myself. I don’t want to fail an entire universe, too.

“The shaking seems to have ended.” Paul’s voice can sound so soothing, so strong. “You know you cannot stay here.”

But if my Paul shows up, we might need to find each other in a hurry—and how are we supposed to do that in a medieval world where nighttime is impassably dark? “You have to come to me when you can,” I say. “All right? Come to my house. My parents won’t tell. They won’t mind.”

Father Paul hesitates, but finally he nods. “You’re finally ready,” he whispers. “You believe at last that I’m willing to leave the church for you.” The yearning in his eyes is as beautiful as it is painful.

Even in this world, with the entire Roman Catholic Church in the way, Paul and I have found a way to be together. I clasp his hands in mine. “You’re sure?”

“Surer than I have ever been about anything. God led me to the church, but he did not give me the charism of chastity. So I cannot be meant to be a priest. My prayers have led me to believe that God brought me to Rome because that would bring me to you.”

His shining faith in our destiny takes my breath away. If only my Paul could find this. . . .

I don’t want to steal a moment that should belong to this Marguerite, but I’m afraid the world might be ending. Even if she never gets to kiss him, he should get to kiss her at least once.

And maybe I need the chance to kiss my Paul goodbye.

“Come here,” I whisper as I slide my hands on either side of his face. Paul doesn’t make a move to respond, but he doesn’t pull away as I bring my lips to his. Our kiss is tentative at first—gentle—until the moment something catches fire inside him.

His mouth opens, just slightly, enough for me to capture one of his lips between both of mine. With a groan, Paul pulls me closer, and finally I’m back in the comfort of his embrace. I clutch the folds of his black robe in my hands as he kisses me harder, until the fever between us is as passionate as any moment I’ve known with any Paul, anywhere.

When our kiss breaks, Paul gasps for breath. I expect him to apologize or repent. Instead he squares his shoulders, newly determined. “I will come to you,” he says quietly. “Nothing will keep me from you again, Marguerite.”

“I hope not. I hope everything’s going to be beautiful from now on.” Oh, please don’t let me have messed things up for these two. Please let the timing of the earthquake have been a coincidence. Please don’t let me have failed these people’s worlds.

Father Paul doesn’t understand the true nature of the fear haunting me. He simply runs one hand through my hair as he says, “I’ve prayed about this for months. In the past days when we chose to part, I thought I would find peace. Instead, peace was farther away than ever.” Paul doesn’t look like a guy making excuses so he can finally get some. He smiles as if he’s experienced divine revelation. “Only with you does my soul find comfort, Marguerite. Whatever I must do to be with you—even leaving the church—that is the path I must follow. Nothing will keep us apart now, nothing in this world.”

Tears well in my eyes. Although I try to blink them back, one trickles down my cheek. “Good,” I whisper. If this universe survives, one more Marguerite and Paul will have a chance to be happy.

For now, I simply have to figure out how to stay with him until my Paul can reach this universe and explain what’s going on. . . .

A dog outside begins to bark loudly, every yip carrying clearly through the broken windows. At first I’m annoyed, but then I remember that dogs always know when earthquakes are coming. Scientists still don’t understand exactly when quakes will happen, not even with all their degrees and instruments and Nobel Prizes, but dogs always know.

This time the tremor jolts the entire castle, sends me and Paul toppling to the floor. The remaining windows shatter, and I cover my head as glass sprays in every direction. Paul shoves me roughly to one side, which I don’t understand until I see that the racks of candles have fallen over, only inches from where the edge of my robe would have been. We hang on to each other as the ripples continue for at least two or three minutes—in earthquake terms, a very long time.

Finally the tremors stop, but I continue shaking. “This is wrong,” I whisper as Paul and I huddle on the stone floor together. “This isn’t only an earthquake.”

“You’re right. This is something more,” Paul says, surprising me. Is he going to attribute this to our sinful kiss? No. Instead he points at one of the windows, and my gaze follows the line of his finger through the broken glass at the edges to see the moon—which is even now being blotted out by darkness.

“It’s just an eclipse.” After everything else, this is blessedly anticlimactic. “Eclipses aren’t supernatural, you know. Not God being angry or anything. You can ask my parents.”

Paul gives me a look. “I know this, of course,” he says, politely enough, but I realize that this dimension must at least be advanced enough to know a demon’s not eating the moon. “But no eclipse was predicted for tonight, was it? Surely your parents would have informed Her Holiness.”