A Thousand Pieces of You

This, I think, is the boundary line of adulthood. Not the crap they claim it is—graduating from high school or losing your virginity or getting your first apartment or whatever. You cross the boundary the first time you’re changed forever. You cross it the first time you know you can never go back.

Every time I see Dad’s face, or hear his voice, I have to fight the urge to cry. Yet somehow I make it through our classes, French and geography and, finally, current events.

“What changes might we see in the next few decades?” Dad says as we study the most recent issue of Le Monde we have (which is from four days ago—everything travels slowly here). He’s getting excited, the way he does when his imagination starts going into overdrive. “If this sort of assembly-line manufacturing works for cars, what else might it be applied to? Think of the advances in productivity, and technology!”

“Or war,” I say quietly. “They’ll make weapons like this too.”

Dad gives me a searching look. “I suppose you’re right. Automation increases all of humanity’s potential, both good and bad.”

In the background I can see Peter trying to pay attention, and Katya folding a paper airplane from a page of Le Monde. Really I ought to let one of them get a word in edgewise, but I can’t pass up any chance to talk with my father.

“However, don’t you think, Your Imperial Highness, that the benefits will ultimately outweigh the drawbacks?” Dad pushes his spectacles farther up his nose. I can tell they drive him crazy; this version of Dad doesn’t get to wear contacts.

“It’s not a simple equation. Not addition and subtraction—more like higher-level calculus.” I start to play with my hair before I remember it’s actually fixed for once. “Goods will be cheaper and more plentiful, but that leads to people treating them like they’re disposable. We’ll exchange individuality and craftsmanship for predictability and affordability. Countless jobs will be created, but as industry becomes globalized, those jobs will largely move to developing nations with fewer labor laws to protect . . .”

Everyone else in the room is staring at me. Dad looks admiring; Peter and Katya look unnerved. How many anachronisms did I just use? Maybe this Marguerite doesn’t think that much about economics.

“. . . so, uh, the effects of the Industrial Revolution are complex. And things. Yes.” My smile must look even more awkward than I feel.

“Industrial Revolution,” Dad repeats slowly. “What an interesting turn of phrase. You could sum up so much of what’s happening in the world today with that. ‘Industrial Revolution’—very well said, Your Imperial Highness.”

As absurd as the situation is, I can’t help basking in the glow of my father’s praise. Then that makes me want to cry again, and I have to look away.

Our lessons end, and with regret, I leave the classroom with my siblings. Before I go, I give Dad a smile. It’s so much less than I feel, but I can’t risk any more. In the hallway, Paul has been waiting for me all this time, Peter and Katya’s personal guards at his sides. There’s no sign of impatience, though; it’s as if he would always wait for me, no matter how long it took.

“Once again, teacher’s pet,” Katya sniffs as we walk away.

“Oh, hush,” I say to her.

Peter laughs. “You’re his favorite and you know it. But it’s only natural, because you’re the cleverest.”

My little brother doesn’t resent my closeness to our tutor, but my little sister obviously does. “It’s hardly even proper, the way you two carry on.” Katya tosses her hair, which hangs in a long plait down her back. “Maybe history isn’t all he wants to teach you, hmm?”

“Yekaterina!” It comes out hard and cold. Of course she couldn’t know how grotesque her joke really is, but that doesn’t change the fact that I want to slap her face. “How dare you say anything so unkind? And untrue.”

She shrinks back. Even her belligerence only goes so far. “It was only a joke!”

“That’s not the sort of thing you can joke about, not even with me. Professor Caine is a good teacher, to all of us, and you should respect that.”

“All right, all right,” Katya grumbles, clearly ready to let the subject drop. Thank God. The last thing I need is for her to guess the real reason why I’m the favorite.

I discover we’re all meant to spend our afternoons in different ways: Katya, embroidering with one of our cousins, which she will hate. Peter, riding lessons and maybe a turn around the soldiers’ training camp with Vladimir, which he will love. Me? I’m supposed to spend the rest of the day answering letters from various royal relations throughout Europe.

So many problems with this plan. First of all, I don’t actually know who any of these relatives are—sure, I’ve got a list, but who exactly is Her Serene Highness Princess Dagmar of Denmark? Well, I mean, obviously she’s a princess named Dagmar, but are we cousins? Friends? Nearly strangers? What do we usually talk about? Second, I’m pretty sure there are protocols for this sort of thing, royal letter formulas to follow, none of which I know.

Still, I’m not sure what else to do at the moment. Until Colonel Azarenko returns, and I can get Paul’s Firebird back from him, I have to do my best to pass as the real Grand Duchess Margarita. That means writing letters. In the library, I manage to find a ledger called The List of Leading Royalty, Nobility, and Officials that sets out the royal families of each country, with notes that explain how we’re related.