“Uncle Sergei,” Vladimir says, bowing to him. Until this moment, I hadn’t realized even a bow could be sarcastic. “How delightful to see you. And just in time for the holidays!”
Grand Duke Sergei. The facts I memorized in the List come back to help me. He’s the tsar’s younger brother, and his rival for power. I hadn’t known how seriously to take the newspaper reports about that rivalry, but now that I see the sheer venom in Sergei’s glare, I finally understand.
His eyes narrow as he looks at me. “Your flattery deceives no one, Vladimir. But at least you have enough manners to pretend to be glad to see me.”
I summon my courage. “Uncle Sergei. Welcome.” Then I hold out my hand for him to kiss. Sergei stares at it so long that I wonder if I did something wrong, but then he bows over my hand, takes it in his, and presses his lips to my knuckles.
His lips are cold. I sense that he’s imagining what my wrist would feel like without a pulse in it.
Katya offers her hand in turn, her small, stubborn face so unpleasant that I can’t help picturing her flipping him off instead. As Sergei gives her the same oily treatment he gave me, I study the faces of those around me—the tsar, my brother, the nobles, Paul. One and all, they look angry, and in several of them I also sense fear.
A rival for power wants that power for himself. He would try to take it away from the tsar, from the man everyone thinks is my father. He would have to eliminate my father’s heir—Vladimir. And Piotr. And Katya, And—
Becoming this dimension’s Marguerite means taking on all of her life. Not just the dresses and jewels, not just dancing with Paul.
Before, I’d only been afraid of not getting home. Now I’m afraid of not getting out of this dimension in time to escape the danger that I now know is very, very real.
14
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, VLADIMIR WALKS INTO THE STUDY with a packet of letters in his hand.
“Are you in charge of the royal correspondence now?” I smile to turn it into a joke, but I honestly want to know why he’s doing anything so unusual. After a week and a half in this dimension, I know how weird it is for him to bring the mail instead of a servant.
“There was an odd letter this morning. The head secretary asked for my opinion, and I couldn’t think what to make of it, so I brought it to you myself.” Vladimir thumps the entire packet of envelopes against my desk before handing it to me. “It arrived via the French Embassy. Highly irregular—might simply be the work of some madman—but apparently the cover letter was extremely persuasive. Swore you’d want to see this.” He pulls the top envelope from the packet and shows it to me. “Do you?”
Written in fine, elegant English script across the front is Her Imperial Highness Grand Duchess Margarita of all the Russias.
Beneath it is another name: Meg.
Theo! I grab the envelope from Vladimir’s hand so swiftly it makes him laugh in surprise. But he doesn’t interrupt as I peel open the wax seal to read the note inside.
So, I’m a chemist in Paris, which I thought was pretty freakin’ awesome until I read a newspaper and realized what you were up to. How the hell are you the daughter of the tsar? Not sure how that panned out, but—well played, Meg. Well played.
Paul leaped into this dimension, obviously, and you did too; my Firebird tells me that much. Almost a week here, and neither of you has leaped away—I’m going crazy trying to figure out why. I’d be more worried if I didn’t know you were surrounded by guards who can protect you if I’m not around to do the job myself. Have you seen Paul? Did you use your princess powers to have him executed in some barbaric Russian fashion?
It’s startling to read Theo’s words. It’s even worse to remember that, not long ago, I thought Paul was a murderer. I look over the edge of the letter to see Paul standing there at the door. Theo thought I needed guards to protect me from him; instead, Paul is the one protecting me.
In all seriousness, I’m worried about you. I’m not sure why you’re sticking around. Are you waiting for me? Please don’t. Visas to travel within Russia are hard to come by (I checked), particularly when you don’t speak Russian.
The only other possibilities I can think of are that your Firebird got damaged somehow, that you’re sick, or that you don’t remember your true self right now. If it’s the last option—wow, does this letter sound insane. I hope you’re not sick; I keep reading the papers every day, trying to learn more about how you are.
If something has happened to your Firebird, get word to me, all right? It’s going to be easier for you to write to me than vice versa. You might even be able to wrangle a visa for a promising Parisian chemist. Or hey, you could ask for a trip to Paris to buy all the latest fashions, right? Big damn hats seem to be all the rage. Tell the tsar you need some big damn hats. Do whatever you have to do to get here. Then I can help you out, and just see your face again. I had no idea how much I’d miss seeing that face.
Don’t worry about me, by the way. I turned down a job offer to work on radium research, and I live only a couple of Metro stops from the Moulin Rouge. So Paris suits me just fine.
All I need here is you.
I let the letter drop into my lap, overcome with so many emotions I can hardly make sense of them. My joy at hearing from Theo again is coupled with hope (can he fix the Firebird if Dad can’t?), worry (how are we supposed to reach each other?), and guilt . . . because Theo misses me. Worries about me. Cares for me, and I have no idea how I feel about him in return.