A Thousand Pieces of You

And this news item from New York City is accompanied by a photograph of the acclaimed inventor Wyatt Conley.

As the train car sways back and forth, I fold the crinkly newsprint and peer more closely at the picture. Conley’s wearing an old-timey suit and has his hair parted in the middle—seriously not a good look, how was that ever popular? Otherwise he seems much the same. His aw-shucks grin doesn’t conceal his confidence, any more than his boyish face hides his ruthlessness. The story is about his invention of the moving picture, and says he’s made films “as long as two minutes,” which makes me smirk. Apparently Conley is famous for innovation in any universe.

The brakes squeal against the tracks as the train decelerates; I brace my hand on the velvet seat, frowning. A glance out the window confirms that we’re in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by snow-covered fields and pine forests, still far from Moscow. “Why are we stopping?”

“There may be snow covering the tracks,” Paul says, but his expression is wary. “Put on your coat, my lady. Just in case.”

In case of what? But I do as Paul says, slipping into my long sable coat even as he walks through to one of the other cars to find out what’s going on.

“Do I have to put on my coat?” Katya asks Zefirov.

“Not until I win this hand,” he says, laughing.

But there’s something odd about his laugh.

Slowly I rise to my feet. “Katya?”

“Can’t you see I’m busy?” she says.

Zefirov looks up at me, his beefy face smug, and my heart sinks. Something is wrong, desperately wrong. He knows what it is. The rest of us are about to find out.

“Katya!” I put my hand out for her. She turns to me, angry, and would start calling me names. But that’s when the gunfire begins.

15

“KATYA!” I GRAB HER BY ONE ARM AND TOW HER TOWARD me. Her cards scatter across the floor of the train car, diamonds and clubs like litter at our feet.

Zefirov doesn’t move, only smiles at us, a grin so nasty I want to slap it off his face. “We’ll see who’s so high and mighty now. Who has to play cards with spoiled brats instead of serving like a real soldier.”

Katya starts to cry. I hug her to my chest. Although I want to ask him what’s going on, I already know. “Grand Duke Sergei. He’s behind this, isn’t he?”

“We’ll have no more cowards,” Zefirov says, rising to his feet. “We’ll have a real tsar, with the courage to take us into war.”

War? When did war come into this? I thought I was starting to understand this dimension, but I’m not at home, I’m dangerously ignorant of what’s going on, and there’s no way for me to fully comprehend the trap that’s just been sprung.

“You’re Peter’s guard. You’re our friend,” Katya protests.

Zefirov laughs as he rises to his feet. His hand goes to the pistol at his belt.

My God. The realization sweeps through me, freezing me in place. They’re going to shoot us all, then do something to the train that makes it look like there was an accident. Then Sergei is rightful heir to the throne. He wins it all as soon as we’re dead.

Screams and shouts echo from the rest of the train along with gunfire. I would run with Katya were there anywhere to run. As it is, I can only stare in horror as Zefirov levels his pistol.

Two shots ring in the train car, so loud my eardrums sting. Katya shrieks. But it’s Zefirov who falls.

I whirl around to see Paul standing there, his own weapon outstretched.

As I stand there in shock, my ears ringing, Paul steps forward. “You are unharmed, my lady?”

“We—we’re fine. What’s happening?”

“Not every soldier on this train is a traitor.” Paul looks angrier than I’ve ever seen him; he just killed a man without hesitation, and he can’t even be bothered to glance at the bloody corpse on the floor. “They may have rigged the train with explosives. You must run for the forest.”

The forest is a few hundred yards away. Snow has begun to fall, thick and soft, but I think I can get through it. We might be shot—but if we stay here, we’ll surely die.

“Go,” Paul says, and he takes my hand, squeezing it to shake me from my shock. “Run as fast as you can, and don’t look back. I will find you, my lady. I swear it.”

Katya wrestles free from me and grabs her coat; her survival instinct must be stronger than mine. Right behind her, I go for the door, but then I glance back. “Paul, be careful.”

“Go!” he shouts as he runs back toward my father’s car.

I dash from the train into the snow. It’s even higher than I thought—nearly to my knees. Running through it is work, but I do my best.

Wet snow sticks to my coat, my hair, and my eyelashes. Everything is heavy and white, thicker than fog. I can hear gunfire, but less frequent now, and more distant. The fighting is hand-to-hand, loyalist against traitor, and in places the snow is stained red.

“Marguerite!” Peter’s high voice carries over the din. I look toward the sound to see him in Dad’s arms; Dad is running for the woods as hard and as fast as he can, though he looks back for me, his expression desperate. I change the angle of my escape in an attempt to follow them.

I try to run faster, but only trip myself up. As I stagger, a hand catches me at the elbow; the cruelty of his grip tells me this is an enemy. I yank my arm away, but he has a knife and he’s right on me—