Ten Thousand Skies Above You

“Don’t act so surprised. This might be my first long-distance trip, but I think I’m getting the swing of it. Of course, I had to cut way down on the reminders—you were right about the charge, and also, damn do reminders hurt.” His smile is crooked. “What did you think I was here for? Just to provide an excuse for you to get on that train?”

“Moral support, I guess.”

It’s his turn to laugh. “Immoral support, more like.”

How can Theo make me smile even when the situation is so grim? Somehow he always does.

Then he adds, “Besides, like you said, while you’re nabbing Paul’s stuff—you’ll be close to him. You’ll have your chance to rescue that splinter of his soul.”

The thought of being close to Paul—both this world’s Paul and my own—sends a shiver through me. But I don’t lose focus. If I act too early, Paul will catch on. We have to complete our terrible mission here before I have my chance at Paul. “Not until the very end.”

“Two rooms? What’s a guy with a pretty girl want with two hotel rooms?” says the desk clerk.

With a straight face, Theo replies, “I’ll have you know I’m a gentleman, sir.”

The guy gives him a look. “You know how many refugees from SoCal we’ve had coming through here the past couple of weeks? You’re lucky I’ve even got one room available. Nobody else is going to have many vacancies either. Take this one, and you can be a gentleman on the floor.”

As we silently ride up in the elevator, Theo holds our suitcases. I hold the hotel key—old-fashioned, metal with an aquamarine plastic tag dangling by a chain. Finally Theo says, “The floor’s fine. Really.”

“We can take shifts. Four hours bed, four hours floor.”

“That works too.”

The problem is, there’s not even a lot of floor in this hotel room, which is the smallest I’ve ever seen. Although I guess this is technically a double bed, it’s narrower than most, and yet it covers almost the entire length of the room. We barely have room to slip inside, stash our suitcases in a closet almost too shallow to hold them, and to open the door to a bathroom not much bigger than the closet. The carpet is beige industrial stuff, and the paint on the yellowing walls is chipped.

“Well, it ain’t the Ritz.” Theo sits down heavily on the bed, then frowns. “Wait. Where’s the phone?”

Turns out this hotel has only one phone per floor. If you want to make a call, you have to wait in line to step inside the “phone booth”—actually just a cubby with a little bench. The guy in front of me has a ten-minute argument with a woman (wife or girlfriend, I can’t tell) who apparently feels like he doesn’t make enough time for the two of them. I hear enough of the conversation to agree with her, but nobody’s asking me.

Finally he slams down the receiver and stalks off. The phone is mine. For a moment I sit there, staring at the printout with Paul’s number on it, wondering how I go through with this.

Then I read the title again: Lieutenant Markov. And I dial.

Three rings, and—“Markov.”

Paul’s voice feels like rain after a drought. Just hearing him makes my throat tighten. I manage to say, “Lieutenant Markov? This is Marguerite Caine.”

“Miss Caine?” He sounds like he thinks this might be some kind of prank.

“Yeah. Hi. I—I hope it’s okay that I called.”

“Of course. Has something happened to the Doctors Caine?”

“No, no, they’re fine! I was calling because, well, I’m in San Francisco, and I’m on my own. So I thought maybe we could meet up.”

After a brief pause, Paul says, “You came to San Francisco by yourself?”

“No. I came here with Theo.” Do I sound angry? I’m trying. “But he got upset because I—well, he stormed off. So now I’m all alone in the city for a couple of days.”

“Private Beck left you on your own?” At least one of us is genuinely angry.

“I’m all right!” I feel the need to make excuses for Theo, even after an argument that’s totally imaginary. “I’ve got a hotel room, and my suitcase, and a ticket back home in three days. But until then—well—I could use some company.”

The silence that follows stretches so long I start to wonder if we lost our connection. Finally Paul says, “Would you allow me to take you to dinner?”

He speaks so formally, sounds so unsure. I’m reminded of Lieutenant Markov, and the way he loved the Grand Duchess Margarita for so long without ever saying a word. I can feel my smile like sunlight on my face. “I’d love that.”

Next up in this dimension’s never-ending parade of awkward: getting ready for my hot date with Paul while Theo is in the same room.

Technically I get dressed in the bathroom, but he’s right outside the door, critiquing the other elements of my outfit. “Your shoes are awful,” he calls as I struggle with my zipper. “These are hug-me pumps at best.”

“I’m not going out to seduce him.” Paul and I never discussed whether getting together with other-dimensional versions of ourselves would count as cheating. Our relationship issues are not like most people’s. “I just need him to be, you know, flattered that I’m paying him attention.”

“Trust me,” Theo says, more quietly. “He’s gonna melt the minute he sees you.”

I pretend I can’t hear him. Instead, I finally conquer the zipper, then step as far back as I can to look at myself in the small mirror.

Josie’s slightly shorter than I am, and her boobs are way better. But the way this dress is cut, the differences in our sizes don’t matter. The neckline cascades in soft folds, Grecian-style, then flows freely down to slightly past my knees. Although the dress has no sleeves, some of the red fabric drapes over my shoulders almost to the elbow. It doesn’t show much skin at the neck or arms or legs, and the fabric remains cheap, but the overall effect is undeniably sexy.

My short hair makes me wince. If I could tie it up in a messy bun, that would look perfect. Instead, I work with the bob as best I can, pulling one side back with a shiny metal clip.

Lipstick here is almost always worn dark red. The shade matches the dress, so I’m happy with it. I have no jewelry besides the Firebirds, tucked beneath my neckline so that only a hint of the gold chains shows at my throat. I fluff my hair again, step out of the bathroom, and smile. “How do I look?”

Theo just stops. He stares at me like he can’t move, or maybe even breathe. His expression reminds me of the picture I found in this Marguerite’s pocket.

I think maybe the tiny bathroom mirror didn’t do justice to this dress.

Then Theo snaps out of it. “You look smashing, my dear.”

“Very British of you.” Stupid joke. I have to joke, distract him, do something to break the tension between us.

“Should I say ravishing? Gorgeous? How about lovely? Lovely works.”

I manage to smile. “Thank you.”

When I step into the shoes, I wobble—heels aren’t my thing. Theo leans close, so that I can brace my hand against his shoulder. Once I’ve got them on, though, he doesn’t move back. I don’t take my hand away, either.