Ten Thousand Skies Above You

“It says blue on my ID form.” He’s even worse at flirting than I am.

“But you know they’re gray, right?” Maybe he doesn’t. Paul has never been a guy to spend much time looking in a mirror. “What color does your ID form say your hair is?”

“Brown,” he replies, which isn’t exactly a wrong answer. But it isn’t exactly right, either.

“Light brown, but also a little red, and a little gold.” The hours I’ve spent mixing paints, trying to get the right shade. Paul is a difficult man to capture. “You have good shoulders, good skin—good everything, really.”

“You make it sound as if I were very handsome.”

“You are.”

This gets me not a smile but a skeptical glance. “Most women seem to disagree with you.”

There was a time when I wouldn’t have agreed either. His beauty isn’t boy-band cute; he’s rougher than that, his appeal not as easy to see. Once I’d seen it, though, I became drawn to him on a primal, instinctive level I couldn’t deny.

I suspect Paul is feeling much the same way now.

We eat our chicken chow mein; it’s a messy meal for a date, but I’m pretty good with a pair of chopsticks, and so is he. I keep the conversation going, and Paul—well, he tries to flirt back, clumsy as ever, but for me it’s enough just to see how much he’s enjoying himself.

Halfway through the meal, though, it hits me. What happens after?

As soon as Theo and I have done our job here, we’ll leap out of this dimension forever. I’m not too worried about our other selves; they’ll be freaked out to find themselves in San Francisco, on the train, wherever—but they can find their way home easily enough. I doubt they’ll be in any more danger because of the war than they are already.

But Paul will probably guess what really happened. He’ll know that I wasn’t his Marguerite. All the hope I see in him now—this light in his eyes as he looks at me—that will be destroyed.

Maybe not. Maybe he’ll react more like Theo and take some satisfaction in knowing that in another world, I loved him. In so many other worlds . . .

No. Because he won’t only be dealing with a broken heart. He’ll be dealing with the catastrophic destruction of the Firebird project, and this nation’s last hope for winning this war.

You deserve so much more than this, I think as he tells a story about traveling through the battle lines that cover the continent, on his journey from New York as a boy. We all do.

The tragedy of this world is just one more sin to lay at Conley’s feet.

But I’m the one doing it. I’m the one prioritizing Paul’s life over that of an entire world.

No. I won’t think about that. I can’t. The war began a long time before I got here, and I don’t understand how they’d use the Firebird to help anyway. They’re clutching at straws, that’s all. I’m simply . . . taking the straws away.

So I tell myself. But the words ring hollow.

At least I’ve given this Paul tonight—one night when it seems like his dreams are coming true.

When we leave the restaurant, I slide my arm through Paul’s, for the two of us to walk together that close. The silence on the streets of San Francisco is almost eerie—to me, at least; Paul seems to expect the quiet.

Although I gleaned a lot from Paul’s dinner conversation, I didn’t get any information about getting onto the base. Theo acted like it would be no big deal for me to steal Paul’s wallet in the middle of dinner. It’s not like I took Pickpocketing 101 with Fagin and the Artful Dodger.

Only one solution presents itself: Stay with Paul. Take this further than either Theo or I was willing to openly discuss.

“Are you all right?” Paul says. “You seemed far away for a moment.”

“I guess I was.” Focus, I remind myself. I won’t get many other chances at this.

“Tonight—I’m glad this happened.” Then he pauses, trying to find the right words. “I mean, I’m sorry things went wrong between you and Private Beck, but I’m glad you called me. That we spent the evening together.”

He may not have game, but most of the time, simple works better than smooth. Paul’s clumsy, honest pleasure in my company charms me more than any player’s lines ever could. Even if this were the first time we’d ever met—if I weren’t already in love with him—I’d still feel an irrepressible smile spreading across my face. “Me too.”

Paul keeps struggling to find the right words. “This isn’t—I haven’t gotten to do this very much. Go out, have fun.”

“With women, you mean?” I toss this off lightly, knowing how utterly inexperienced my Paul is. Then I realize that might not be true here. What if he tells me about some other girl, some other relationship?

But he says, “With women, or with anyone. All of us have to work so hard; we seldom have time for anything else. You know as well as I do.”

Maybe I do. This Marguerite seems to have made time for Theo between shifts at the munitions plant, though.

Thinking about the other Theo and the other me distracts me for a moment, but I’m snapped back to the present when I hear Paul say, “Where are you staying?”

Paul’s just asking, probably wondering whether he should walk me there, or wait for the bus with me. From any other guy, though, that would be a hint—suggesting he wouldn’t mind an invitation to my room.

Theo’s in my hotel room, so that’s out. However, if Paul and I could be alone—if I could distract him completely—I’d have all the time I wanted to go through his things, rummage through his wallet, and otherwise be the Mata Hari Theo told me to be.

But I’m not going to bed with him. No way.

With Lieutenant Markov, I thought I might be trapped in the grand duchess’s body forever; because of that, I acted for myself, not for her. And I’ve always known the grand duchess loved him, and she would have chosen to spend that one night with him, if she’d had the chance. But this Marguerite isn’t in love with Paul yet, and I won’t have sex with someone she wouldn’t consent to normally.

Even kissing is a step over the line. This Marguerite wouldn’t like that, and I’d sworn I would never steal another first kiss between any of the Marguerites and her Paul. But this is different, a necessity rather than pure desire. With this plan, I can slip the Firebirds in my purse so he won’t notice them, kiss Paul until dawn, and search for info about the labs once he falls asleep. This is the smart move, I tell myself. The tactical move.

Which it is. But I can’t deny that I also want to be with Paul so badly it almost hurts. If I could just hold Paul close, feel him against me, then for a little while I wouldn’t be afraid for him. I’m so sick of feeling afraid. Paul makes me feel strong. Whole.

And my Paul is within him—that one splinter of his soul.

“My hotel’s not far,” I say quietly. “But I bet your place is closer.”

Paul stops in his tracks. He stares at me, clearly astonished. “I—” It’s almost fun, watching him struggle for words. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t mean— I couldn’t spend the night. Not yet. But I’d like to stay with you for a while longer, if that’s okay.”