Ten Thousand Skies Above You

“One eternal soul,” he whispers. The very quietness of his voice cuts me, as it’s meant to. “Only one self, across the countless dimensions of the multiverse, and we all have to answer for each other’s sins. Which means, to you, I’m still the Theo who helped kidnap your dad, and framed Paul for murder. The one who betrayed you. When you look at me, that’s all you see.”

I want to say, No, that’s not true. But I can’t. Still, when I look at Theo, I feel a flicker of doubt.

Only now do I realize that I’m the one who betrayed Theo. By refusing to see him for himself, to respect the choices he’s made and the loyalty he’s shown, I’m betraying him this very second.

“That Paul isn’t our Paul,” Theo says. By now he’s so mad he seems to be staring through me, like I’m beneath even being noticed. “Just like I’m not that Theo. He didn’t blame me for something an entirely different Theo did, and I won’t blame him for what happened in New York. Dammit, Marguerite, I’m the one who got shot! If I can let it go, why can’t you?”

He rises to his feet and shoves his chair to the table. Apparently the grand duchess will dine alone tonight.

Theo continues, “Believe what you want to believe. Doubt me, doubt Paul, hide in fin de siècle Paris if it makes you feel better. But if you won’t save Paul, I will.”

With that, he stalks out of the private dining room.

Now it’s just me and the flickering gaslight. I lost Paul three times over—when Lieutenant Markov died in this dimension, when Wyatt Conley splintered his soul, and when I saw Paul shoot Theo. Now I’ve lost Theo, too.

Never, in any world, have I been so alone.

21

WHEN DAWN BREAKS THE NEXT DAY, I HAVEN’T SLEPT MORE than a few hours. Exhaustion weighs down my body and paints dark circles beneath my eyes.

Partly this is because of my pregnancy. At least I assume that’s why I have to get up to pee about every two hours.

I thought babies only kept you awake after they were born.

Mostly, though, my insomnia comes from guilt. The many reasons boil inside my mind, hot and agitated, and as soon as I’ve set one aside, another bubbles up to take its place.

I got the grand duchess pregnant. The worst thing I’ve ever done. Hopefully the worst thing I’ll ever do. How much worse than that could I even get?

Theo thinks I’ve spent the last three months hating him. I could never hate Theo. Not even after what the other one put me through, with his careful lies, the way he set up my entire family and Paul too, or how he cozied up to me by flirting and leaning close and calling me “Meg.” (Even the thought of that nickname makes my skin crawl.) After the past few days, I know more than ever how much Theo’s done for me, how much more he would give. How could I ever have doubted him because of something that happened to him? He was the main victim of the Triadverse’s Theo—not me, not my mom, not even my kidnapped father.

Theo and I didn’t move on to the home office. Conley probably thinks we’ve abandoned Paul. I haven’t—I never would. Even if I’m not sure how to be with him again, there’s no way I’m not going to bring him home.

I’m letting the actions of another Paul affect my emotions about my Paul, the one I love. After Theo’s blistering lecture last night, I realize how cruel and unjust that is. Yet my heart remembers the homicidal dullness in Paul’s eyes as he shot Theo over and over again.

After what feels like an endless weak sunrise, I finally accept sleep isn’t going to happen. I wrap myself in the velvet robe and wander through the palatial Suite Imperial, wishing for some way to kill time. Sure, there are books on the shelves—histories and encyclopedias of this alternate timeline that would probably fascinate my parents. The kind of thing I ought to take notes on, but I can’t, not with my mind racing like this.

No TV or computer, obviously. Life before Wi-Fi was a barren time.

Finally, I look at the grand duchess’s sketchbook and pastels. I’ve avoided opening the sketchbook, because I’m completely certain Paul’s portrait is on those pages. I’m not ready to see his face looking up at me, not yet. But I remember Lieutenant Markov giving me the box of pastels—the light in his eyes as he realized how much I loved his Christmas gift. Surely I could draw one picture with them, just one.

I pick up the sketchbook, determined to flip through quickly to a blank page so I won’t see anything drawn within. But as soon as I take it from the desk, folded papers fall out onto the floor. As I squint down at them, I see how many of them are letters.

Am I violating the grand duchess’s privacy if I read them? Compared to the fact that I’m walking around in her body, which I also got pregnant, going over the mail doesn’t seem like a big deal. Besides, maybe the letters will tell me what she’s planning—what’s going to become of her.

The first one I open, written in badly blotted ink, is from Katya, the bratty little sister who might have saved my life during the rebellion by tackling an enemy soldier twice her size:

I told you to be quiet about that “shadow world” stuff, but you never listen to me. Simply tell them it’s all a story you made up, so you can come home. Papa says it’s not proper for me to attend balls while you’re seeing your French doctor, and I’m tired of sitting around every night. Will you at least be home by the time we go to Tsarskoye Selo for the summer? You always enjoy that.

I smile softly; Katya misses me, though she won’t admit it. I’ve missed her too.

But—summertime. I do what the other Marguerite must have done the first time realization set in, counting off weeks and months to late September. How can I possibly hide this pregnancy for so long?

If I could solve these problems for her, I would—but I can’t. I’m not sure anybody can.

The next letter turns out to be more comforting; it’s from my little brother, Peter.

Margarita, I wish you were here. I’m studying hard and Professor Caine is helping me draw a map of Africa. Papa has a lion skin from the time he went shooting in Africa when he was young, but I think it was mean to kill the lion just to take its skin. If I ever go to Africa, I’ll take photographs of the animals, because that way the animals will be happy and I can still look at them forever. Also the lion skin smells nasty now. Please come home from France soon. I love you.

A laugh bubbles up in my chest as I envision Peter’s sweet little face while he labored to write each word. He’s so tiny for his age, or he was; maybe he’s grown since.

I pick up the next letter, relieved and grateful to recognize my father’s handwriting. Though, of course, this letter is signed from my “tutor,” Henry Caine.

Your Imperial Highness,

I’m glad to hear that your time in Paris has proved beneficial, as we discussed. Although the tsar has expressed impatience, I’ve endeavored to convince him that psychotherapy has genuine medical value, and that your convalescence should not be rushed.

As we speculated, the king of England appears to have turned his attentions toward the Rumanian princess for his son’s bride. The tsar feels this keenly, but your health outweighs all other considerations. Besides, now that Vladimir is courting that Polish princess, I suspect Tsar Alexander has matchmaking enough for now.