Just put everything down, take five steps, and then you can put your hands on him, ask him to put his hands on you—

As I looked into Paul’s eyes, I could see the answering echo of my own desire. He was breathing faster, unsure but willing. I hadn’t known I could want someone so much it made me dizzy.

But as I took that first step forward, I heard the front door—and Dad’s voice. “Marguerite? Are you home?”

Shit. I threw Paul’s T-shirt at him; he was already leaping into his jeans in a quick change worthy of Clark Kent. Through some miracle, he was fully dressed again by the time my father got around to checking my bedroom. Luckily Dad couldn’t see the sketch on my easel; I made sure to hide it afterward, too.

The grand duchess must hide her drawings of Lieutenant Markov. Even now, when her secret love for him has already been exposed, the tsar would be furious if he had to confront the evidence.

It’s brave of her to draw these, I think, flipping through a few rougher studies of Paul’s hands, his profile. Brave of her to keep them.

Then I come to a drawing in an entirely different style from all the rest—far softer, the lines less certain, as if the grand duchess were trying to paint an image within a cloud. Paul again, but lying naked in bed, the sheet tossed aside, his arm outstretched toward the artist. Toward her; toward me. The memory comes back to life so vividly that I can almost feel the heat of the wood stove, hear the wind whipping outside the dacha, and taste Paul’s mouth against mine.

Wiping at my eyes, I set the sketch pad aside. As I do so, one more letter falls out from between the pages. When I look at the envelope, it proves to be unimportant—a staggering bill from a couturier for the gowns I’ve purchased here in Paris. Yet seeing this makes me realize this universe’s Marguerite has never received a letter from the person she needs to hear from the most.

I find the fountain pen and a blank sheet of paper, and begin:

To the Grand Duchess Margarita,

How do I begin to tell you how sorry I am for what I’ve done to you? I never meant to stay so long in Russia the first time, and I promise not to stay more than another day here.

I should not have spent the night with Lieutenant Markov. As much as we loved each other, his love was more for you than for me, and I never should have stolen your only chance to be together. Most of all, I should have been more careful. Causing your pregnancy is the single worst thing I’ve ever done in my life, and there’s no way for me to begin making it up to you.

Maybe you don’t care how awful I feel about it. I wouldn’t blame you. But what I can promise is that, after this, I’ll never return to this dimension again. (“Dimensions” are what you seem to have called “shadow worlds.”) From now on, I swear: Your life is your own. Your body is your own.

I’m glad that at least you’ve gotten to know Dad. Hopefully that helps, having someone who’s always on your side. Because he is, in my world just as much as in yours.

Back home, Mom is alive and well. She’s a groundbreaking scientist, happy with Dad and with her life. I don’t have your siblings—who I miss so much—but I do have an older sister. Her name is Josephine, and I’m not sure what you’d make of her. She’s another scientist, and so tough and strong she could probably outfight most of the cavalry officers. But I bet the two of you would hit it off.

And Paul—

I hesitate, pen in hand. What can I possibly say?

And Paul is alive too. He studies physics with Mom and Dad, which is how I met him. Although he and I were already close before I came to your dimension, this is where I realized how much I love him.

Writing down the words reminds me of a hundred beautiful moments: Paul and me standing beneath the redwoods, staring up at the canopy of green leaves so impossibly far overhead. Making out in his dorm room, hearing his breath quicken as he pulls me closer. His giving me a bouquet of pink roses on Valentine’s Day, which I should’ve thought was cheesy but instead reduced me to a giddy puddle. Sketching him that evening, totally overcome by his physical presence.

Making lasagna together the night before Thanksgiving.

Talking about my paintings, and how he thought they always told the truth.

Learning that he’d risked everything to protect me and rescue my father.

Here, now, this moment, recognizing how much of what we are is truly between him and me alone.

As much as I loved Lieutenant Markov—what I feel for Paul is even more powerful. The love for him I’d tried to bury lives again inside me.

Shakily, I write the final paragraphs of my letter to the Grand Duchess Margarita:

You’ve given me so much—more, even, than I took from you. I don’t only need to atone for what I’ve done to your life; I also need to thank you for some of the most beautiful days I’ve ever known.

For the greatest love I’ve ever felt, and even for giving that love back to me.

I fold the letter and slip it into her sketch pad. She’ll find it when the time is right. My apologies have to be meaningless for her, but surely she’ll take some comfort from finding out she’s not one bit crazy. The shadow worlds, everything she went through in December: All of it was real. I hope knowing that helps. It’s the best I can do.

I curl up in bed and turn out the light. Even with all the emotions churning within me, I’m tired enough to pass out within moments.

But then I feel something weird in my stomach. It comes and goes in an instant, the kind of thing that’s easy to forget.

I feel it again, though, and this time the sensation is weirder. Honestly, it’s as though a goldfish is swimming deep inside me—

—which is when I realize the truth, and my eyes open wide.

The next morning, once I’m done getting sick, I send a note down to the management, telling them to send a summons to Theodore Willem Beck. No, it won’t be easy for them to find him—but dammit, in this dimension I’m a grand duchess of all the Russias. What’s the point of being royalty if you can’t make impossible demands once in a while?

Maybe not so impossible. Either the hotel had Theo’s information on file after all or the Ritz Paris is extremely dedicated to customer service, because they soon reply that they’ll have him here by noon.

That’s still a few hours away. Maybe I have time to create a portrait of my family back home, using the grand duchess’s pastels and sketchbook. She’d probably like to see what Mom would look like if she were still alive in this dimension. The pose for the family group requires some care; if anyone else ever sees this, it’s probably best if the late tsaritsa and the royal tutor aren’t in each other’s arms. So I put us on the sofa—Mom and Dad on the ends, me next to Mom, Josie by Dad.

Just as I’m shading in Josie’s chin, there’s a rap on the door. That must be Theo, though I’m slightly surprised the hotel simply sent him up to the Suite Imperial. “Come in!” I call, just as I remember the notation in the appointment book, something about news from a Cousin Karin—

But my visitor is someone else entirely.

Dizziness washes over me again, but this time it’s only from astonishment, and maybe joy. “Vladimir?”

“Marguerite!” He crosses the room and scoops me into his arms; his camel-colored overcoat is still cool from the outside air. “Oh, look at you. Are you well?”