Ten Thousand Skies Above You

“I’m better. I’m so much better, I promise.” Why did I ever think Vladimir would have abandoned his sister? Instead, he crossed most of Europe to visit me. I pull back from his embrace enough to look at him again. In some ways it’s still strange, seeing a guy’s face that reminds me so much of my mother’s, and my own. But this is Vladimir—same curly hair, same mustache, same open grin. I missed him even more than I knew.

“Better?” he says, then lowers his voice. “But you are—you remain—”

His eyes flicker down toward my belly.

Vladimir knows. He’s known all along. Of course he still loved her; of course he’s still on her side. Why did I ever doubt him? Relief washes through me again, even more powerfully. “Yes.”

“Then we stick with the plan.” Vladimir brushes my hair back from my forehead. “I’ve spoken to Karin. She will be discreet—you needn’t doubt her, she’s kept many secrets in her sixty years. Her house is in the Danish countryside, and she has only a handful of servants, all loyal to her. I’ll explain to Father that you’re still unwell, but tell him he was right about therapy being useless. When I explain that you need several months to recuperate in the country air, with family, he’ll accept it.”

Several months. Through late September. “And after? What about after?”

Maybe the other Marguerite already understands this. I have no rational reason to ask. But I have to know what will become of this child I helped create.

“Karin will prove her generosity and adopt an orphan child. A new little cousin of ours, whom of course you will come to cherish during your time in Denmark. Naturally you’ll want the child to visit often. Perhaps to live with the family in Russia in a few years, when Karin becomes old enough to wish to return to Copenhagen.”

A cousin. A visitor. Already I feel myself rejecting this, thinking, It’s not enough. This Marguerite has to have felt the same way; if she didn’t want this baby, desperately, she wouldn’t have asked Vladimir to find a solution.

But this is probably the best answer available in her world. The royal family pride will be preserved. The tsar will never learn of the pregnancy. And the child will live with this other me soon. The grand duchess will help to raise her, or him. They’ll love each other, and someday . . . someday maybe she can tell the truth about how the baby came into this world.

To the small person-to-be inside, I think, Your mother is going to tell you all about your dad. She’s going to tell you he was the best man we’ve ever known.

Vladimir cuddles me protectively. “You look so pale. Have you packed your things? Do you need someone to help you?”

“I haven’t packed.” Because I had no idea I was leaving. “And there’s someone I should say goodbye to before we go. He should be here before noon.”

“Very well. I’ll settle your bills. Of course you had to shop to convince the tsar you were doing well in Paris, but I must say, you made a thorough job of it.” He cups my chin in his hand, the way he must have done when I was a little girl. “Before I forget to say it, I’ve missed you terribly.”

“I’ve missed you too.”

By 11:00 a.m., Vladimir has helped me pack almost everything. I make sure my note to the grand duchess is folded in the back of the sketchpad, next to the portrait of my own family, before I tuck that into her trunk. Vladimir, meanwhile, is shaking his head at my new collection of broad-brimmed hats. “Honestly, Margarita. How can you need so many?”

“They’re the only clothes that will still fit me in a few months’ time,” I say, which makes him laugh.

Then the concierge rings to tell me my guest is waiting for me in the garden. Vladimir gives me a look. “Your mysterious farewell?”

“Yes. I’ll be right back, all right?”

Naturally the Ritz has made sure its gardens are as elegant as the rest of the hotel. Even though spring is only now settling upon Paris, the wide lawn already shines a light, vivid green. White marble neoclassical statues stand on pedestals throughout the long, narrow length of the garden, and the branches of the trees around the edges are already heavy with buds that will soon become flowers. Only a few flowers have appeared so far—tulips, mostly.

Theo waits for me in a corner of the garden, gray overcoat buckled rakishly tight at the waist, hat at a jaunty angle. Once he sees me, he immediately hurries to my side. “Oh, my God. Sit. You have to sit. How do you feel?”

“Still capable of walking. But thanks.” Despite everything, I have to laugh.

He guides me to the nearest bench, his hands gentle on my shoulders as if I were made of spun glass. Once we’re seated, he looks into my eyes and whispers, “Holy shit.”

“I know. I know!”

“I can’t get over it.”

“You can’t get over it?” I’m the one who’s had morning sickness.

“It’s just—there’s a little Paul in there. Or a little Marguerite.” He stares at my belly like it’s a viewscreen directly into my uterus, then shakes his head, visibly pulling himself back together. “This makes me Uncle Theo. The responsibility takes some getting used to.”

He’s overdoing his reaction—trying to cheer me up, because he realizes how overwhelming this must be. And maybe he’s trying a little too hard to be happy about something that might be hard for him to hear. But I can tell his emotions are genuine, and it touches me in a way I wouldn’t have expected.

I’ve never understood how anybody could be in love with two people at the same time. Your heart can only sing one song at a time.

What I’ve learned, though, is that being in love doesn’t make everybody else in the world invisible. Someone you found attractive before? Yeah, they don’t magically turn hideous when you fall in love with another person. You don’t stop thinking their jokes are funny; you don’t stop being interested in what they have to say. You don’t stop caring about a human being just because he’s not the one you care most about in the world.

It’s not the same as being in love, of course. If anything, I’m more aware than ever before of the wide gulf between mere chemistry and actually loving someone. Even when I have these moments of profound connection with Theo, he stands on the other side of a line I have no desire to cross.

And finally Theo has accepted that line.

“I’m going to buy you your first beer,” he whispers as he leans forward, addressing my belly. “Way before you’re legal. Don’t tell your parents.”

“You’re in the wrong universe for that. Here, I think you’re off the hook.”

“You never know.”

“Theo, it’s been so strange, the past couple of days. Every time I remembered Paul shooting you, I didn’t know what to think. But now—this—” I pat the slight swell of my stomach. “Late last night I was thinking about Paul, and the baby moved, and everything I ever felt for Paul came rushing back.”

“That’s Paul’s baby,” Theo says in wonder. He’s talking to himself, not to me. “Man, I wish I could see this kid.”

“Me too.” It feels so strange, knowing I’ll never once look at this child, or hold it in my arms.