I remember the room I appeared in, the half-bedroom, half-office with locks on the door. At the time I was too shaken to analyze it, but now its purpose is clear. “You’re keeping me under guard, in case Wicked decides to drop by.”
“Once the Berkeleyverse warned us of the danger,” Mom says, “you volunteered. I mean, our you, not you you.”
“Got it. Good. That was the right thing to do.” What damage could Wicked possibly do to an aircraft carrier? I don’t want to find out. “It’s okay. I won’t leave this area, no matter what.”
“Of course you understand.” Dad looks at me the same way he did when he realized I’d grown an inch taller than Mom—proud but wistful. “To tell you the truth, Marguerite, when we first learned what was going on, I didn’t understand why Josie hadn’t been the perfect traveler. She’s the one who can’t wait to plunge into the fray.” Josie has dragged me onto countless roller coasters and zip lines; the first time I learned she was the Home Office’s choice as perfect traveler, I knew that made perfect sense. Before I can agree with my dad, however, he continues, “But this role doesn’t need an adventurer as much as it needs someone who can . . . look at each world with fresh eyes. Who can perceive things deeply. Not an adventurer—an artist. You were the one we needed all along.”
It’s like the moment in Egypt when I realized that, in their dimension, I got to be a meaningful part of my parents’ work, but even better. Times a thousand. “Thanks,” I manage to say, despite the catch in my throat.
Mom sighs, both in satisfaction and as a signal that they have to go. “We’ll bring your dinner in a couple of hours, sweetheart. If you need more books, let us know—or I could bring a pack of cards.”
“Actually, could you send Paul down with dinner?” Maybe he’s not ready to talk with me again yet, but who knows how much time we’ll have? I can’t afford to waste a single chance. “We need to talk.”
Within five minutes, I have explored every inch of my Spartan new surroundings. The bathroom, or “head” as they call it here, is clean but tiny, and weird, too—instead of a real shower, there’s just this handheld nozzle and a drain in the floor; basically the whole bathroom is your shower. Instead of glass, the mirror is polished metal, providing a blurry view of myself in the vaguely old-fashioned style I remember: my curly hair cropped to chin-length and pulled to one side with bobby pins, very little makeup besides the dark red lipstick that even Theo’s kiss couldn’t smear.
For once, I don’t have to try leaping out of this universe in every quiet moment. Instead, I get to curl up on the bed. While I’m too on edge to truly relax, it’s a luxury just to lie there. Just to be, for a while. Thanks to the new interdimensional tracking, my parents will be able to tell me when Wicked’s finally moved along.
Through the drowsy haze of my not-quite-a-nap, I think that she seems to be taking her time. Is that because the Home Office thinks I died with the Romeverse? Or is that because Wicked’s figuring out an even deadlier trap? Though I have no idea how anything could ever top that.
A knock jolts me back to the here and now. From the other side of the door Paul says, “Dinner.”
I roll off the bed, take one deep breath, and then I open the door with a smile. Paul remains so stiff he might as well be at attention before the captain, a tray of food in his hands. “Hey,” I say. “Thanks. Please come in.”
He does, setting the tray down on my table as quickly as possible. When I close the door behind him, though, he tenses. Obviously he was hoping for a very brief visit.
“Didn’t my parents tell you I was hoping to talk?” I ask.
“Yes. But I couldn’t imagine what we would have to talk about. Aside from the Firebird project, of course, but you can have those conversations with your parents. That would no doubt be more productive.” Each word is clipped, and his posture is formal. I’ve got my work cut out for me.
“I don’t want to talk about the Firebird. I want to talk about Paul. My Paul.” How can I get through to him? “I love him, but he’s in trouble—so much trouble—and I don’t know how to help. I thought, if anyone could help me understand, it would have to be you, right? You’re so closed off sometimes. So hard to read. Only another you could ever really understand.”
“We’re not the same,” Paul replies.
“No. But you’re not totally different, either.” Not everything from that night in Chinatown was fake, I want to say, but I know better. “Please. He needs us.”
Paul’s stoic face betrays nothing, but he sits on the edge of my bed. His posture remains so stiff that he might as well be seated in a church pew.
I’m nearly as ravenous as I am curious, so I sit at the table to eat the sandwich he brought me. Hungry as I am, though, I can only manage a couple of bites. Warverse bread tastes like cardboard. Given the severity of the rations here, it may actually be cardboard. “Okay,” I say, setting the sandwich down. “You remember how Paul was splintered before. How part of his soul was hidden inside you.”
“I assume you were able to find and reunite all four splinters of his soul. Otherwise we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“Yes, but that wasn’t enough.” I ought to have taken an image of that terrible brain scan from the Spaceverse. If I could point to that now, the damage would be undeniable. “Paul’s messed up. All these darker impulses—violent impulses, even—it’s like he can only barely control them. He doesn’t trust himself around me or around anyone, and he doesn’t believe he’ll get any better.”
“He won’t heal from the injury.” Paul’s tone is so cool, he could be discussing a stranger instead of another version of himself. “If the splinters didn’t synthesize correctly while being spliced back together, they never will.”
I sag back in the chair. “You can’t know that.”
“Injuries to the soul aren’t like injuries to the body. Splintering isn’t the same as cutting through skin. It’s more like—shattering porcelain.” Paul’s hands trace an indistinct shape in the air, some broken thing he has imagined. “You can put it back together again, even glue it so well the cracks barely show. But the cracks will always be there. They won’t heal.”