“Marguerite?” Paul’s voice is gentle.
I look up at him, struck anew with the wonder of his survival. What’s even more beautiful is that he’s smiling back at me with just as much joy. Just as much hope.
He takes my hand and says, “Let’s make a world.”
EPILOGUE
AS FAR AS THE NEWS IS CONCERNED, WHAT HAPPENED that day in San Francisco was an earthquake—one with a strange shock pattern, but not even all that serious. Aside from a couple of minor injuries from fender benders, nobody was even hurt.
A few people on social media mention strange things they saw or thought during the quake, and some conspiracy-theory sites blame “chemtrails.” Mostly people write the weirdness off as fear and confusion. Hallucinations caused by panic, maybe. No one realizes just how close our world came to destruction. Already the quake has been almost forgotten. Life goes on.
Josie invites me down to San Diego for a couple of weekends, and I go. She teaches me to surf, or tries to, anyway. I never manage to do much more than stand on the board for roughly thirty seconds before I tumble back into the ocean.
It doesn’t matter. More important are the evenings we spend walking along the beach in our bikini bottoms and swim shirts, towels draped over our arms, an ice cream cone in each of our hands as we talk about everything and nothing.
We always got along, but it doesn’t have to be anger that drives people apart. Time and inattention can separate us just as surely. How far apart might Josie and I have drifted if I hadn’t had a chance to see how desolate my life could be without my big sister? If we hadn’t consciously decided to carve out more time for each other?
I’m glad we’ll never know.
The collaboration between the dimensions continues. Now we’re much more likely to simply talk than to visit, and journeys are always checked out in advance. I travel less often than the others now, because the trips are de facto scientific conferences. But I’ve visited along with my parents or Paul just to see how things are going.
In the Warverse, “our side” of the conflict seems to be turning the tide. While none of us are thrilled that they’ve used their new knowledge to design weaponry, it’s their choice to make, not ours. Their Marguerite writes, and receives, long love letters from Theo at least twice a week. If the Paul from that world is ever going to have a chance, Theo will have to seriously screw up.
The Mafiaverse is making significant strides forward. My parents try to visit on weekends when Josie and Wyatt aren’t around. Their version of Wyatt Conley continues to be devoted to my sister, so there’s no point in tearing him down. Maybe his Mafiaverse self is his best self—the person he could’ve been here, if his ego hadn’t gotten in the way. Their Theo did lose one leg below the knee, which is terrible. But he’s learning to deal with a prosthetic, and his anger is directed at the mobster who shot him. The prospect of discovery engages Theo more than any bitterness about the past.
As for the Russian mob version of Paul, well, he’s stopped trying to contact that Marguerite. (Our Paul, of course, never visits that dimension.) The police never found him. He’s somewhere in that world leading a very sad life. I hope he finds a way out of it before the poison sinks in too deep and turns him into another version of his father.
The Triadverse went completely silent for a while, until the other versions of my parents finally reached out. Without Conley around, or any interference from the Home Office, they’ve been able to take control of the Firebird project again. That Paul returned to the US from Ecuador with the other me at his side, both of them relieved to be back home.
The Oceanverse continues to believe we should pay for that submarine. Apparently they’re superlitigious over there—that’s something I didn’t pick up on during my visit. We’ve told them to take it up with the Triadverse, since it was technically that Theo’s fault. But his death leaves them still searching for someone to blame. Thank goodness you can’t sue someone in another dimension. Not yet, anyway.
In the Cambridgeverse, my parents have forgiven their version of Paul, at least enough to work with him again on the new discoveries. Apparently my other self forgave him too; they haven’t gotten back together, but they’re . . . doing better. And she got into film school at USC, which is amazing. She dreams big, too—she’s even left out some fashion magazines for me when I’ve visited, complete with jokey Post-It notes asking me which gown would make the best Oscar dress. I’ve returned to this dimension more than most of the others, although I admit that’s mostly to play with Ringo the pug.
Some worlds I’ll never see again. The Spaceverse understands that it wasn’t exactly me who sabotaged the Astraeus, but I doubt I’d receive a very warm welcome. The Moscowverse doesn’t have the technology to join in or the desire to play along. In a police state, inexplicable movements and memory lapses are exponentially more dangerous. They were glad to help us in the end, but just as glad to see us go. And of course any world in which a Marguerite died is cut off from me forever. That futuristic London is lost; so is the chance to explore the tombs in Egypt.
But I’ve visited the world where Dad and Josie died in the carjacking, to spend more time with that Mom. She doesn’t want to come here and see them because she says it would set her back. Still, I’ve been able to share some of their scientific data with her, and she enjoys just hearing about the others—imagining the lives her husband and older daughter would have led.
I might see the Russiaverse again, someday. The grand duchess sent a message for me with Theo, saying that she appreciated my promise not to return, but that I’m welcome to come back one more time, after September, if I want to see the baby. What she really wants is for me to be able to tell Paul about this child that is partly his, partly mine, and entirely hers. That trip will be difficult, not to mention mind-blowing, but I’ll go. It would be worth it just to visit Vladimir, Katya, and Peter again.
But I’ll do it even if I don’t get to see them. I owe the grand duchess so much. It’s the least I can do. And I want to see the baby, too.
“This is extraordinary work.” The examiner walks around the room where my portfolio is on display. “You have an exceptional breadth of techniques for a student so young.”
I want to jump up and down and make squealing cheerleader noises. Instead I manage to stick with “Thank you.”