It’s stupid to be nervous. I trust Theo. There’s no reason for me to worry about him doing something.
Then I realize—Theo’s not the person I’m unsure of. What I don’t know is what I might do.
It would be so easy, so good, to forget everything farther away than this bed and my own skin.
And it’s Theo. The one person in this world I can rely on, the one I want to keep closer than any other—
My whisper is the only sound in the room. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”
For a moment, the only reply is silence. Then Theo rises from his place at the foot of my bed. His body is silhouetted by the moonlight, and I realize that he’s taken off his shirt to sleep.
Without a word he walks around to my side of the bed, then sits down, his hip against my leg. The mattress sinks in beneath him, rolling me slightly closer. Theo braces one hand near my pillow. With the other, he brushes my damp curls away from my face. I want to say something to him, but I can’t think of what. All I can do is lie there, breaths coming fast and shallow, staring up at him, both wanting him to touch me again and terrified that he will.
Slowly Theo leans down over me. My T-shirt is slightly off one shoulder, and his lips brush me there—along the line of my collarbone. The kiss lasts only a moment. It crashes through me like lightning.
He whispers, “Ask me again sometime, when we’re both ourselves.” Then he lifts his head, and his smile is soft. “Next time I won’t stop with your shoulder.”
With that he rises from the bed and goes back to his own place. Already I know he won’t say another word until morning.
Should I feel humiliated or flattered? But my heartbeat is steadying; I feel safe with Theo, safer than I’ve felt since the moment we heard about Dad. That makes it easy to close my eyes, relax, and surrender to sleep.
I awaken to the sound of laughter.
For one split second, I think I’m back at home. So many days, I’ve awoken to the sound of my parents and sister laughing in the kitchen, and maybe their research assistants, too, voices floating to me along with the scent of blueberry waffles. But no. I’m still in another Marguerite’s bedroom, her body, her world.
No way am I wearing this pink T-shirt in broad daylight, so I fish around in the nightstand, hoping for something to put on. Then my fingers make contact with silk, and I lift a butter-yellow kimono-style dressing gown, elaborately embroidered. It shocks me, weirdly, because this looks more like something I would own. The Marguerite from this dimension saw this silk robe and responded to it like I would . . . because we are the same person, on some level I’m still learning to understand.
I wrap the silk gown around me and hurry to the kitchen. The illusion of my old life must be incredibly strong, because I could still swear I smell blueberry waffles—
“You’re a naughty one, you are,” Aunt Susannah coos, and she’s still chuckling at her own joke when I walk in to see her sitting at the kitchen island while Theo busies himself at the stove. He’s wearing his undershirt and boxers, a serious case of stubble, and a grin.
“We just met, and already you’ve got my number,” Theo says as he pours batter into a frying pan. As he finishes, he looks up and sees me. “Morning, Meg!”
“Uh, hi,” I say faintly. “You’re . . . making breakfast?”
“Blueberry pancakes. I learned the recipe from the master.” By this Theo means my dad. “They were going to be waffles, but Susannah here is shockingly deficient in waffle irons.”
“Guilty as charged.” Aunt Susannah’s hands are folded under her chin in a gesture that would look childish on someone my age, much less hers. I remember from my old London trips that she does this to hide the wrinkles on her neck.
Oh, my God, she’s flirting with him. I might feel jealous if it weren’t so ludicrous.
Theo is of course flirting back. “Girl, someone needs to take you shopping.”
“Don’t think I haven’t looked for a sugar daddy,” she says. “Of course, we’re set up all right. Maybe I should try being a sugar momma for a change.”
“Intriguing notion.” He cocks one of those arched eyebrows of his, then flips the pancake over.
There’s only so much of this I can watch. “I’m getting dressed,” I announce, and hurry back to my room.
My closet at home is filled with dresses, flowing skirts, floral patterns and vivid color, crochet and lace. This closet looks more like a magazine layout designed to show off the world’s most expensive and impractical designer brands. But I find a simple black T and gray slacks that will work, and one pair of shoes that looks like it won’t kill my feet.
When I emerge, I cross paths with Aunt Susannah, who’s wandering back to her own room with a plate in one hand and a fork in the other; one last wedge of pancake sits on her plate. She beams at me and says, in a stage whisper, “I like that one. He’s cleverer than your usual sort.”
Who else has the other Marguerite brought home after clubbing? I don’t want to think about it.
A plate of pancakes waits for me on the kitchen island, and my stomach grumbles in eager gratitude. Theo is standing by the sink, his hands braced against the counter; he doesn’t look up when I walk in.
“Thanks,” I say as I sit down to breakfast. “It’s good that we’re starting early. But you could’ve woken me.”
“Yeah. I guess.” He seems distracted—more tired than he was before. Probably he didn’t rest well, sleeping on the floor.