“And for you—” I think more about what the pastels mean, artistically. “I spend too much time thinking about . . . lines and shadows. You want me to find subtlety and depth.”
Paul’s face falls. “It was not a criticism, my lady.”
“Oh, no, no. I didn’t mean that. I meant that you—you want to make my world more beautiful. Which is amazing. Thank you.”
“And I thank you.”
I let my hand rest atop his, for only a moment, but the contact crackles between us. We look into each other’s eyes, and I feel something I’ve only ever felt once before—this dizzying sense like being at the edge of a cliff, both scared to death and yet feeling this inexplicable, insane urge to fling yourself into the sky.
Paul murmurs, “Merry Christmas, my lady.”
“Merry Christmas.”
Our hands slip apart. He steps away from the door. I shut the door, and back slowly toward the bed. As I clutch the box of pastels, I fall back onto the covers, trying to make sense of what’s happening.
That feeling—the one like being at the edge of a cliff—the only other time I felt it was at home, that night Paul and I talked about painting. The night I knew he understood me more deeply than anyone else ever had . . .
I meant it when I said I didn’t believe in love at first sight. It takes time to really, truly fall for someone. Yet I believe in a moment. A moment when you glimpse the truth within someone, and they glimpse the truth within you. In that moment, you don’t belong to yourself any longer, not completely. Part of you belongs to him; part of him belongs to you. After that, you can’t take it back, no matter how much you want to, no matter how hard you try.
I tried to take it back when I believed Paul had murdered my father, but I couldn’t, not completely. Even when I hated him, I still—I knew I could have loved him. Maybe I was already beginning to.
Yet I can’t take back what just happened between me and this universe’s Paul, either. Something in me belongs to him now, and I feel, I know, that he belongs to me.
You saw this Marguerite’s sketches, I tell myself. She already had deep feelings for him. Maybe it’s the other Marguerite . . . bleeding through.
No. I know better.
I’m in love with Paul Markov. This Paul Markov. Totally, unbreakably, passionately in love.
But am I in love with one man or two?
Not long after Christmas, we’re to take the royal train to Moscow under the pretext of some official function or other; Tsar Alexander’s true plan is to test his nobles and officials, wanting to ensure that they remain loyal to him rather than Grand Duke Sergei. The rest of the family is annoyed. I’m thrilled.
“Will we see Colonel Azarenko there?” I ask Vladimir casually as we prepare to leave.
He frowns. “I suppose so. Why do you care about that stiff old bird?”
I shrug, anticipating the moment when I can stand in front of Azarenko and demand the return of Paul’s Firebird.
If he still has it, that is.
Based on my history lessons about Napoleon and a couple of documentaries I half-watched on cable, I had the idea that it was impossible to cross Russia in winter. Not if you’re Russian, apparently. The royal train can make the trip to Moscow in a matter of hours. We’ll be back for New Year’s Eve, and the single biggest ball of the season on January 1.
“I want to meet the engineer!” Peter says as we climb the velvet-cushioned steps into the royal car. “Can’t I, this time, please?”
“You will remain with me, like your brother,” Tsar Alexander insists. He doesn’t even smile at his youngest child. “You’re old enough to begin hearing about matters of state.”
He’s ten. But I hold my tongue. By now I know contradicting the tsar can only make things worse. My father, standing slightly to the side and carrying his own valise, tightens his jaw the way he does when he’s angry but trying not to show it.
The tsar gives Peter a contemptuous look. “Or would you rather sit in the back with your sisters, embroidering flowers?”
“No, I’ll stay with you,” Peter says, though he looks petrified. Poor little thing. Once Tsar Alexander has turned away, Dad pats Peter’s shoulder and says, “On the way home, you and I will come to the station a little early, so you’ll have time to talk to the engineer then. How would that be?”
Peter brightens, and when he and Dad smile at each other, I wonder—is it possible that Peter is his son too? Somehow I sense not, and yet Dad still devotes himself to the little boy. He takes care of Mom’s son for Mom’s sake, an act of love she can never see, one that has lasted for nearly a decade after her death.
“My lady?” Paul says quietly.
I blink away my tears. “Ash in my eye. That’s all.”
While the big manly menfolk go to the next car to talk diplomacy and drink vodka or whatever they do in there, Katya and I remain in the royal car. For once, Katya’s not dedicated to annoying me; she’s too busy playing some card game with Zefirov.
Paul remains at attention at the front of the train car. I read the latest newspaper, at first in an attempt to settle down, but with more interest as I go on.
It’s sort of fascinating: what Paul said about patterns reoccurring in different dimensions is definitely true. Some of the same people who were famous in my universe are famous here, but in unexpected ways. For instance, the “famed songbird Florence Welch” is finishing a concert tour of Europe, where she’s been singing librettos from operas. Bill Clinton has recently been elected to his second term as President of the United States; he ran as the candidate of the Bull Moose Party, and his photo shows him with muttonchop whiskers and a mustache any hipster would envy.