The first thing I notice is that these stairs are carpeted in red velvet. Which is a good thing, since they seem to be marble beneath; that would’ve hurt. The second thing I notice is that all the beads clattering and rolling down the steps aren’t beads at all. They’re pearls.
I put one hand to my aching forehead as I look up. My fingers make contact with something in my hair, the band of this heavy thing atop my head. . . .
Is that a tiara?
Finally I see the people crowded around me—one and all in incredibly elegant evening dress: men in unfamiliar military uniforms resplendent with medals and sashes, women in white, floor-length gowns, not unlike the one tangled around my legs.
“Marguerite?” says a kindly man only a few years older than me, one with hair as dark and curly as mine, though his is cut short. From his concern I can see he knows me well, but I’ve never seen him before. Though—something about his face is oddly familiar—
“I’m all right,” I say. I have no idea what else to do, other than reassure them. I put one hand to my chest to steady myself, then gasp as I look down.
The different layers of the Firebird lie scattered in my lap and on the steps around me. Only its clockwork locket shell still hangs around my neck.
It’s broken.
The Firebird is broken, and I have no idea how to fix it.
Oh, shit.
10
“MARGUERITE?” THE BROWN-HAIRED YOUNG MAN KNEELS next to me and takes my hand; we’re both wearing gloves of white leather so thin and soft it’s like a second skin. “Margarita? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Honestly. Only clumsy.” Oh, my God, where am I? What is going on? I thought the last universe was different, but this—is something else altogether.
“You’re worrying like an old woman, Vladimir. Again.” The largest of the men in our group frowns; his voice is deep and resonant, and from the way he speaks, I can tell he’s used to being obeyed without question. His ivory-jacketed uniform bears more medals than anyone else’s. He’s well over six feet tall.
“I’m a babushka, then,” says the young man—Vladimir—as he gives me a reassuring smile. Quickly I gather together all the fragments of the Firebird; a small silk purse dangles from one of my wrists, and I slip the pieces inside.
“Why are you worrying about that trinket?” commands the large man who appears to be in charge of this . . . costume party. Or whatever this is. “The Tarasova pearls are all over the floor, and you simply let them roll away from you.”“We have them, Your Imperial Highness,” a woman whispers as she and a few others—dressed less grandly than the rest, including me—begin scrambling to collect every last one of the pearls. I lift my hand to my throat and discover that, besides the Firebird and the now torn, dangling string for the pearls, I’m wearing some sort of enormously heavy choker.
His Imperial Highness?
“Papa, if I had such beautiful pearls, I wouldn’t fall and break them,” says a girl a few years younger than me—even though I’ve never seen her before, she too looks familiar.
A bit like Vladimir, and a bit like . . .
“If you had such beautiful pearls, Katya, you would lose them long before the ball.” The tall man doesn’t even look at her as he speaks, and Katya’s head droops. “Marguerite, can you still dance tonight? Or must we make excuses for you?”
“I’m fine, really. Please, let me catch my breath.” Wait, what am I saying? Dance? What kind of dance? Maybe we’re actors, in some sort of performance. That would explain the costumes, right?
But already I know better. The marble steps, the red velvet carpet—they’re only part of the enormous space around us, with forty-foot ceilings and molding gilded in what looks like real gold. This is a palace. And we’re not tourists being led through roped-off lines and warned about flash photography.
As Vladimir helps me to my feet, the tall man says to him, “Margarita has servants to help her, Vladimir. The son of the tsar should be above . . . nursemaiding.”
But Vladimir’s eyes flash with fire, and he lifts his chin. “How can it be above any man’s dignity to help his sister? Shouldn’t the daughter of the tsar be able to expect assistance from anyone, at any moment?”
Sister. My eyes widen in shock as I realize why Vladimir seems so familiar to me. He—and Katya, now that I study her face again—they look a lot like my mom.
Our mom?
No. Absolutely not. They’re the children of the tsar—oh, crap, there are still tsars here? What kind of dimension is this?—okay, this guy is the tsar, and these are his kids, but I can’t be. It’s not possible for anyone other than Dr. Henry Caine to be my dad. Like every other individual ever born, my genetic code is unique, incapable of being re-created. The only way I can be born, in any dimension, is to the father and mother I’ve always known.
Mom? I look around the grandly dressed group, hoping to see her. Whatever version of my mother exists in this dimension, I need her now.
But I don’t see her anywhere.
Okay. I know one thing for sure; I can’t fake my way through this. Right now I need some time alone to figure out what’s going on.
I fall against Vladimir’s shoulder in a swoon that’s only partly feigned. “I’m so dizzy,” I whisper.
“Did you hit your head?” Vladimir cradles me with both arms, his forehead furrowed with worry. He obviously believes he’s my older brother; his gentle concern would be incredibly comforting if I’d known him for more than three minutes. “Father, we must fetch the doctor for her.”