A Thousand Pieces of You
Page 30
“I didn’t hit my head,” I protest. “But I wasn’t feeling well earlier today. I—I think I ate something that disagreed with me.”
The tsar breathes out in exasperation, seemingly irritated that anything in the world is beyond his control. “You ought to have had the sense to keep to your bed. Return to your rooms. Vladimir and Katya will have to represent the family.”
Secure in her spot behind the tsar’s crooked arm, Katya sticks her tongue out at me. She seems like a total brat.
“Let me go with her,” Vladimir says. I can’t get over how much he looks like Mom . . . and like me. “I can be back down in minutes.”
“Now you push this too far,” the tsar growls. “Why does she have ladies in waiting? Why does she have a personal guard? They are the appropriate people to see to her. Even you should understand that.”
“I’m all right, Vladimir,” I whisper. I don’t want to start some kind of family argument, and besides, I need to be alone. “Go.”
Vladimir looks reluctant, but he nods and releases me. The hands of my ladies in waiting flutter around me, attempting to support me without actually daring to touch.
The tsar motions to someone else in the group, someone slightly behind me. “You, there. Lieutenant Markov. See her to her room.” Then a firm hand clasps my elbow.
I turn to see Paul standing nearby, just outside the circle around me.
In that first instant, I’m afraid of him. But that fear is swiftly followed by hope, because I see the recognition in his eyes. This is my Paul—he’s here—and I’m not as alone as I thought.
He is crisp in his infantry uniform, a neatly trimmed beard edging the line of his jaw, with high boots and a sword strapped to his side. Yet at the collar I see the glint of a chain; his Firebird is there.
Paul bows his head, then begins escorting me back up the stairs. The rest of the royal party watches me go: Vladimir with concern, Katya with open glee that she gets to go to the ball while I don’t, and the tsar—supposedly my father—with no more than bored contempt.
“Are we doing this right?” I whisper.
“How would I know?” Paul replies in the same hushed tone. “Nobody’s saying anything. Keep going.”
As we reach the landing at the top of the steps, I catch sight of myself in the long, gilded mirrors that line the wall. The diamond choker around my neck is several rows wide, and each jewel glitters, like the rubies in my tiara. My frilly white gown sparkles slightly too, because the thread looks like pure spun silver. Paul might only be a soldier, but his scarlet-jacketed uniform looks as grand as anything I’m wearing. It feels like we’re dressed up for Halloween, or the most over-the-top prom ever.
The moment we’re alone, Paul turns to me, furious. “I told you to go home.”
“You don’t get to give me orders! You think you’re in charge just because, what, you’re a genius and I’m not?”
“I should be in charge because I’m older than you and I understand what’s going on, while you don’t,” he retorts.
“The only reason I don’t understand is because you won’t explain.”
“Look, Conley is dangerous. You need to go home,” he repeats, and there’s something about the way he says it that makes me realize what he actually means. Paul’s not telling me to get out of his way. He actually means there’s some reason I need to be back at home, a reason my presence there is important.
Not that this gets him off the hook. Not by a long shot. But it calms me enough to focus on the most critical problem we have. I palm the little silken purse and show Paul the fragments of the Firebird locket. “I’m not getting home with this.”
Most guys would swear. Paul just presses his lips together into a pale line. “This is bad.”
“Understatement of the year.”
Paul takes the purse from me and begins examining the pieces one by one. I resist the urge to keep arguing with him. If he’s fixing the Firebird—i.e., my only shot at not living in this dimension forever—I’m going to let him concentrate.
Finally he says, “It can be repaired.”
“Are you sure?”
“Almost sure,” Paul answers, like that’s just as good when it so is not. He must catch the look on my face, because he adds, “The Firebirds are made to be easily reassembled. We wanted them to snap apart into their components for repair, adjustments, that kind of thing. It looks like that’s what happened here.”
“So you can pop it back together?” Relief rushes into me, makes me giddy. Talk about dodging a bullet.
“I need better light, and I’ll want to double-check it against my own Firebird.” Paul hands the silk purse to me and pulls at the chain around his neck; the locket gleams dully against the scarlet of his uniform coat. “Come on. Let’s get this done and send you home.”
I jerk back. “I’m not going home until you tell me why you’re here!”
Paul’s not one of those people who gets louder when he gets angry. He gets quieter. Goes still. “This isn’t the dimension I was looking for. That much is already obvious. I need to keep moving, but I can’t leave here until you—”
“What is the meaning of this?”
We both straighten, startled to see another Russian officer walking toward us. He has gray hair, a beard to rival the tsar’s, and a monocle. Paul stands at attention, or at least what looks like attention to me; I don’t guess either of us has any idea what proper Russian military protocol would be.
The tsar breathes out in exasperation, seemingly irritated that anything in the world is beyond his control. “You ought to have had the sense to keep to your bed. Return to your rooms. Vladimir and Katya will have to represent the family.”
Secure in her spot behind the tsar’s crooked arm, Katya sticks her tongue out at me. She seems like a total brat.
“Let me go with her,” Vladimir says. I can’t get over how much he looks like Mom . . . and like me. “I can be back down in minutes.”
“Now you push this too far,” the tsar growls. “Why does she have ladies in waiting? Why does she have a personal guard? They are the appropriate people to see to her. Even you should understand that.”
“I’m all right, Vladimir,” I whisper. I don’t want to start some kind of family argument, and besides, I need to be alone. “Go.”
Vladimir looks reluctant, but he nods and releases me. The hands of my ladies in waiting flutter around me, attempting to support me without actually daring to touch.
The tsar motions to someone else in the group, someone slightly behind me. “You, there. Lieutenant Markov. See her to her room.” Then a firm hand clasps my elbow.
I turn to see Paul standing nearby, just outside the circle around me.
In that first instant, I’m afraid of him. But that fear is swiftly followed by hope, because I see the recognition in his eyes. This is my Paul—he’s here—and I’m not as alone as I thought.
He is crisp in his infantry uniform, a neatly trimmed beard edging the line of his jaw, with high boots and a sword strapped to his side. Yet at the collar I see the glint of a chain; his Firebird is there.
Paul bows his head, then begins escorting me back up the stairs. The rest of the royal party watches me go: Vladimir with concern, Katya with open glee that she gets to go to the ball while I don’t, and the tsar—supposedly my father—with no more than bored contempt.
“Are we doing this right?” I whisper.
“How would I know?” Paul replies in the same hushed tone. “Nobody’s saying anything. Keep going.”
As we reach the landing at the top of the steps, I catch sight of myself in the long, gilded mirrors that line the wall. The diamond choker around my neck is several rows wide, and each jewel glitters, like the rubies in my tiara. My frilly white gown sparkles slightly too, because the thread looks like pure spun silver. Paul might only be a soldier, but his scarlet-jacketed uniform looks as grand as anything I’m wearing. It feels like we’re dressed up for Halloween, or the most over-the-top prom ever.
The moment we’re alone, Paul turns to me, furious. “I told you to go home.”
“You don’t get to give me orders! You think you’re in charge just because, what, you’re a genius and I’m not?”
“I should be in charge because I’m older than you and I understand what’s going on, while you don’t,” he retorts.
“The only reason I don’t understand is because you won’t explain.”
“Look, Conley is dangerous. You need to go home,” he repeats, and there’s something about the way he says it that makes me realize what he actually means. Paul’s not telling me to get out of his way. He actually means there’s some reason I need to be back at home, a reason my presence there is important.
Not that this gets him off the hook. Not by a long shot. But it calms me enough to focus on the most critical problem we have. I palm the little silken purse and show Paul the fragments of the Firebird locket. “I’m not getting home with this.”
Most guys would swear. Paul just presses his lips together into a pale line. “This is bad.”
“Understatement of the year.”
Paul takes the purse from me and begins examining the pieces one by one. I resist the urge to keep arguing with him. If he’s fixing the Firebird—i.e., my only shot at not living in this dimension forever—I’m going to let him concentrate.
Finally he says, “It can be repaired.”
“Are you sure?”
“Almost sure,” Paul answers, like that’s just as good when it so is not. He must catch the look on my face, because he adds, “The Firebirds are made to be easily reassembled. We wanted them to snap apart into their components for repair, adjustments, that kind of thing. It looks like that’s what happened here.”
“So you can pop it back together?” Relief rushes into me, makes me giddy. Talk about dodging a bullet.
“I need better light, and I’ll want to double-check it against my own Firebird.” Paul hands the silk purse to me and pulls at the chain around his neck; the locket gleams dully against the scarlet of his uniform coat. “Come on. Let’s get this done and send you home.”
I jerk back. “I’m not going home until you tell me why you’re here!”
Paul’s not one of those people who gets louder when he gets angry. He gets quieter. Goes still. “This isn’t the dimension I was looking for. That much is already obvious. I need to keep moving, but I can’t leave here until you—”
“What is the meaning of this?”
We both straighten, startled to see another Russian officer walking toward us. He has gray hair, a beard to rival the tsar’s, and a monocle. Paul stands at attention, or at least what looks like attention to me; I don’t guess either of us has any idea what proper Russian military protocol would be.
