“Stop knocking him,” I told Theo. At the time I’d been too enchanted by Paul’s idea to listen to even good objections. “Everybody gets to have wild theories here. Mom’s rule.”
Theo shrugged, already too absorbed in his work to protest further. Yet Paul looked over at me as though he were grateful for the defense. I realized how close we were sitting—closer than we usually did, so near that my arm nearly brushed against his—but I didn’t move away.
Instead I said, “So does destiny create the math, or does math create our destiny?”
“Insufficient data,” Paul said, but I could tell, in that moment, how much he wanted to believe in destiny. It was the first time I thought of him as someone who, all appearances to the contrary, might have some poetry in his soul.
Maybe it was the only time I ever understood him at all.
The next day, I discover what it’s like to have people get you ready in the morning.
I mean, totally. My maids appear around my bedside as I wake, serving me tea on a silver tray, running me a warm bath in an enormous tub carved of marble, even soaping my back.
(Yes, it’s completely embarrassing bathing in front of an audience, but it seems this Marguerite does it every day, so I have to roll with it. I guess they already know what I look like naked, which . . . doesn’t help that much.)
These women even put the toothpaste on my toothbrush.
They select a dress for me: a soft yellow the color of candlelight, floor length, so formal for everyday that I can hardly keep myself from laughing at it. They braid my hair back and fasten it with pins set with small white enameled roses. I stare at the mirror in disbelief as my uncontrollable, lunatic curls are tamed and settled into a style as complicated as it is beautiful.
I could almost believe that I’m beautiful, though really this is a testament to what personal stylists (or their nineteenth-century equivalents) can accomplish.
No makeup is to be seen anywhere, but they rub sweet-smelling creams into the skin of my face and throat, then dust me with lilac-scented powder. By the time they’re finished clipping on my pearl earrings, I actually feel like a grand duchess.
“Thank you, ladies,” I say. Good manners are expected of royalty, right? Feeling both ridiculous and grand, I open the door and see Paul.
Correction: Lieutenant Markov.
He stands at attention, entirely proper and correct. His clear gray eyes meet mine, almost guiltily, before he glances away. Maybe staring at royalty is forbidden. I seem to remember that megastars like Beyoncé sometimes have riders in their contracts saying that nobody can look them in the eyes; as Beyoncé is to our dimension, a grand duchess is to this one.
Paul—Lieutenant Markov, better think of him that way—doesn’t say anything. Of course. It’s probably the rule that he can’t say anything unless I speak first. “Good morning, Markov.”
“Good morning, my lady.” His voice is so deep, and yet so gentle. “I hope you feel better today.”
“I do, thank you. Tell me, Markov, where might I find Colonel Azarenko?”
He frowns at me. “My commanding officer?”
“Yes. Exactly. Him.” Paul might not have been able to retrieve Azarenko from the grand ball last night, but now he can tell me the officers’ daily routines, all of that. We’ll have his Firebird back by lunchtime, and mine fixed by tonight.
“Colonel Azarenko left for Moscow early this morning, my lady.”
Moscow? He’s not even in St. Petersburg anymore? “Did he give your—did he give anything back to you before he left?”
By now Lieutenant Markov must think I’ve gone demented. Although his forehead furrows—the only sign of the frown he’s holding back—he politely replies, “No, my lady. What would the Colonel have to give me?”
I’m not even getting into that. Instead I ask, “When is he expected back?”
“After the New Year, my lady.”
New Year’s Day? That’s almost three weeks away.
Three weeks.
How am I supposed to pretend to be a princess for three weeks?
I swallow hard and think, Guess I’ll find out.
12
STAY CALM. DEEP BREATHS.
I walk through the hallways of the palace in a daze. It’s as though my body is too freaked out even to panic. Instead I feel more like I’ve been drugged. My footsteps weave slightly, and the elaborate brocade pattern of the carpet runner seems dizzying.
“Are you sure you are entirely well, my lady?” Paul—Lieutenant Markov—walks a few respectful steps behind me.
“Quite well, thank you, Markov.” Actually I’m about five seconds from losing it completely, but let’s just keep walking, okay? That’s the subtext. Maybe he understands; at any rate, he remains silent as we go on.
It would help if I had any idea where I’m supposed to be going. The Winter Palace is enormous, and I couldn’t find my way around it even if I did know what I was meant to be doing next.