Each egg is a jeweler’s masterpiece. Small enough to fit easily in an adult’s hand, they are set with porcelain, or gold, or jewels, or most often a combination of the three. Some are modestly pretty, like the pink enamel one latticed with rows of tiny pearls; others are spectacularly inventive, like the egg of lapis lazuli surrounded with silver rings like the planet Saturn, nestled in a “cloud” of milky quartz dotted with platinum stars.
In my dimension, a few dozen Fabergé eggs have survived from the decades the Romanovs gave them to one another as Easter gifts. In this dimension, that tradition has lasted for well over a century. A couple hundred eggs glint and shine from their places on the long shelves that line the walls. It’s like falling into a jewel box, but a thousand times more dazzling, because every single egg is a unique work of art.
Reverently I tiptoe to one of the shelves and pick up an alabaster egg. My inner voice chants, Don’t drop it, don’t drop it, don’t don’t don’t. The silver hinge in the middle opens, and I lift it up to reveal a tiny clockwork dancer inside, a metal marionette who begins to dance while a tune plays. It’s so beautiful, so delicate, that it takes my breath away.
“Not your usual favorite, my lady,” Paul says softly.
How many times has he brought me here, when I was sad or lonely? I sense this is far from the first afternoon we’ve found ourselves alone here.
“Which one is my favorite?” I look up into Paul’s gray eyes, challenging him to know me.
Without hesitation, he points at an egg the deep, vivid red of wine, decorated with swirls of delicate gold filigree. The beauty of the red alone—I could mix my paints for hours and not capture that depth of color.
I realize why Paul’s holding back; surely he’s not allowed to touch it.
So I lift my chin and say, “Get it for me, Markov.”
He pauses for only the briefest moment, then takes the egg into his broad hands. (And they’re so large, so strong. I think he could span my waist with his hands.) As I watch, he lifts the top to reveal the “surprise,” the extra layer of finesse or artistry hidden within each egg. Here, it is a small silver charm—a tiny framed portrait of my mother.
“Oh,” I whisper. Of course this would be the one I always return to, the one I love best of all. Paul nestles the egg in my waiting palms. His fingers brush against mine for a fraction of a second, and yet I imagine I can feel his touch long after it has ended.
For a few long moments we stand there, so very close, looking down at the delicate, priceless thing in my hands. I am aware of Paul’s silence, of the rise and fall of his breath. We are alone in a room that stretches for dozens of feet, with a ceiling that vaults twenty feet above our heads, and yet our nearness feels almost unbearably intimate. The afternoon sunlight slants through the tall window, glinting off his military decorations and the gilding on the egg I hold.
Paul says, “Your mother was very beautiful, my lady.”
He’s only judging by the portrait. In this dimension, he probably never got the chance to know Mom. I think of how much she loves him, back home, and feel a pang at the loss—this other connection that should have existed, but didn’t. “Yes, she was.”
“Very like you, my lady.”
I can’t look up at him. I can’t catch my breath.
Why does he get to me like this?
But if I’m being honest, what I’m feeling began a while ago, growing from curiosity to hope to something I can’t even name.
“Oh—” I wince as one of the prongs inside the wine-colored egg falls down into the shell. Mom’s portrait won’t hang in its place any longer. “I broke it.”
“Don’t worry, my lady. The tutor will be able to fix that, I’m certain. Professor Caine is very adept with his clockmaker’s tools.”
Of course. At home, every once in a while, Dad tinkers with old clocks, getting them to run again. His fine scientific mind, denied theoretical challenges in this world, has turned to more mechanical ones. Here he must tinker with machinery all the time.
At last I look up at Paul, and I’m beaming with such happiness that I know he’s surprised. But I can’t help it.
I just thought of another way out.
13
“PROFESSOR CAINE.” IT’S SO BIZARRE, CALLING HIM SOMETHING besides Dad.
But what about this isn’t bizarre?
Dad walks into the Easter room, escorted by Paul, who went to fetch him at my command. When he sees the wine-colored egg in my hands, Dad nods, anticipating my request. “It’s that hook, isn’t it? Really, someday soon, you should have the Fabergé jewelers reset that properly, Your Imperial Highness.” He reaches into his jacket and withdraws a small leather roll—his packet for his watchmaker’s tools. “But I can put it right for now, never fear.”
“Of course you can.” I smile at him, hoping to butter him up for a favor. Then I realize that’s sort of ridiculous. When you’re a grand duchess of the House of Romanov, you don’t ask for favors; you make commands.
But this is still my father, and more than ever, I want to treat him with respect.