Of course. This Paul and my Paul are enough alike that they’d both be fascinated by science, and this dimension’s Marguerite must have picked up on that. Standing around all day watching me write letters? That’s not enough to occupy Paul’s brilliant mind. Now he runs his hand reverently over the leather binding of the book, like I’ve given him the deepest secrets of the universe.
“Thank you,” he says, obviously struggling for the right words. “I was saving my money for this, but now—I will begin reading tonight.”
This is a world where books are expensive, and the only sources of information. No wonder he’s thrilled. I glow with happiness I don’t deserve; I’m not the one who picked it out, after all.
Already Paul is apologizing. “My gift can’t compare.”
“Don’t be silly.” I unwrap his present as quickly I can, ribbon fluttering to the floor by my feet. As I pull back the lid of the black box, I see a rainbow of colors, and my face lights up. “Pastels! You bought me pastel chalks.”
“I know it is your practice to sketch, my lady. But I had thought—perhaps you might wish to experiment.”
Even in my dimension, I always meant to work with pastels someday. I run one fingertip along the pink chalk, tinting my skin rosy. “They’re beautiful.”
“Not so fine as the gift you gave me—”
“Stop that. Don’t you realize we gave each other the same thing?”
Paul tilts his head. “My lady?”
“Every form of art is another way of seeing the world. Another perspective, another window. And science—that’s the most spectacular window of all. You can see the entire universe from there.” So my parents always said, and as corny as it might be, I believe them. I smile up at Paul. “So it’s like we gave each other the whole world, tied up in ribbon.”
“You want me to learn the entire universe?” His grin is natural, somewhat abashed; we are no longer guard and grand duchess, just a guy and a girl, standing very close. “For you I will.”
“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.