A Million Worlds with You
Page 13

Camels? I can’t help it. I laugh. The thought of my mom riding a camel—or Paul, who’s usually so grave and calm, attempting to balance atop the hump—
But then I imagine him falling, and once again I remember my own terrible plunge in the Londonverse, the one that killed another me. My smile fades. It’s going to be a long time before I feel like laughing again.
My tent turns out to be even more luxurious inside than out. There’s a sort of makeshift floor, atop which we’ve laid what looks like a Turkish carpet. Small wooden folding tables hold my sketchbooks and a flickering lantern. Brightly patterned swaths of fabric hang at the corners and seams of the tent for maximum privacy. A handmade quilt in various shades of dark blue covers my little camp bed. Nearby, an upturned, leather-covered steamer trunk seems to serve as a chest of drawers, and lying atop it are a lace scarf and a pith helmet.
Too bad I didn’t find this universe earlier, when I could’ve enjoyed it, when traveling through the dimensions almost seemed like a game. Now all I can do is try to move on as fast as possible, to save the next Marguerite.
I sit on the camp bed and unbutton the high neck of my blouse. Sand has even found its way into the Firebird, though after I give the locket a good shake, the mechanism seems to be none the worse for wear. Thank God. I don’t think I could handle this thing getting broken in another dimension, because the last time that happened I got stranded for nearly a month.
Not to mention pregnant.
My Firebird remains tethered to Wicked’s, capable of following in her footsteps as soon as she has moved on. So I take a deep breath, hit the controls, and—
—nothing.
Damn it. When I double-check that the Firebird is working properly—and it is—I know what the deal is. Apparently I can’t leap ahead into a universe if Wicked is already in it. Each Marguerite has a maximum capacity of two: one host, one guest. I have to follow in Wicked’s footsteps, so I can’t move forward until she moves on.
And she won’t move on until she’s dreamed up a grisly way for another Marguerite to die.
What nightmare is she concocting this time? My predicament down in the mummy’s tomb could’ve gotten me killed, but by now I feel sure this is far from the worst Wicked can do.
Just wait until I get out of this universe, Wicked. You’re going to pay for this.
But how? It’s not like I can ever catch up to her. One visitor in a body at a time means one Marguerite to a dimension. This chase could go on forever.
“Marguerite? Are you decent?” My mother’s voice is just outside the fabric-draped flap that counts as my tent’s door. She has a stronger French accent than usual.
“If ‘decent’ means ‘not naked,’ then sure, I’m decent.” I tuck the Firebird back into my shirt with a sigh and start buttoning up.
My fingers pause, though, when my mother finally steps through, lantern in hand. Unlike everyone else I’ve seen here, she isn’t dressed in classic aristocrat-adventurer-of-the-Gilded-Age style. Instead, she’s wearing a long, flowing, richly patterned robe and a silk scarf knotted into what looks like a pretty decent turban. Leave it to Mom to finally find her fashion sense in the desert.
“Are you all right, dear?” Mom sits on the edge of my bed. “It’s not like you to go wandering into an active dig.”
“I know, Mom. I’m sorry.”
“You were acting so strangely this evening—”
When Wicked was here, something about her behavior concerned my mom. Not enough to make her realize how seriously things had gone wrong, but enough to draw her attention. Which means now she’ll be watching me more closely. That’s not necessarily a problem, but it’s one more factor for me to juggle in this universe.
“I need to sleep. That’s all.”
“A good night’s rest never made any situation worse,” she agrees. Her arm slides around me, a caress that invites me to rest my head on her shoulder. Maybe I should be too old to take so much comfort from being hugged by my mom, but after plunging to my near-death, I’m not ashamed to need a snuggle. Her fingers comb through my few loose curls; she used to do that when I was little, after nightmares, when she was coaxing me back to sleep. “I must say, Mr. Markov hurried down to help you very quickly. I doubt anyone could’ve held him back.”
Mom’s Team Paul in this universe too. “I can’t believe he let Dad go first.”
Mom laughs softly. “It’s not like you to play the coquette, Marguerite. You’ll make up your mind about him soon, won’t you?”
Probably, I think. When I leap out of this world—the Egyptverse, let’s call it—this world’s Marguerite will remember my feelings about Paul. She’ll remember that he’s come through for her in world after world, that we’ve loved each other time and again. But will she also remember the darkness within Paul? The nightmare visions from other worlds that neither of us can forget?
Out loud I say only, “You want me to be sure, don’t you, Mom?”
“Of course. But you know these Russians. They feel things so deeply.”
I laugh again. “As if you’re not Russian.”
“Of course, but a few generations back. The Saint Petersburg snows have hardly melted on Mr. Markov’s boots.”
So, he’s a native of Russia in this dimension, like his accent suggested. My accent is odd here—not quite English or American, somewhere in between, just like Josie’s was. Probably that’s the result of a life spent traveling back and forth to Egypt and to museums all over the world.
Mom continues. “If the tsar’s own Egyptologist isn’t enough to impress you, what will be?”
She’s only teasing me. But that reminds me of the Russiaverse where my mother was married to the tsar—and where I was the result of a clandestine affair between her and my father, the tsarevich’s tutor. Mom always wanted tons of kids, but pregnancy was dangerous for her, which is why in my universe, she and Dad stopped with me and Josie. In the Russiaverse, she died giving birth to her fourth child. The monstrous Tsar Alexander basically bred her to death.
I hug her tightly. She smells like roses. “I love you, Mom.”
My mother obviously has no idea what inspired this outburst of emotion, but she’s too wise to ask. “I love you too.”
After she leaves, I try once more to leap away, but no such luck. I undress, which takes a while; frilly collars and stockings and lace-up boots aren’t easy to deal with. Again I try to leap; again, nothing. As I slip into the loose, thin nightdress I find in one of the steamer trunk’s drawers, I decide to stay awake as long as I can, attempting to leap away every ten minutes or so. This Marguerite has been saved from being buried alive. Who knows what the next one has to face?