A Million Worlds with You
Page 17

Paul wants to object, I can tell. No doubt he thinks my plan for rescuing the other Marguerites is too dangerous. Honestly, I agree. It is too dangerous. But that’s what I have to do. Maybe he senses my determination, because instead of arguing, he simply asks, “What happened in this dimension? How did she attempt to murder you?”
“She tried to bury me in a cave-in. One of the passageways wasn’t as stable. I got through it fine, except for the part where an actual ancient mummy fell on me. Way less fun than it looks in Raiders of the Lost Ark.”
Paul frowns. “That sounds survivable. Obviously. But—”
Quickly I explain why Wicked’s methods are going to be less immediately dangerous in the future, and at first Paul nods, agreeing with me. But his gaze slowly becomes more distant, even confused. Then he strokes his short beard—a gesture that seems familiar, even studied—and says, his consonants thick and blurred with his Russian accent, “Wait. Remind me, I know this. Who is Wicked, Miss Caine?”
Crap. This world’s Paul is bleeding through again. I step closer, which ignites hope in his eyes until the moment I reach into his shirt, take hold of his Firebird and set a reminder.
Paul staggers back, swearing under his breath in Russian—even though he’s my Paul again. “Let me reset this for more frequent reminders.”
“You could make some Nightthief.” No sooner have I spoken the words than I realize how unlikely that is. “We probably don’t have the supplies out here in the desert.”
“Probably not. I’ll look later. Right now I want to set the reminders just in case.”
He starts manipulating the controls, his large hands surprisingly deft with the tiny mechanics. Instead of stepping back, I remain close in an attempt to preserve the fragile bond restored between us.
So of course that’s when I hear Theo shout, “Hello in there!”
“Hey, Theo,” I call back. Paul steps back and drops his Firebird back within his shirt just in time for Theo to appear.
Somehow Theo’s grin looks even more devilish when set off with that mustache. He could pass for a lothario from some old silent movie. “How goes the sketching, Marguerite?”
“Oh, it’s—” Great, I want to say, but the sketchpad is closed and Theo isn’t a fool. “Still getting started. I’m a little nervous in these passageways after what happened last night.”
“Who could blame you?” Theo steps closer and puts one hand on my shoulder, an unmistakably flirtatious touch. “Next time we’re in Cairo, I’m making it my sworn duty to distract you from your troubles. What about a trip to the moving pictures?”
Oh, my God, even movies are new here. This would be amusing if it weren’t for Paul’s gaze on us, heavy and disapproving. I step out of Theo’s reach, clutching my sketchpad to my chest. “Drawing is the only distraction I usually need. Which is why I should get started.”
The rebuff doesn’t affect Theo much. He simply shrugs. “Let me know what you think, next time we’re in Cairo.”
“Sure. Definitely.” I mean it as a brush-off, but Theo grins again.
As soon as he’s gone, Paul says, “You’re with him, here.”
“No, I’m not!” I would have picked up on some sign of that last night or this morning. “He’s only flirting, or maybe just being Theo.”
“Maybe you have a destiny after all.” Paul turns away to follow Theo out. “It’s just not with me.”
“Why are you acting like this?” I could shake him. “Why are you being so—so jealous, so angry—when you know that I—”
Paul whirls around. The anger is back, but subsumed in grief that’s even more terrifying to see. “I’m not angry. I’m not jealous. I’m relieved. You shouldn’t be tied to me anymore, Marguerite. Theo would be better for you.”
“Excuse me, but who I love isn’t something you get to prescribe for me, like a doctor with some pills.”
“Don’t you understand?” His voice rises nearly to a shout, echoing from the stone walls. “I see Theo near you and I remember shooting him. I see you near him and I want to shake you until you fall. This brutal . . . thing my father tried to turn me into—I thought I’d buried it. Maybe I had. But the splintering set it free. I’m no good for you any longer, Marguerite. I never will be again.”
“It’s only been a few days. How can you know?” I’m sympathetic to what Paul’s going through, but this defeatist attitude has to stop. “Paul, you didn’t hurt me. You would never hurt me.”
“You don’t know that. And neither do I.” When I start to protest, Paul holds up one hand. The wind blows at the collar of his white linen shirt, ruffles his reddish hair. “You don’t know what it feels like, being splintered. You don’t know how it is to know that . . . that you’ve been stolen from yourself.”
That catches me short. I hadn’t thought of it that way before. The profoundness of the violation—the intimacy and brutality of it—makes me shudder. “You’re back together now. I know it was terrible, but you’ll get better.”
“This isn’t a cut you can fix with a Band-Aid. It goes deeper.” Clearly struggling for the right words, Paul remains silent for a few long seconds before he speaks again. “My thoughts don’t unfold the way they should. My feelings control me too much. From as far back as I can remember, I fought to be a different kind of man from my father. But sometimes I find myself wanting to react the way he would. Other times, the anger or sorrow seems to come out of nowhere; it doesn’t have anything to do with me but it takes me over.”
“You’re not going to turn into your father.” This much I believe absolutely.
“Maybe not. But I have no idea what I am going to turn into. Only one thing is certain. I’m not the same person you fell in love with. I’ve changed more than you could ever realize. And I will never be the same again.” His gray eyes finally meet mine. “You should get out while you can.”
He walks away, so now we are both in despair, both alone.
After a moment, I decide to stay in the tomb.
I wasn’t lying when I told Theo my work would be the ideal distraction. That day, I remain in the passageway for hours, sketching as delicately and accurately as I can. The beauty of the paintings on the walls touches me even through my misery, and I imagine my long-ago counterpart, no doubt wearing the thin white cotton robe and elaborate beaded collar they always show in movies about ancient Egypt. Copying that person’s work with every detail, every highlight, is the highest tribute I can pay to the original artist. And getting it right lets me feel like I’ve succeeded at something amid all this failure. I need that feeling more than I should.