A Thousand Pieces of You
Page 31

The officer says, “Markov, I’m surprised at you. Pestering Her Imperial Highness like this instead of doing your duty.”
Oh, that’s me. I’m the Imperial Highness. I have to stifle a laugh. “I, uh, I asked him to look at something I broke.” I hold out the Firebird locket pieces to show him.
The officer’s puffed-out chest falls a little; he seems smaller, robbed of his indignation. But his eyes light up as he finds something else to say. “And what is this? Out of uniform while on duty?”
And he grabs the Firebird from around Paul’s neck.
I gasp. Paul’s eyes widen. We’re both too startled to think, much less move.
“Now that you’re finally in appropriate uniform, Lieutenant Markov, you may carry on,” the officer says, tucking Paul’s Firebird into his pocket as he continues down the long hallway.
We watch him go in mutual horror. I’m the one who finds words first: “Oh, crap.”
“We have to get the Firebird back.” Paul takes a deep breath. “I have to go after him.”
“Surely he’s going to give it back to you. Eventually. Right?”
“How would I know? Besides, we don’t have much time. My memory—it’s already getting cloudy. The Paul Markov from this dimension is going to take over again, any minute.”
The rest of it hits me: If Paul can’t remember who he really is, he can’t fix my Firebird. Meaning unless and until Theo finds us—if Theo even exists in this dimension—we’ll be trapped in this dimension. Potentially forever.
“Okay, you’ll go after him and—” I put my hands to my head, trying to think, and only when my fingers touch the tiara do I remember who I am here, what I can do. “Wait! No, I go after him, and I order him to give back the locket. He has to do it. I’m a princess! Or a grand duchess, whatever they call them in Russia—”
“Yes! Good. Right. Go.” Paul nods his head, almost comically fast.
I take off down the hallway toward the stairs, running down them as fast as I can—which isn’t that fast, because I’m wearing a long dress cut narrow through the skirt, plus high heels that don’t even have a strap across the foot to hold them on. My jewelry jangles around my neck; my tiara slides to one side, and I lift one hand to hold it to my head. “Sir!” I shout, wishing I’d thought to ask the guy’s name. A name would work better. Could I just yell, I command you to stop?
But as I reach the bottom and turn the corner, I see an enormous gathering of people all walking through a broad hallway. This isn’t the party itself, but the entrance for most of the guests. Dozens of women in a rainbow of gowns and jewels nearly as fine as mine, from girls my age with feathery fascinators in their hair to elderly dowagers seemingly bent low by the weight of their diamonds—young men in elegant evening suits, brilliant scarves knotted at their throats—
—and military officers. At least fifty of them, all wearing uniforms that look identical to the one on the man who took Paul’s Firebird. I strain to catch a glimpse of his face—he had a monocle, they can’t all wear those, can they?—but it’s impossible to pick him from the crowd. He might already have gone into the ball.
Should I run in there, create a scene? I have a feeling that wouldn’t get me very far.
As quickly as I can, I rush back upstairs. Paul is leaning against the wall, as though he were exhausted. “I lost him!” I call out. “He’s in the party, but you could recognize him, couldn’t you? Help me find him?”
“I—I think so.” He winces and puts his fingers to his temple, like he has a headache. His confusion reminds me of Theo, back in London, in the last moments before he would have forgotten himself completely.
“Paul, don’t! You have to stay with me.” I take his shoulders in my hands and get in his face. “Look at me. Look at me.”
“You have to get the Firebird,” he says, slow and careful with each word, as if he doesn’t trust himself to force them out. “You have to use it to bring me back.”
“How do I find that guy again?” How do I do anything in this dimension? My hands are shaking, and the diamond choker around my neck feels like a noose. “Oh God, oh God, he had that big beard, and a monocle—”
“Colonel Azarenko,” Paul says absently.
I stare at him. “What?”
He looks at me as though he hadn’t seen me before. Then he straightens, pulling out of my hands. “Your Imperial Highness.”
This is not my Paul any longer. This is Lieutenant Markov.
He continues, “Forgive me, Your Imperial Highness. I can’t think why—I don’t remember how I came to be here. Was I taken ill?”
“You . . . became lightheaded.” I cover as best I can. “I wasn’t feeling well either. So you were to take me to my room, so I could rest.”
“Very well, my lady.” He bows his head and begins walking briskly through the corridor, his shining boots dark against the red velvet carpet. In something of a daze, I trail along behind.
At least one of us knows where my room is.
Paul and I are trapped here. With no idea how to contact Theo, if I even can. All I have to go on is the name “Colonel Azarenko.”
Tomorrow, I tell myself. I’ll be able to ask about him tomorrow, have him brought to me, and get Paul’s Firebird back.
If I can’t—