A Thousand Pieces of You
Page 51

With a sigh, Paul says, “I know what that means. It means I have to take you to the encampment of the tsar’s forces.” Before I can thank him, he adds, “If combat is under way, or we see evidence of danger, we will turn around, and this time neither of us will stop until we reach Moscow. I will not put you in harm’s way.”
“Okay. I mean, yes. That’s what we’ll do.”
“In the morning, then.”
“In the morning.” Which leaves us tonight.
Even though we are naked together in the bed where we made love, neither of us reaches for the other. The truth changes things; I’m not sure exactly how yet, but it does.
“Perhaps we should not . . . we should not,” Paul says. “I have endangered you already.”
Endangered? Oh. By danger he means pregnancy. It’s not like it would be great for me to get pregnant right now in any dimension, but for the Grand Duchess Marguerite—intended to be the virgin bride of the Prince of Wales—it would be personally and politically disastrous. Fear quivers in my belly, but I tell myself it was only once.
Is it wrong of me to want this, given how incredibly complicated this situation is? I don’t know. I can’t know. The one truth I can hold on to is that we need each other, and that tonight will never come again. So I lift his hand to my lips and kiss each knuckle, the soft pad of each finger, the center of his palm.
Quietly Paul says, “Would she have chosen this? The grand duchess. I would never—if she would not have wanted to be with me, then I—”
“I looked at the drawings she made of you. They told the whole story.” At first I feel guilty admitting this, giving away the other Marguerite’s secrets. But I know the truth Paul needs to understand too. “She loves you. She dreams about you. If she’d been here, I think she would have made the exact same choice.”
How badly he wants to believe me. Written in every tense line of his body is his struggle to hold back. “But which—which part of you chose?”
I lean closer to Paul. “Every part of me,” I whisper. “Every Marguerite. We both love you, completely. Body and soul.”
“Every Marguerite,” he repeats, and the struggle is over. Again we surrender to each other.
The next day dawns cold but bright. We set out at breakfast—or what would be breakfast if we had any food. From the dacha I take a brightly patterned scarf to knot around my hair; although it’s not as warm as my fur hat, it’s better than nothing. Paul insists I wear his gloves. They’re too big for me, leather bunching up at the wrist and joints, but I’m grateful for their warmth.
Deep snow means we make poor time until we encounter an old woodcutter and his wife, out seeking firewood. Paul has a few coins and the promise that the tsar will reward them more amply when the time comes; they look dubious, but nonetheless they loan us their sledge and horse, and give us the loaf of bread they had brought along for their day. I insist on taking them to their nearby home before we drive off—a kindness that probably wouldn’t have occurred to the privileged Grand Duchess Marguerite, to judge by the reactions I get. The old couple stares at me, and even Paul is taken aback, but we drop them off before heading on.
As we set out toward the railway, I hook my arms around Paul’s, but he shakes his head. “You must not, my lady.”
“Are you still calling me ‘my lady’?” It’s kind of hot, actually, but I’d think we’d be on a first-name basis by now.
Paul doesn’t even glance at me, simply keeps looking forward as he tugs his arm free. “From now on, at any moment, we may be observed. My behavior toward you must be correct. Beyond reproach. You are the daughter of the tsar. We . . . allowed ourselves to forget that, for a time. We can never forget again.”
He’s right, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. I fold my hands in my lap; now we are next to each other, but not touching.
Just like before.
When Paul urges the horse forward across the snow, I blink against the brilliance of sunshine on the ice-crusted white ground and tell myself it’s the harsh light stinging my eyes, that and nothing else.
It is a long and silent day, broken only by the soggy sound of the horse struggling through the snow, the silvery sound of rails slipping over ice, and my occasional offer of bread or water for Paul. We’re both starving, so the loaf goes pretty quickly.
What happens if the tsar’s troops have been forced to fall back, or, worse, slaughtered? Only now do I realize that Paul wasn’t simply trying to keep us from being shot when he wanted us to go to Moscow; he was trying to keep us fed.
But as the late afternoon sun begins to paint the tops of the pines gold and orange, we see an encampment in the distance—and flying overhead is the red and white Russian flag. The tsar’s flag. Paul speeds us the rest of the way, urging the horse on, and even as we approach the outskirts, one of the soldiers is running toward us. I recognize him and stand up, waving my arms. “Vladimir!”
“Margarita!” He holds his arms out to me, and I leap down into them. We embrace so tightly we can scarcely breathe. But Vladimir’s mood swiftly changes. “Markov, you were to take her on to Moscow once you’d found her.”
“Don’t scold him. I ordered Markov to come to you, and he had no choice.” I glance back at Paul, but he already stands at attention beside the sledge, once again the proper soldier. So I take Vladimir’s hands in mine. “Katya? Peter?”