Ten Thousand Skies Above You
Page 78

“I was so scared,” I manage to choke out. “You were torn apart. Conley tore you apart—”
“You mean—my consciousness—”
“Splintered. Conley splintered you into four pieces.”
He swears in Russian. “I only remember this world at all. None of the others.”
“Well, trust me, you were all over the place. Italy and New York and even a terrible world war. You really don’t remember that?”
“I only remember being here. We’ll deal with the theory later. I’m all right now.” Paul kisses my neck, then frames my face in his hands. “I didn’t find the cure for Theo before they caught me.”
“It’s okay! I got it for him. We—well, we had to do some dirty work for Triad, but it’s all right, because I think I know how to turn it against them.”
He frowns, no doubt wondering just how dirty the work was. But then I see his expression begin to cloud over. “A few minutes ago—the things I said—”
“Forget it. That’s between another Paul and another Marguerite. It doesn’t have anything to do with us.” Knowing that makes me feel so impossibly, perfectly free. Like I could soar on wings, carrying Paul upward with me.
“But I hurt you.” Paul looks down at my scarred wrist.
“Not on purpose. And it wasn’t you, just like it wasn’t me. Okay?” Explaining this to Paul will take time, just like it took me a long while to believe it.
He doesn’t look like he can fully accept that. “You—she can’t be an artist anymore.”
That hurts, even if it isn’t me. But I say to him what I hope this Marguerite will someday understand—something I might need to consider myself, really. “There are other careers. Other ways to be creative and lead a good life. She’ll figure it out.”
Paul isn’t comforted. “Theo’s safe?”
“Yeah. He even came on the trip with me, because he said if you’d do it to rescue him, he’d do it to rescue you.”
“That idiot,” Paul says, in a tone of voice that makes it the most affectionate thing he could possibly say. “Where is he now?”
“Japan. I mean, in this universe Theo Beck is getting his doctorate in Japan, but our very own Theo has already leaped home. He’ll be waiting there for us.”
Paul looks around at this apartment. “This Paul—” He laughs slightly, but without humor. I can tell he’s embarrassed by how far this version has sunk. “He needs to get a life.”
“Yeah, probably. Look at it this way; at least you’re not stuck in an apocalyptic war. Is that coming back to you at all?”
If it is, he might remember me making out with another Paul. Uh-oh.
Instead, he shakes his head. “This world is the only one I have any memory of. I think there was . . . more of me here than anywhere else.”
“Well, you didn’t miss out on much in the Warverse.”
I throw it out merely to distract him, but Paul latches on to the new information. “Conley hasn’t forced you into working with him, has he?”
“Not any more than this,” I promise.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
There’s so much, and the threat of the Home Office is almost too terrifying to speak out loud. Right now I only want to go home with Paul.
But Theo’s back where he belongs, safe and sound. He’s telling my parents the risks even now. Paul and I are together in each other’s arms. There’s no reason not to talk, if that’s what he needs.
So I begin in Italy, with Conley’s announcement of what he’d done, and say it all. If I hold anything back, it will only make it more awkward to talk about later. So I tell him about appearing in the bed beside Theo, in a world where I chose differently. I explain how I flattered him to try and get secrets, and that we kissed—that I hurt that world’s Paul, and he lashed back. But I emphasize the deal we cut above everything else. “They’ll be okay, so I didn’t do any harm. I didn’t have to play Conley’s game. See?”
Paul nods. He looks like he’s in shock. “And then what?”
“Then I went to a New York where—where you went into business with your dad.”
His entire body tenses. I realize he wants me out of his lap, so I stand; Paul begins pacing the length of the room. “I couldn’t have. I would never.”
“Not often,” I say as gently as I can. “But in at least one universe.”
“How did you know? How did you find out?”
“I might have reached out to you in a way that freaked out your, um, colleagues and—well, they kidnapped me.”
He blanches. “Oh God. My father didn’t—”
“I wasn’t hurt. Paul—you know you could have talked to me about your dad. I wouldn’t have judged you for the things he’s done.”
“Things I would do.” His voice has gone dull. “In the right circumstances.”
“Don’t obsess over—”
“How did you escape? I know you wouldn’t have left the other Marguerite there.”
“Theo led the cops to my location. I was able to get out.”
Paul steps closer to me. “You’re keeping something back.”
“While Theo and I were trying to get away, you found us. When I retrieved that splinter—I think it made you angry.”
“And?”
Deep breath. “And you shot Theo in the kneecaps. Both of them.”
Paul groans and turns away. He slumps against the wall, facing it, both hands above his head like someone being put under arrest. “Did he die?”
“No! No, the paramedics were sure he’d make it.”
“So he’ll just lose one or both of his legs, then,” he says flatly. “Our Theo had to feel it too.”
“Theo specifically told me not to blame you for that! You’re not the same man as the one who decided to work with your dad. I mean, how could you be?”
“Theo’s a better person than I am,” Paul says. His mood is darkening; looking at him now is like watching storm clouds roll in to blot out the blue sky. “What then?”
This is even worse—but here, I’m the one to blame, not him. “I went back to the Russiaverse. I wanted to be in a world where you weren’t.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“It was just so I could think things through, someplace where I thought I’d be safe.”
Sensing my hesitation, Paul says, “What is it? Is the grand duchess all right? If her father found out about us—”
“She’s kept the main secret.” I force myself to meet his eyes. “Paul, she’s pregnant.”
He whirls toward me then, almost angry. In one of those flashes of understanding that’s almost like telepathy, I know exactly why: His disbelief is so strong that he wants to think I’m joking, and he wants to hate me for making a joke that personal, that hurtful. Worse is seeing the truth sink in.
“She’s having a baby?” Paul can hardly do more than whisper. “Because of me?”
“Because of me. I’m the one who chose, remember? You were just—a shadow in Lieutenant Markov’s mind.”