A Million Worlds with You (Firebird #3)

Paul is telling me he’s dangerous. It’s not his fault, and maybe it won’t be forever, but I have to believe him. I have to trust him, precisely because he can’t trust himself.

Even though it’s the last thing in the world I want, I have to let Paul go.

“Okay,” I whisper, stepping away from him. He blinks, surprised. He must have expected more of a fight. Those first seconds of silence echo with all the memories we’ve shared, all the moments we should’ve gone on to experience together. The multiverse just divided again, creating a future where Paul and I aren’t together . . . and this is the one I have to live in.

Paul takes a deep breath and shifts back into science mode. Maybe that’s easier for him to handle. “We should concentrate on the quantum realities that need our protection. Leap out of here the first second possible. I’m going to remain here long enough to test the stabilization function of the Firebird. If that works, I’ll track back to the Londonverse and Egyptverse, and then I’ll catch up to you.”

“Thank you for saving them first. For keeping your word.”

“Marguerite . . . I would never break a promise to you.” Our eyes meet, and I see all the pain he’s trying to hold back. “Never. Not even if it means my life.”

For a few fragile instants, we are connected again. I feel it as surely as I feel my own heart beating inside my chest. He brings his hand to my face, and I close my eyes as his fingers brush my cheek. When he steps closer, I hold my breath, hoping for an embrace, a kiss, whatever goodbye I can have.

Paul brushes his lips against my forehead, a touch so tender it breaks my heart. I lift my face to his, hoping for a farewell kiss, but already he’s moving backward, away from me.

Whether Paul believes it yet or not, we have something left to save. If he can overcome the splintering, the two of us still have a chance.

He turns away from me as he takes out his Firebird, no doubt beginning the process of figuring out how to build a stabilizer to pair with it. Hoping to restore that temporary connection, I confide, “When Mom asked me if I’d done this, I confessed because I knew this Marguerite had to be watched in case Wicked came back. But . . . did I just ruin her whole life?”

“You did what you had to do.” Paul’s gaze is again remote; the gray of his eyes turns to ice. “You can make hard choices, Marguerite. You can even be ruthless. You just don’t want to admit it.”

“I’m not ruthless—”

“The potential’s inside you. It has to be. Otherwise, Wicked would never exist.”

He’s right. It’s Paul and Theo’s turn to judge me by my worst self. To judge my darkness. Because whatever else Wicked is, she is me.

Paul’s too good to rub it in, make it worse. Instead, he drops his Firebird back under the collar of his jumpsuit. “I have to go. Get out if you can, and don’t stop trying. Because when you’re taken into official custody, you’ll be searched, and they could find the Firebird.”

“Okay,” I say in a small voice.

Paul nods before he steps out of the room and locks the door behind him without a single word of goodbye. He thinks that makes him seem strong and resolute. It only reveals that this parting hurts him as much as it hurts me, maybe even more.

I’m sorry, I tell this world’s Marguerite. She’ll remember everything that happened while I was within her—yet another of the things that’s different for a perfect traveler. We leave a trail of memories for our hosts to follow. But will Dr. Singh’s readouts be enough to prove she’s telling the truth about what really happened?

At least the Spaceverse Marguerite will know it was for a good reason. She’ll know her freedom has been sacrificed for the safety of her entire dimension. I have to believe she’ll think that was worth it.

I put my hand on my Firebird for the next of my many futile attempts to move into the next universe, thinking to my host, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—believing that this is only the first of many times I’ll repeat those words inside her head. But this time the Firebird snatches me away in an instant.

Should’ve finished my apology first.

11

ABOUT TWO FEET IN FRONT OF MY EYES LIES ADAM, COMPLETELY naked.

The Biblical Adam, I mean. The serpent coiled around the nearby tree tells me that much. This picture has been painted skillfully—incredibly so, with color both vivid and expertly shaded, vital composition that draws my eye to Adam’s outstretched hand reaching up toward God, and enough subtlety that the expression in Adam’s eyes carries as much emotion as any human’s could. He’s thinking: I’m scared, but I want this.

If I were looking at this in a gallery, I’d assume it had been painted in one of the workshops of the Old Masters at the height of the Renaissance. Just two problems with that scenario—first, this work is so new I can still smell the fresh paint.

Second, not only am I not in a gallery, but I seem to be lying on wooden scaffolding. While I’m flat on my back, the painting looms above me, so broad I can’t see the edges.

What’s the mortal danger here? I can’t see anything. Is the scaffolding rickety, about to collapse? Feels steady enough to me. The air doesn’t smell of smoke. My body feels absolutely fine, not injured or punctured in any way.

Carefully I roll over, taking note of the clothing I wear—rough-woven cloth dyed the color of rust, bad shoes, some kind of scarf tied over my hair—

—and look down to see that I’m roughly forty feet above the marble floor.

Once I was nervous about heights, but after dangling from a helicopter and being in Earth orbit, a mere forty feet feels like a relief. Was Wicked hoping I’d roll over too quickly and plunge to my death? She can do better than that . . .

“Do you not see the heresy?” calls a proud, authoritative voice. Her words echo in this space, which must be large, even if I can only get glimpses of it around the scaffolding. “How can you excuse your mistress now?”

I shift farther along the platform until I can see who is speaking to me from below. A small group gathers down there beside enormous columns holding up a vast arch. Most of the people wear long dresses or robes obviously more luxurious than my own. Their garments are bright with the shine of silk or the sheen of velvet. A few wear the deep red cassock and cap I know belong to cardinals of the Roman Catholic Church. There’s no doubt who the speaker is, though—that has to be the woman wearing a tall, peaked hat and white robes richly embroidered with golden thread that glints in the light.