A Thousand Pieces of You

“See you at supper.” Oh, crap, what if they don’t eat supper together? Or should I have said dinner? But it doesn’t look like I got it wrong, because Vladimir nods. I offer my cheek to him for a quick kiss; his mustache tickles my skin.

At the end of the hallway I discover a library—no, a schoolroom.

“Are you going to let me get a word in edgewise today?” Katya demands as she slides into one of the desks, which are all broad and grand, less like something out of a public school and more like something you’d see in an antiques store. “Or are you going to play teacher’s pet again? He’s supposed to be tutor to us all, not only you.”

“I’ll take turns,” I promise absently. Footsteps are coming down the hall, small and light.

Then a young boy appears in the doorway, his face open and smiling. “Marguerite!”

The encyclopedia supplied the name I need; the fact that he’s completely adorable supplies the emotion. “Piotr.” I hold out my hands for my younger brother, who dashes into them. He looks even more like Mom than I do—slight, almost fragile, and not nearly big enough for a ten-year-old, but with a sweetness in his face that is only his own. Does the tsar give him anything like the affection he must need? I don’t see how. And the way Piotr clings to me reminds me painfully that his mother—my mother, our mother—is gone.

Even Katya softens slightly for him. “Will you dazzle me with your French today, Pierre?”

He nods seriously. “I practiced with Zefirov.”

“Zefirov doesn’t speak a word of French!” Katya laughs, pointing at the guard standing outside the door, alongside Paul. Zefirov says nothing, just keeps staring straight ahead. “We’ll see how you do, Peter.”

Pierre, she called him, and then Peter. In the hallway, Vladimir called her Kathy, and last night he called me Marguerite, even though the encyclopedia confirmed that in this dimension I’ve been given the Russian form of my name, Margarita. From my history lessons, I know that nineteenth-century nobility often used different forms of their names in all the various languages they spoke, an aristocratic affectation that must have survived here.

I glance over my shoulder at Paul. Here, no doubt, he’s Pavel—the Russian form—but I can’t bring myself to think of him by a different name.

This classroom is nothing like the dull, institutional places I’ve seen on television. Instead of plastic desks and bulletin boards, the space has bookshelves that reach from floor to ceiling. The Persian carpet here is a bit more threadbare than those in most of the rooms of the palace, the dark green velvet drapes perhaps slightly shabby. This room isn’t for showing off power and wealth. This room feels like home.

I take the seat that must be mine and wonder how in the world I’m going to bluff my way through this part, since I have no idea what they’re studying, besides French. Katya can hog the teacher’s attention all she likes. I probably wouldn’t be able to answer a single question.

Then a familiar-sounding English male voice says, “I see the grand duchesses are none the worse for wear after last night’s revels.”

I turn and see my father.

He’s alive. He’s alive, and he’s here, and more than everything I want to run to him, hug him, tell him I love him, all the things I longed to say just once more. This is the miracle I’d hoped for since the moment this journey began.

But I remain in my seat, hands clasped tightly around the armrests of my chair. What is he doing here? I don’t understand—

“Let’s begin our lessons then,” he says. My father must have come to Russia to teach the sons and daughters of the tsar. Then he met my mother.

I can’t jump out of my seat to embrace the “royal tutor.” I have to continue to play this role. But it’s all I can do to hold back tears of happiness.

He takes his place at the front of the room, papers spilling out of his case. He’s no tidier in this dimension than he is at home. Despite the odd formality of the clothes he wears—a full old-fashioned suit complete with waistcoat and wire-rimmed spectacles—he’s still completely, utterly my dad. Same narrow but handsome face, same pale blue eyes, same quizzical smile when he’s concerned. “Your Imperial Highness, I heard you weren’t well. Are you feeling better?”

Oh, right. That means me.

“Much better, thank you, Professor.” My voice sounds so strained, as though I can barely get the words out. Dad knows something’s up, but he simply studies me for a moment before nodding, allowing me to go on.

“All right, then. I realize you’re all wild with anticipation to return to your French, so let’s get started.”

Peter is learning basic grammar. Katya has translated some text. I’m supposed to be finishing an essay on the works of Molière. Mercifully, I’ve studied Molière at home too, so I ought to be able to get through this. Yet all I can do is clutch my book with clammy hands and steal furtive looks at my father, alive and well only steps away.

I never lost anyone before, not like this. My grandparents all died before I was born or when I was so small I hardly remember them. The only funeral I’ve attended was the one for my pet goldfish. So I had no idea what real grief was.

Now I know grief is a whetstone. It sharpens all your love, all your happiest memories, into blades that tear you apart from within. Something has been torn out from inside me that will never be filled up, not ever, no matter how long I live. They say “time heals,” but even now, less than a week after my father’s death, I know that’s a lie. What people really mean is that eventually you’ll get used to the pain. You’ll forget who you were without it; you’ll forget what you looked like without your scars.