I seem to be related to all of them.
Paul remains with me throughout this, several feet away. He must notice how bizarre it is for me to need these reference materials, but he says absolutely nothing about it, simply waits patiently. That helps me feel a little more in control, even as I make a mess of the letters. The fountain pen blots every other word, and handwriting takes so long; if you ask me, Skype is a much better way to keep in touch.
Between notes, I search the List for any reference to a Theodore Willem Beck. Okay, it would be an extreme long shot for Theo to turn out to be nobility too, but I’m desperate to figure out where he is. In a world without Google, that info is a lot harder to come by. But the book has no mention of him, just like my maids this morning had never heard his name. Theo’s whereabouts remain a mystery.
As I work on a letter to a Greek princess who is apparently my aunt, I remain vividly aware of Paul’s presence. He stands by the door of the salon where I’ve chosen to work, the two of us alone in the vast, elegant room, looked upon by oil portraits of my various ancestors, all of whom seem to be disapproving. Finally I can’t take the silence any longer.
“You must find this very dull, Markov,” I say.
Paul doesn’t even turn his head. “Not at all, my lady.”
“You wouldn’t rather be with your”—Regiment? Is that right?—“fellow soldiers?”
“My duty calls me to remain with you, my lady.”
And there’s something about the way he says “my lady” that flusters me. I turn back to my letter, but I can only stare down at the page.
Okay, I’ve learned that Paul Markov isn’t a killer. That’s a relief, but that truth raises more questions than it answers. Why would Paul destroy my mother’s research and data and take off? And if he’s entirely innocent, why did he fight Theo so savagely in London?
Well. Theo and I attacked him first, and Paul did say he was suspicious of Theo when he saw him . . .
Wait. My eyes widen. Theo—it couldn’t be.
No. It actually couldn’t be. Theo took an enormous risk to try and help my mother and avenge my father; he leaped through dimensions without any guarantee he wouldn’t be turned into “atomic soup.” He’s as confused about what’s going on as I am. The shifting worlds around me have left me unsure of so many things, but Theo’s loyalty, at least, has been proved beyond any doubt.
Paul Markov remains a mystery.
Yet he’s a mystery I’ll have to solve if I’m to have any hope of repairing the Firebird.
I try to concentrate on my letter, but I can’t. I drop my head into one of my hands. Paul takes one step toward me. “My lady? Are you well?”
“I’m . . . overwhelmed. That’s all.”
“Do you need to walk into the Easter room, my lady?”
Easter room? When I look up, Paul is smiling—but shyly. Even here, in a world where he’s a military officer in full uniform, gun and knife in his belt, he remains unsure of saying the right thing.
I rise from my chair and let him lead the way.
Paul takes me through more of the long corridors of the Winter Palace. Gilded ceilings glitter overhead as we walk through columns of green marble, through rooms painted gold or crimson or royal blue; my slippers softly echo the click of his shining boots along the paneled floors. Finally we reach a pair of tall, white doors. Paul pushes them open and steps to one side, allowing me to enter first. I walk inside, and only barely manage to stifle a gasp.
The Easter room turns out to be where our family keeps the Fabergé eggs.
Each egg is a jeweler’s masterpiece. Small enough to fit easily in an adult’s hand, they are set with porcelain, or gold, or jewels, or most often a combination of the three. Some are modestly pretty, like the pink enamel one latticed with rows of tiny pearls; others are spectacularly inventive, like the egg of lapis lazuli surrounded with silver rings like the planet Saturn, nestled in a “cloud” of milky quartz dotted with platinum stars.
In my dimension, a few dozen Fabergé eggs have survived from the decades the Romanovs gave them to one another as Easter gifts. In this dimension, that tradition has lasted for well over a century. A couple hundred eggs glint and shine from their places on the long shelves that line the walls. It’s like falling into a jewel box, but a thousand times more dazzling, because every single egg is a unique work of art.
Reverently I tiptoe to one of the shelves and pick up an alabaster egg. My inner voice chants, Don’t drop it, don’t drop it, don’t don’t don’t. The silver hinge in the middle opens, and I lift it up to reveal a tiny clockwork dancer inside, a metal marionette who begins to dance while a tune plays. It’s so beautiful, so delicate, that it takes my breath away.
“Not your usual favorite, my lady,” Paul says softly.
How many times has he brought me here, when I was sad or lonely? I sense this is far from the first afternoon we’ve found ourselves alone here.
“Which one is my favorite?” I look up into Paul’s gray eyes, challenging him to know me.
Without hesitation, he points at an egg the deep, vivid red of wine, decorated with swirls of delicate gold filigree. The beauty of the red alone—I could mix my paints for hours and not capture that depth of color.
I realize why Paul’s holding back; surely he’s not allowed to touch it.
So I lift my chin and say, “Get it for me, Markov.”
He pauses for only the briefest moment, then takes the egg into his broad hands. (And they’re so large, so strong. I think he could span my waist with his hands.) As I watch, he lifts the top to reveal the “surprise,” the extra layer of finesse or artistry hidden within each egg. Here, it is a small silver charm—a tiny framed portrait of my mother.