A Thousand Pieces of You

Sometimes I think about that night in London, the way he leaned over me in bed and kissed the line of my collarbone. The memory is intoxicating.

And yet it’s not as powerful as the memory of Paul standing in the doorway to my bedroom, watching me paint. Or teaching me to waltz, here in this very room.

Once again I look across the room at Paul, just at the moment he looks at me. Our eyes meet, and something within me trembles. Paul straightens, more formal than before, trying to pretend that moment didn’t happen.

“You look as though you’ve been struck by lightning,” Vladimir says. Although he’s trying to tease me, I can hear the genuine concern in his voice.

“It’s personal,” I say. When I look up, Vladimir seems almost wounded; probably this dimension’s Marguerite tells him almost everything. He seems like a guy you’d confide in. So I hold out one hand, and when Vladimir takes it, I try to smile. “Do you think the tsar would let me travel to Paris to buy some hats?”

“This is about hats?”

“In a way.”

Vladimir shakes his head. “I shall never understand women.”

He leaves us then, so I get to write back to Theo. Then I try to work my way through the rest of the afternoon letters, but it’s impossible to focus. Theo’s letter has reminded me how strange my position is here, how difficult it will be to get out of this dimension if I even can, and of all the emotions for him—and for Paul—that I can’t afford to explore right now.

I drop my head into my hand, weary and overcome. After a moment, Paul says, “Are you unwell, my lady?”

“No. Not at all, I’m—I guess I’m having trouble getting through it today.” I try to come up with something to talk about that isn’t a complete emotional minefield. Not easily done, at the moment. “This letter is to a Rumanian princess who’s visiting St. Petersburg. Why is a Russian grand duchess writing to a Rumanian princess in English? For that matter, why are we speaking English right now?”

“It has been royal custom for some generations,” he says, obviously unsure of where this is going.

Not only is that true in this dimension, but now that I think about my history lessons back home, I realize it was true in mine as well; Nicholas and Alexandra wrote to each other in English. Royal people are weird.

“Would you prefer to speak in Russian, my lady?”

“No, that’s all right. Ignore me. I’m just thinking out loud.”

“Besides—” Paul’s voice hardens, as though he has to work to sound official. “The practice will be of help to you in your future life. My lady.”

What is he talking about? I make my question as casual as possible. “Do you think so? Why in particular?”

Paul straightens. “I was referring to—to your anticipated betrothal to the Prince of Wales. Forgive me for speaking out of turn, my lady.”

For one split second, it’s hilarious—I’m going to marry Prince William! I’ll get all Kate Middleton’s cute coats! But then I remember from the List that the heir to the British Empire in this universe isn’t Wills; it’s someone a whole lot more inbred, a whole lot less appealing. And even if it were Prince William, it wouldn’t be funny for long, because if I’m trapped here I’ll actually have to marry some total stranger half a world away.

“My lady?” Paul says, hesitantly.

I’m fine, I want to say—but instead I clap my hand over my mouth, struggling to maintain my composure. I must not break. I must not.

“You mean that I should be fluent in English.” My voice shakes; he must know how badly I’m hurting, even if he doesn’t fully understand why. “Since I’m to be their queen someday.”

Okay, thank God I thought of that, because it makes it a little bit funny—the idea of me waving awkwardly from a carriage, or wearing some huge feathered hat.

But Paul looks nearly as miserable as I feel. He ventures, “My lady, I feel certain His Imperial Majesty would never permit your marriage to any man unworthy of you.”

My guess is that Tsar Alexander basically auctioned me off to the best royal bidder. “I wish I were as certain.”

Paul nods, oddly earnest. “Surely, my lady, the Prince of Wales will prove a devoted husband. I cannot imagine that any man would not—would not count himself fortunate to have such a wife. That he could fail to love you at first sight.”

We are twenty feet apart and it feels as though we are close enough to touch. I imagine he can hear even the soft catch in my breath.

“Any man would,” he says. “My lady.”

“Love at first sight.” It comes out as hardly more than a whisper, but the quietest words carry in this vast, echoing room. “I’ve always thought real love could only come later. After you both know each other, trust each other. After days, or weeks, or months spent together—learning to understand everything that isn’t spoken out loud.”

Paul smiles, which only makes his eyes look sadder. “One can grow into the other, my lady.” His words are even quieter than mine. “I have known that to be true.”

When we look at each other then, he silently admits something beautiful and dangerous. Does he see the same confession in my eyes?

I know by now that the other Marguerite returned his devotion, without words and without hope.

No regular soldier, regardless of his loyalty and courage, can marry a grand duchess. No grand duchess can dare risk the tsar’s wrath with a forbidden love affair.