A Thousand Pieces of You

“Safe in Moscow, where you ought to be. Though I can’t blame Markov for that, hmm? You headstrong fool.” Vladimir kisses my forehead so soundly that it takes most of the sting from his comment.

Still at attention, Paul says, “Has the insurrection been put down yet, my lord prince?”

“Not entirely, but they’re on the run.” Vladimir’s fingers tighten around mine. “Our father has the loyalty of all but a handful of regiments, and secretly a few of them have already sought leniency if they were to abandon Sergei’s cause and lay down their arms. Of course Father’s not ready to hear of it, but give him another day or two to simmer down. Once he knows you’re well, I daresay he’ll be halfway there.”

It catches me short—this reminder that, harsh and stern as Tsar Alexander V may be, he truly believes me to be his daughter, and would at least worry if I were hurt. But that doesn’t change the fact that I want my real father. “Is Professor Caine all right?”

“Safe and sound. And due for a medal, after the way he rescued Peter. Such nerve under fire! I’d never have believed he wasn’t an army man.” Vladimir gives Paul a nod, dismissing him; it’s a perfectly reasonable thing for him to do, but it feels so slighting, so superior. Really he is only illustrating the gap between the House of Romanov and everyone else in Russia—the gulf between me and Paul, the one we may never be able to cross again.

I look over Vladimir’s shoulder at Paul. His gray eyes lock with mine for only an instant before he turns to see to the poor, tired horse.

“Come along,” Vladimir says. “We’ll get some hot coffee into you, maybe add a few drops of brandy. You can tell me everything about your wild escape.”

Not everything, I think.

The tsar is glad I’m alive, or so he says. Mostly he’s furious that I’m here instead of Moscow, though he at least directs his ire at me instead of Paul.

“What is it you thought you could do here?” he bellows over dinner in his camp tent, stew served in metal bowls. “Women at the front. Ridiculous!”

“What about nurses?” I protest, and the tsar stares at me as though I’d gone mad. Nobody ever contradicts him. Maybe he should hear differing opinions more often. Very casually, I add, “Where is Colonel Azarenko’s regiment? Are they not here?”

“He returned to St. Petersburg to muster additional troops but will be joining us shortly,” Vladimir says. “Tomorrow, we expect.”

“Worrying about troop movements now, are you?” Tsar Alexander huffs, but I ignore this.

Okay, Colonel Azarenko is on the way. But what are the odds he’ll have Paul’s Firebird with him? And what if his regiment goes into battle on the way here? He could be killed, which would of course be sad for his family and everything, but I admit, right now I’m mostly freaking out about the thought that if he dies, his knowledge of the Firebird’s whereabouts dies with him.

As the group breaks apart after dinner, instead of going back to the small tent that’s been prepared for me, I say to Paul, “I want to visit Professor Caine.”

He nods. “Very well, my lady.” His posture is ramrod straight, his expression so deliberately empty that it has the exact opposite effect from what he intends; anyone paying close attention would realize something between us had changed.

Luckily, none of the officers milling around us notices his behavior. Paul follows a few steps behind as we go to the tent Vladimir said belonged to my father. And even though I’ve lived in this dimension for weeks now, even though I know to call him Professor Caine—when Paul pulls back the flap of the tent to reveal Dad sitting at a camp table, writing by candlelight—I rush forward and embrace him. Dad laughs, self-consciously. “Your Imperial Highness. They told me you were safe. Thank God.”

My voice is muffled against his shoulder. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“As I am to see you.” He hugs me back, only for a moment. “I hear the heroic Lieutenant Markov is to thank for your safe return.”

I smile back at Paul, who just looks even stiffer. “Yes, he is. You’re certain you’re well? Shouldn’t you have gone on to Moscow too?”

“His Imperial Majesty wishes me to report on these events to my king, to ensure that other nations will hear the true version of the rebellion.” Dad’s forehead furrows with worry. “But I wish I might have stayed with Peter. He was badly shaken.”

“And Katya?” I ask.

Dad smiles. “Katya was ready to aim a cannon at Grand Duke Sergei herself. She had to be dragged from the front. Pity women can’t be soldiers. That one has the fighting spirit of ten ordinary men.”

“I can believe it.” She tackled the soldier who tried to kill me, even though he had a knife and she only had her fists. Then again, no one should underestimate Katya’s fists.

“You’ll go to Peter soon, won’t you? He needs someone.” Dad brushes my hair back from my face, then catches himself, realizing he shouldn’t show such affection toward the “tsar’s daughter.”

“Soon,” I promise, “but first I need something from you. Do you remember the locket I gave you to work on? Do you still have it?”

Dad blinks, caught off guard. “Yes—it’s in my new valise, actually—but surely that doesn’t matter now.”

“Please let me see it.”

His valise sits in one corner of the tent. Dad opens it and draws out the lace handkerchief; my heart sinks as I see that the Firebird remains in several pieces. He’s matched up several of the parts, but not nearly enough.