A Thousand Pieces of You

I got you into this mess, Meg. I swear to you, I’ll get you out of it. There’s nothing in any universe more important to me than that.

Theo

Slowly I fold the letter and hold the paper against my chest.

Vladimir’s voice is soft as he says, “I suspect I had better not mention this letter to the tsar.”

“Please.” As though he’d ever tattle on me. I hold out one hand to him, the only older brother I’ll ever know. Vladimir doesn’t ask questions, even though he must be wondering what in the world is going on with me. He’s by my side no matter what.

I realize I’m going to miss him once I’ve gone.

Then we hear shouting from outside—not a few men, but dozens of them. Hundreds. Vladimir’s hand squeezes mine in shared fear for the moment it takes us to realize that what we’re hearing isn’t panic. It’s celebration.

We dash out of my tent to see the soldiers throwing their hats in the air and pouring vodka out of flasks to toast their happiness. “What is it?” Vladimir shouts. “What is the news?”

Tsar Alexander strides out of the crowd toward us with a broad grin on his face. “Loyal regiments attacked the forces of my traitor brother this afternoon. Sergei is dead. So is his rebellion!”

He joins in the cheers for his brother’s death. Given that Sergei tried to kill us too, that might be justifiable. All I can think is that this is the only time I’ve seen the tsar smile.

Vladimir doesn’t start celebrating, but his relief is obvious. “What brave soldiers finished the rebellion?”

The tsar seems to think that’s no more than a meaningless detail, but he says, “Azarenko’s battalion.”

That means Paul was in the battle. “Lieutenant Markov—is he all right? Was he hurt?”

“How should I know?” Tsar Alexander is already bored with talking to his children when there are soldiers ready to cheer him. “Look at the reports, if you want.”

Vladimir takes one look at my face and grips my hand. “Come along, Marguerite. I’ll get the reports for you.”

They turn out to be handwritten sheets of paper, messy because they were sent off before the ink had dried. As I stand in the tsar’s tent, clutching the paper and straining to make out the words, I read how the Grand Duke Sergei met his death at the other end of a bayonet. How only nineteen of the tsar’s loyal soldiers paid the ultimate price, among them Colonel Azarenko. How eight more of those soldiers are seriously wounded.

And I read that one of the wounded soldiers is Paul.

18

“CAN’T WE GO ANY FASTER?” I FEEL BAD EVEN FOR SAYING it; the horses are doing their best, pulling the sleigh across the snow faster than any motorized vehicle could travel. And yet I feel like I could outrun the horses, like if I gave into the sheer power of my fear for Paul, the bonds of gravity would snap and I’d fly away from here, straight to Paul’s side.

“Steady on,” Dad says. He’s the one who volunteered to take me, which is a mercy. I don’t know that I could bear to be with anyone else right now, anyone who didn’t know the truth. “We’ll be there within the hour, at this rate.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It’s only that I—” But what can I say?

He says it for me. “It’s only that you love him.” When I turn to him in astonishment, Dad simply shakes his head ruefully. “I know what forbidden love looks like, Marguerite. I learned to recognize it in your mother’s eyes.”

I hug his arm. “He has to be all right.”

“If Lieutenant Markov doesn’t survive, does your Paul die too?”

“Nobody knows for sure. But—probably he would.”

Dad glances over at me. “Which one of them are you afraid for?”

“Both of them.” The sharp cold air stings my cheeks as we dash forward. “I’m tied to Paul—everywhere, perhaps—the same way you’re tied to Mom.”

Dad is quiet for a few moments before he says, “We aren’t together, in your world. Your mother and I.”

“I told you—”

“Yes, you told me, and I’ve never seen anyone look so sad while she gave supposedly happy news.” Dad’s words are gentle, as they usually are, but he’s always known when, and how, to push me. “It’s comfort enough to know that there are infinite worlds. Infinite possibilities. Now I know somewhere, somehow, Sophia and I had our chance. But you mustn’t lie to spare my feelings.”

“You were together, always. Nothing could have torn you two apart.” The truth: Dad deserves it. “Nothing but death.”

He breathes in sharply. “I would never have forced her to continue having children.”

“Not her,” I whisper. “You.”

We ride on in silence for a moment after that, with no sound near us but that of the horse’s hooves, the sleigh rails in snow, the jingle of the reins. Is Dad freaking out? What would it be like, to hear that you were dead?

Then he puts one arm around me. “My poor darling girl.”

My eyes fill with tears as I lean against him. He hugs me closer, comforting me. I realize that this is what being a parent means—facing the most horrible thing that could ever happen to you and yet thinking only of how it will hurt your child.

“Was it very recent?” Dad says quietly.

I nod against his shoulder. “Right before I left.”