“Marguerite—” Dad’s hand rests on my shoulder, but when I shake my head, he draws away.
Paul takes a deep breath, then closes his eyes. I can’t tell if he’s awake after that, but in case he is, I keep telling him how much I love him, and I keep holding his hand. Even if he’s mostly out of it, even if he can’t see or hear, he’ll be able to feel that touch and know I’m by his side.
I’m aware that the other soldiers and the doctors are staring at us. What I just said to Paul is something no grand duchess should ever, ever say to a common soldier. But I also know that not one of them will dare to breathe a word of this. Spreading rumors about a member of the royal family is a good way to find yourself transferred to Vladivostok.
With my free hand, I check at his throat, hoping against hope he’ll have the Firebird around his neck. I don’t care any longer what happens to me. But I could make sure that my Paul traveled onward, that he at least would survive this.
Yet I need this Paul to live too.
It doesn’t matter. The Firebird isn’t around his neck, and when I command one of the healthy soldiers to search through Paul’s trunk, they find nothing even remotely resembling it. Colonel Azarenko died in the fighting, so there is no one else to ask.
The Firebird remains lost, and even now, I am watching two men die in one body.
At nightfall, Paul stirs once more. His eyes flutter open, and my smile for him is wrecked with my tears. “Paul? I’m here, golubka. I’m here.”
“Every Marguerite,” he says, and then he dies.
For a while after that, nothing is very clear. I think that I stand up very calmly, walk outside, and make sure I am far from the infirmary before I begin to scream. The wounded soldiers need their rest. They shouldn’t hear me scream, and scream, until my throat is raw and my eyes water and I fall to my knees in the snow.
When I can scream no longer, I remain outside, alone, for several minutes. My knees and feet are almost numb from the cold; I will my mind and heart to follow suit. Let them freeze. Let them lose feeling. Then the rest of me can stagger on.
Yet every time I think I’m past the point of being able to feel any more pain, a memory comes to me: Paul in the Easter room, cradling one of the Fabergé eggs in his hands; Paul leading me through a waltz, the broad warmth of his hand against the small of my back; Paul kissing me over and over as we fell asleep tangled in each other.
Finally I manage to stumble to my feet. One of the doctors stands not far away. Probably they made him follow me, afraid I was on the verge of collapse. I ask him, “Where is Professor Caine?” My voice is hoarse, more like an old woman’s than my own.
I’m led to a tent, apparently designated for me, but Dad is inside. When I walk in, he rises to his feet. “They told me it was over. I thought you needed a few moments to yourself.”
“I did. Thank you.”“I’m so sorry, my dear. So incredibly sorry. Markov was a good man.”
Hearing his kind words rips the wound open again, but I fight back the tears. Then I see what Dad’s been doing all these hours. There, on his camp table, lies my Firebird—apparently back in one piece.
His gaze follows mine. “I dedicated myself to it. Maybe I’ve got it. But I’m not comfortable letting you do something so dangerous without at least a test.”
“I can test it,” I say, my voice hollow. I pick up the Firebird and go through the motions to create a reminder—metal layers clicking beneath my fingertips—until the shock jolts through me. Pain, intense and electric and almost unbearable—but it’s welcome. That kind of pain is the only thing capable of numbing my heart. I’m grateful for even a few seconds’ respite from the grief.
“That looks like it hurt.” Dad tries to take the Firebird back from me, but I don’t let him.
“It’s supposed to hurt—what I just did.” I attempt to smile. “You put it together again. See, I knew you were a genius.”
Dad runs one hand through his rumpled brown hair. “Are you absolutely certain that’s what it’s supposed to do?”
He’s worried. I can’t blame him. Even I feel uneasy at the thought of taking my next trip with this thing. However, my only alternative is to wait for the weeks, or even months, it will take to either summon Theo to Moscow or travel to Paris myself.
I need to get back to Mom. I need to tell her about Conley, and soon. Theo’s Firebird will alert him I’ve moved on, so he’ll follow me. The question is where I’ll go—my Firebird is still set to follow my version of Paul, who just died in my arms. But it almost doesn’t matter where I go, as long as I wind up someplace where Theo can find me. I trust Theo to get me home.
Above all, I trust my father.
“It works,” I say, and hopefully it sounds confident. “I’m going to go now.”
Dad nods. His eyes are sad. This may be the last time his daughter ever knows him for who he truly is.
It may be the last time I ever see my father’s face.
I fling myself into his arms and close my eyes as he wraps me in his embrace. “I love you,” Dad whispers. “I have loved you every moment of every hour since you were born. Even before that.”
“I love you too, Dad. I told you that almost every day, and I still didn’t say it enough. I couldn’t have said it enough, no matter what.”
It’s too much to let him go. So I’m still in his arms as I touch the Firebird; the last thing I feel in this dimension is his kiss on my cheek. Goodbye. Goodbye.