Ten Thousand Skies Above You

by Claudia Gray

  “If the pretense helps us get the job done, then I’m going to keep on pretending my heart out. Because that cure for Nightthief exposure—I need it, and soon. Are you with me?”

  “I’m with you.” I mean it, but saying the words still hurts.

  “Don’t listen to me, okay? Sometimes I snark about stuff because—you know. It’s easier.” Theo clearly sees that I’m still affected, but he doesn’t press further. “Okay. You go meet Paul. You learn everything you can. You bring me keys or a pass to his lab. I can take it from there.”

  “You?”

  “Don’t act so surprised. This might be my first long-distance trip, but I think I’m getting the swing of it. Of course, I had to cut way down on the reminders—you were right about the charge, and also, damn do reminders hurt.” His smile is crooked. “What did you think I was here for? Just to provide an excuse for you to get on that train?”

  “Moral support, I guess.”

  It’s his turn to laugh. “Immoral support, more like.”

  How can Theo make me smile even when the situation is so grim? Somehow he always does.

  Then he adds, “Besides, like you said, while you’re nabbing Paul’s stuff—you’ll be close to him. You’ll have your chance to rescue that splinter of his soul.”

  The thought of being close to Paul—both this world’s Paul and my own—sends a shiver through me. But I don’t lose focus. If I act too early, Paul will catch on. We have to complete our terrible mission here before I have my chance at Paul. “Not until the very end.”

  “Two rooms? What’s a guy with a pretty girl want with two hotel rooms?” says the desk clerk.

  With a straight face, Theo replies, “I’ll have you know I’m a gentleman, sir.”

  The guy gives him a look. “You know how many refugees from SoCal we’ve had coming through here the past couple of weeks? You’re lucky I’ve even got one room available. Nobody else is going to have many vacancies either. Take this one, and you can be a gentleman on the floor.”

  As we silently ride up in the elevator, Theo holds our suitcases. I hold the hotel key—old-fashioned, metal with an aquamarine plastic tag dangling by a chain. Finally Theo says, “The floor’s fine. Really.”

  “We can take shifts. Four hours bed, four hours floor.”

  “That works too.”

  The problem is, there’s not even a lot of floor in this hotel room, which is the smallest I’ve ever seen. Although I guess this is technically a double bed, it’s narrower than most, and yet it covers almost the entire length of the room. We barely have room to slip inside, stash our suitcases in a closet almost too shallow to hold them, and to open the door to a bathroom not much bigger than the closet. The carpet is beige industrial stuff, and the paint on the yellowing walls is chipped.

  “Well, it ain’t the Ritz.” Theo sits down heavily on the bed, then frowns. “Wait. Where’s the phone?”

  Turns out this hotel has only one phone per floor. If you want to make a call, you have to wait in line to step inside the “phone booth”—actually just a cubby with a little bench. The guy in front of me has a ten-minute argument with a woman (wife or girlfriend, I can’t tell) who apparently feels like he doesn’t make enough time for the two of them. I hear enough of the conversation to agree with her, but nobody’s asking me.

  Finally he slams down the receiver and stalks off. The phone is mine. For a moment I sit there, staring at the printout with Paul’s number on it, wondering how I go through with this.

  Then I read the title again: Lieutenant Markov. And I dial.

  Three rings, and—“Markov.”

  Paul’s voice feels like rain after a drought. Just hearing him makes my throat tighten. I manage to say, “Lieutenant Markov? This is Marguerite Caine.”

  “Miss Caine?” He sounds like he thinks this might be some kind of prank.

  “Yeah. Hi. I—I hope it’s okay that I called.”

  “Of course. Has something happened to the Doctors Caine?”

  “No, no, they’re fine! I was calling because, well, I’m in San Francisco, and I’m on my own. So I thought maybe we could meet up.”

  After a brief pause, Paul says, “You came to San Francisco by yourself?”

  “No. I came here with Theo.” Do I sound angry? I’m trying. “But he got upset because I—well, he stormed off. So now I’m all alone in the city for a couple of days.”

  “Private Beck left you on your own?” At least one of us is genuinely angry.

  “I’m all right!” I feel the need to make excuses for Theo, even after an argument that’s totally imaginary. “I’ve got a hotel room, and my suitcase, and a ticket back home in three days. But until then—well—I could use some company.”

  The silence that follows stretches so long I start to wonder if we lost our connection. Finally Paul says, “Would you allow me to take you to dinner?”

  He speaks so formally, sounds so unsure. I’m reminded of Lieutenant Markov, and the way he loved the Grand Duchess Margarita for so long without ever saying a word. I can feel my smile like sunlight on my face. “I’d love that.”

  Next up in this dimension’s never-ending parade of awkward: getting ready for my hot date with Paul while Theo is in the same room.

  Technically I get dressed in the bathroom, but he’s right outside the door, critiquing the other elements of my outfit. “Your shoes are awful,” he calls as I struggle with my zipper. “These are hug-me pumps at best.”

  “I’m not going out to seduce him.” Paul and I never discussed whether getting together with other-dimensional versions of ourselves would count as cheating. Our relationship issues are not like most people’s. “I just need him to be, you know, flattered that I’m paying him attention.”

  “Trust me,” Theo says, more quietly. “He’s gonna melt the minute he sees you.”

  I pretend I can’t hear him. Instead, I finally conquer the zipper, then step as far back as I can to look at myself in the small mirror.

  Josie’s slightly shorter than I am, and her boobs are way better. But the way this dress is cut, the differences in our sizes don’t matter. The neckline cascades in soft folds, Grecian-style, then flows freely down to slightly past my knees. Although the dress has no sleeves, some of the red fabric drapes over my shoulders almost to the elbow. It doesn’t show much skin at the neck or arms or legs, and the fabric remains cheap, but the overall effect is undeniably sexy.

  My short hair makes me wince. If I could tie it up in a messy bun, that would look perfect. Instead, I work with the bob as best I can, pulling one side back with a shiny metal clip.

  Lipstick here is almost always worn dark red. The shade matches the dress, so I’m happy with it. I have no jewelry besides the Firebirds, tucked beneath my neckline so that only a hint of the gold chains shows at my throat. I fluff my hair again, step out of the bathroom, and smile. “How do I look?”

  Theo just stops. He stares at me like he can’t move, or maybe even breathe. His expression reminds me of the picture I found in this Marguerite’s pocket.

  I think maybe the tiny bathroom mirror didn’t do justice to this dress.

  Then Theo snaps out of it. “You look smashing, my dear.”

  “Very British of you.” Stupid joke. I have to joke, distract him, do something to break the tension between us.

  “Should I say ravishing? Gorgeous? How about lovely? Lovely works.”

  I manage to smile. “Thank you.”

  When I step into the shoes, I wobble—heels aren’t my thing. Theo leans close, so that I can brace my hand against his shoulder. Once I’ve got them on, though, he doesn’t move back. I don’t take my hand away, either.

  “You know . . .” His voice trails off.

  “What?”

  Theo shakes his head. “Better left unsaid.”

  Normally I would let him get away with that. Tonight I don’t. “Tell me.”

  His eyes meet mine. “I’m in this extremely weird position where I’m jealous of my
self.”

  It’s hard not to look away, but I don’t. Remembering London, I admit, “We came close enough before.”

  “But that wasn’t me either!” Theo starts laughing, and I can’t help but smile. “Do you think we’re serious? This Theo and this Marguerite? Or is this just, you know, seize the day, seize the girl, because tomorrow never knows?”

  At first I think I won’t even be able to say the words, but Theo deserves this much of the truth. “We’re in love.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know.” I fold my arms in front of my chest, one tiny barrier between me and Theo as he stands so very close. “During the air raid, I found a picture of you in my pocket. You wrote on the back, ‘with all my love.’”

  Actually he said something about eternal love, but maybe I can leave that part out.

  “I can believe that,” he says evenly. “Doesn’t mean the feeling’s mutual, though.”

  “It is. I found my drawings of you. The way I sketched your face . . .” I switch out of first person. “She loves the Theo from this dimension. Deeply. Completely.”

  “Lucky guy.”

  When our eyes meet again, we’re both listening to the words we haven’t said. Even though I don’t feel the same way Theo does, he’s important to me—and apparently there was more potential between us than I ever realized. He wasn’t wrong to fall for me. Just in the wrong universe.

  I summon the courage to say, “In the bomb shelter—right before the blast—”

  “I said the kind of thing people say when they think they’ll never have another chance,” Theo says. “Let it go, okay?”

  I should. I will. Just as soon as I figure out how.

  10

  NO TRANSAMERICA PYRAMID. NO COLUMBUS TOWER. Either Ghirardelli Square was bombed to oblivion a while ago or they never built it in the first place. People walking by me on the street seem quieter, more furtive, less themselves—it’s like I’m surrounded by the same hundred black coats with changing faces. This isn’t the San Francisco I remember.

  Something of the city’s spirit survives, though. I’m able to take a cable car part of the way, and the place where Paul asked me to meet him is in the neighborhood still known as Chinatown.

  I stand on the corner, my long dark coat pulled tightly around me. The temperature turned colder today—winter’s last futile howl against spring. I wonder if weather conditions are the same in alternate dimensions, if at home Mom and Dad have pulled their sweaters back out of the closet. Or maybe the “butterfly effect” holds up, and the tiniest possible changes in each world create new climates, new storms.

  Meanwhile, Theo’s stuck in our hotel room, waiting for me to come back and tell him all about flirting with Paul.

  I keep remembering that picture I found in my pocket, and what was written on the back. Theo and the other Marguerite love each other so much here. I guess—I guess I fell in love with him before I even met Paul.

  The strange part isn’t that I’m with Theo. To myself I can admit that I understand how I could fall for him, with his sense of humor, devilish eyes, and the kind of full lips most girls would kill for. Despite the darker side of his character I’m still coming to terms with, Theo has a lot to give.

  The strange part is that I didn’t fall for Paul.

  This Paul’s love for me might as well be tattooed on his skin. Anyone near him can see it, no matter how hard he works to remain at a polite distance, to show me no more attention than he should. But he’s always paying attention to the details and emotions other people miss. Paul sees the real me in ways no one else ever has.

  Did this Marguerite just not understand how much he cares?

  I tamp down my frustration. You didn’t understand him either at first, remember? It took you nearly a year to realize who Paul really is. This Marguerite got involved with someone else first. So it’s going to take her longer. But she’ll get it eventually—won’t she?

  The question, I guess, is how much this Marguerite loves Theo.

  If our souls are the same in world after world, then Theo must in some fundamental way be the same person as the one from the Triadverse who betrayed us all. I’ve fought hard not to measure my Theo by the actions of another, but that silent judgment has lurked in the back of my mind.

  Yet he stayed silent about his own pain. Came on this dangerous journey, breaking his own resolution never to travel between the worlds. Helped me come to San Francisco and set up a date with another man. The Theo from the Triadverse—I can’t imagine him being so brave. But, of course, we’re not only here to save Paul; we’re also after the cure for Nightthief. So far I have no idea whether this world’s Theo is more like the one from the Triadverse or more like mine.

  At that very moment, amid the dull, faceless crowd, I glimpse Paul.

  His uniform is different from Theo’s or even the one he wore to our house the other day: crisper, all in spotless white, except for navy and gold stripes at the sleeves—an officer’s insignia. The hat he wears has a brim and a small flag on the front. He could almost have stepped out of the 1940s.

  It’s like Paul was built to wear uniforms. I remember how he looked in Russia, when he was a soldier and my guard.

  Which makes it even sweeter to lift my hand and wave.

  He stops short. “Oh, Miss Caine. I didn’t expect you to be—” Dressed up, maybe. Or smiling. But Paul says only, “—here so soon.”

  This is the time we chose, almost to the minute; he’s punctual in a scary, inner-atomic-clock way. I let it slide. “Hey, let’s make a deal. If you’ll call me Marguerite, I’ll call you Paul.”

  It takes him a moment to say, “All right. Marguerite.”

  “All right, Paul.”

  “Well,” he says, then doesn’t seem to be able to come up with anything else right away. I stifle a smile; Paul’s as awkward in this dimension as he is in mine. “So. Dinner. I made reservations.”

  “Wonderful.” He must be taking me someplace special.

  Then he adds, “Very few places are able to cook well with the new ration standards. This is an exception.”

  Restaurants that have to feed you off a ration card? I remember the dismal meals at home—cheese on toast, canned peaches, eggs that are not real eggs—and lower my expectations.

  Apparently cheesy Chinese-restaurant decor has the power to travel through dimensions unchanged. Red-and-gold fans unfold across the walls, and small paper lanterns dangle in the corners. They’re all a little faded, like nobody’s replaced them with new ones in a long time, but they still add color to the room. Paul and I are seated in a curved booth just beneath one of the lanterns. The setting is perfect—intimate, so I can ignore the noise and activity around us and just be with him.

  And betray him, whispers Theo’s voice in my memory.

  “At first I didn’t understand why you weren’t working at the munitions plant,” Paul says, instead of normal human conversation like what happened with Theo or how was your trip. “But it was destroyed in the air raid. I’d forgotten.”

  “I’ll get another duty assignment soon, but not yet,” I say, which is probably the truth. Mom and Dad would have told me if I were going AWOL.

  Paul nods. “I heard the younger workers were on shift. The thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds. It’s terrible.” A lot of people say stuff like that about tragedies only because they think they’re supposed to, but Paul closes his eyes briefly after he speaks. Like it hurts to remember it.

  When I think about a bunch of middle-school kids blown to bits in a factory already filled with explosives, my heart hurts too.

  Also—kids as young as thirteen are working in factories? The war has already closed the schools, then. This dimension—at least, this nation, the one containing my family and friends and everyone I love—it’s even closer to the brink than I realized.

  You’re the one who’s going to push them over the edge, I remind myself. My parents believe the Firebird project is their last hope; my job here
is to take that hope away.

  I hate Conley for making me do this. I hate myself for doing it.

  But as I sit here, looking across the table at Paul, I remember that a splinter of my Paul’s soul is trapped within. Lost and utterly alone, in a world he can’t escape. For him, I think I could do anything. Even this.

  “I’m glad you phoned today. It gives us a chance to talk.” He takes a deep breath, obviously gearing himself up to say something he’s planned. “When I spoke to you a few months ago—if I made things difficult between us, I’m sorry.”

  Can I forgive Paul before I know what I’m forgiving him for? I try, “What were you thinking?”

  Paul’s hands twist the napkin across his lap. “My father always told me not to let anything get between me and something I truly wanted.”

  I blink. That sounds . . . encouraging. Always before, I’ve had the impression that Paul’s father was anything but supportive.

  He continues, “So I thought I would ask you out, regardless of what your parents might think or—or whether you were already dating someone. I misunderstood the depth of the commitment between you and Private Beck. If I had realized, I would never have said anything. Please forgive me.”

  I can picture the entire scene: Paul standing in front of me, probably scrunching his cap in his hands the way he’s twisting that napkin now. Me, so addled with love or lust for Theo that I couldn’t see the good man standing right in front of me. The depth of what he felt went unnoticed, unreturned. My heart breaks for him a little. At least I can give him tonight.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Really.”

  “Oh. Good. I’d thought—well, I’d been afraid you weren’t at ease with me anymore. Even intimidated.”

  Paul’s an intimidating man: his size and his rugged features make him look more like a firefighter or a SWAT team member than a scientist. I’ve seen people glance at him when we’re walking around Oakland after dark. In shadow, he looks like someone who could take you down in about five seconds. Yet I’ve seen how gentle he can be, and the memory makes me smile. “You’ve proved you’re not the big scary guy I thought you were.”