by Claudia Gray
“Exactly,” my mom says. “Transferring consciousness—as exciting as it would be, and as revolutionary as it would be even to identify and isolate consciousness—it’s not the best way of learning more about the other dimensions of the multiverse. We can structure ‘messages’ in the form of asymmetrical subatomic sequences and see how other quantum realities respond.”
“If we figure out how best to handle this, we might even be able to speak directly to other versions of ourselves—or, at least, to the other scientists doing our kind of work,” my father adds. “Much better than popping into someone else’s body unannounced.”
I think of the Grand Duchess Margarita, even now hiding out in a Danish country house until she gives birth to a baby—one I conceived for her. Of a Theo in New York City who’s still in the hospital, wondering if he’ll ever be able to walk again. Of Lieutenant Markov dead in my arms. I admit, “The ethics are a lot better.”
Mom nods, but I can tell to her this is only a theoretical consideration, one she’s never had to truly face. “We’ll have far better reach, as well. Instead of only visiting universes where we ourselves exist, we should be able to learn something about virtually any dimension in the multiverse— Henry. Stop giving noodles to the dog.”
“He likes noodles,” Dad says, as Ringo slobbers down his one strand of spaghetti.
My parents the illustrious scientists begin debating whether or not pasta gives the dog gas. It offers me a moment to consider what I’ve just learned, the possibilities expanding in my mind every moment.
The Home Office and the Triadverse must have dismissed this dimension as a threat because Mom and Dad abandoned the Firebird project. What Conley never realized was that they would instead turn their attention to another way of contacting other universes. If we got that power—my world, and the Warverse, and even the Paul and Theo from the Home Office—and we could communicate with each other constantly, without the risks of jumping dimensions . . . we could form an alliance much larger than Triad’s conspiracy. Much more powerful. We could prepare ourselves against any attack the Home Office could make.
This could be how we take them down.
As precious as the treatment for Theo is, as eager as I am to rescue my own Paul, I now know I’m bringing home a third treasure—or, at least, a chance. The coordinates to this dimension could save us all.
“How long?” I ask.
Mom huffs, “Until the dog begins stinking up every room he’s in? Two hours at most.”
“No. I mean—how long until you can communicate with other dimensions?”
“Sweetheart, you know we can’t pinpoint these things,” my father says, but with a smile. “Of course, if next month’s test goes as well as we hope . . . wait and see.”
It’s all I can do not to laugh out loud.
As I walk back to my room, I’m already strategizing. I’m not going to “de-cloak” yet; first I should talk with my parents back home about everything we’ve learned. But as soon as I do that, we can start planning my return to this dimension. Then we can tell the truth, the whole honest truth, and get these versions of ourselves to join forces with us. Exhilaration bubbles inside me until I want to spin around and do some stupid victory dance. Once I’m alone in my room, I might.
However, when I look at my email, every other thought fades, replaced only by the sight of Paul’s name in my in-box.
When I open his reply, it says only 8:30 p.m.
He’s not exactly Mr. Talkative in my dimension either. This is all the information I asked for, the only thing I need.
Still, when I remember Mom’s distrust of Paul, her fear for me, Paul’s terseness becomes . . . unnerving.
But it won’t stop me from going to him, and bringing my own Paul home.
Cambridge must be a relatively safe place, because when I tell them I want to go to the theoretical late show of whatever movie it was this world’s Marguerite wanted to see on campus, Mom doesn’t even look up from her reading as she nods. Dad says only, “Wouldn’t you rather take the car?”
Of course he lets me drive only in a universe where I’d have to stay on the left side of the road. “I’m good.”
“I’m glad you’re exploring your interest in film,” he says. “Definitely something to pursue.”
Mom chimes in, suddenly much more interested. “So many people talented in one art form prove to be talented in another.”
Maybe this world’s Marguerite is thinking of becoming a movie director. I can’t quite imagine it, but that’s kind of cool.
As I cycle through the streets of Cambridge, my phone chirpily tells me where to turn and how far to go. Not all of the city is as picturesque as the university; I cross a few busy roads lined with buildings more blandly modern. The chain store signs lit for nighttime bear unfamiliar names: BOOTS, COSTA, PIZZA EXPRESS. But my directions keep me near the university and finally steer me toward a group of small, basic apartments immediately recognizable as the kind of place where students live.
I lock my bike, walk straight to Paul’s door, and ring without hesitating.
Before my hand is back at my side, Paul opens the door.
He looks thinner in this dimension, and not in a good way; his clothes are the same shabby stuff he wears at home, but they hang on his frame, like he doesn’t even care enough to get stuff that fits. Still, he’s neat, and from the faint smell of shaving foam, I can tell Paul cleaned up for me. He’s trying.
“Hi,” he says. “Thanks for reaching out. It—it means a lot.”
“Can I come in?”
Paul seems astonished. Did he really think I’d stand here and question him from the doorstep?
But he stands back for me to walk into his apartment. It’s as small and plain as I would have thought, with worn, mismatched furniture bought at the Salvation Army or whatever the British equivalent is. Tidy, though—especially for a male college student. My Paul keeps things neater than virtually any other guy I’ve ever known; I wonder if the white-glove cleanliness of this room is something this world’s Paul shares with mine, or whether it’s the subconscious influence of my own Paul peeking through.
I ought to just press the Firebird against him now, get my Paul back, and get out of here. But something about this Paul’s quiet misery touches me. He’s hurting—terribly—and he seems to think talking with me would help.
I can give him that. His body has kept the last part of Paul’s soul safe; we owe him.
Instead of hi or how have you been, Paul says, “Will you let me explain?” When I blink, surprised, he continues, “I guess that’s why you’re here. If it’s not—”
“It’s complicated.” About a thousand times more complicated than you could possibly guess. Still, I ought to hear this. “Yeah, go ahead. Explain.”
Paul stands there, looking lost in the way that always makes me want to shelter him. “It was an accident. Even your parents must know it was only an accident. I hate myself for it more than they ever could. Even more than you.”
His eyes don’t meet mine; instead, he’s looking down at my forearm, at the ragged red welt I noticed earlier today. The ache has sunk down to the bone. I glance down at the scar, then back up at him.
“I was upset. We both were. So I shouldn’t have been driving. You’re not wrong to blame me for that.” By now Paul is pleading. “But your dad seems to think I did it on purpose. Marguerite, I would never, ever have wanted you to get hurt.”
We were in a car accident while Paul was driving. It screwed up my hand. But why do my parents hate him? A car accident could happen to anybody. Why have I refused to even see him?
Then I remember what Paul said first. I venture, “We . . . were upset.”
“It all seems so stupid now,” he says. “I wasn’t going to come around the house anymore, and you said I should get over it. Deal with my disappointment, forgive your parents. God, I wish I had. Then you’d be fine, and we’d be happy, and you could still—”
Paul choke
s on his own words, then sits down heavily, too upset to notice my confusion.
Slowly I say, “If you could do it over—without yelling this time—if we were back in that car, what would you tell me?”
He wasn’t expecting that. But he tries to work with it. “I would say that just because I disagreed with Sophia and Henry about the Firebird technology didn’t mean I felt any differently about you. When I avoided the house, I wasn’t avoiding you. Only them. I felt like the greatest work of my life had been taken away from me.”
Of course. Paul would have hated their decision to abandon the Firebird project. Once he tackles a question, he doesn’t want to rest until he has the answer.
Paul continues, “I shouldn’t have said angry things about your parents—at all, but especially not in front of you. It put you in a terrible position. And I guess it made it easier for them to hate me afterward.”
If I’d had time to calm down after this awful argument in the car, honestly, I probably would have understood. As much as I love my parents, they still drive me crazy sometimes. And I would have realized what a crushing blow this was to his research and his hopes. So I still don’t get why he’s so freaked out about the accident.
Until he says, very quietly, “Are you any better? I mean—have you been able to paint?”
It all comes together, then: Paul’s crushing guilt, my parents’ anger. The lack of any art supplies or new paintings in my room. Spaghetti falling off a fork that hurts to hold—a fork that’s still wider than most paintbrushes. My parents encouraging my new “interest in film,” because they’re afraid I’ll never be able to paint again.
This tragedy belongs to the other Marguerite, not me. When I go home, my arm will be fine—unmarked—and I can paint as much as I need. But still, I feel the pain of this Marguerite’s loss. Art is the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do. It’s my vocation, my passion. And dammit, I’m good! Not many teenagers get their own gallery showings. Not many have the skills that could get them into RISD, much less Ruskin. As hard as it is to make a living as a professional artist, I honestly believe I have a chance.
In this world, Marguerite’s chance has been taken away.
Maybe my hand will get better, I think. But already I know this Marguerite’s doctors don’t hold out much hope. If there were hope, Paul wouldn’t be sitting here in misery. My parents wouldn’t hate him.
And this Marguerite wouldn’t either.
I say the only thing I can think of. “It didn’t help that we were arguing when it happened. That I was already mad at you.”
He shakes his head. “No, it didn’t. But you’re not wrong to blame me. I drove the car. It was my responsibility to pull over if I was—distracted. I didn’t, and I hurt you, and I swear to you, if I could go back in time and change things—even if I had to get between you and the other car, take the hit myself—I’d do it. I would.” Paul makes a small sound, something that might have been a laugh but didn’t quite make it. “Too bad we never tackled time travel.”
“Mom and Dad shouldn’t have tried to throw you out of the department. Not for that.”
“Sophia and Henry felt guilty for not protecting you. For bringing me into your life.” Paul meets my eyes only for a moment. “No, they weren’t—reasonable. But there are worse things parents can do than loving their child so much that it made them unreasonable.”
Worse things, such as being mixed up in organized crime, and being more loyal to the mob than to your own son. His betrayal by his parents makes him willing to forgive mine for turning on him.
I remember the way my mother talked to me after I first told her Paul and I were together. She said that as much as they cared about Paul, they’d always be on my side—even if I was wrong. I guess she was telling the truth. And now, after the Home Office, I’ve seen how my parents react to grief. It twists them up. Makes them lash out.
Paul dismisses the near-ruin of his academic career with a shrug. “I’m going to ETH Zurich for my postdoc. I’ll move away as soon as I possibly can. You don’t have to worry about me anymore, or ever again. I promise you.”
“I believe you,” I say. He breathes out, like he’d been holding his breath for a very long time. Paul doesn’t ask for or expect forgiveness or redemption. He only wants me to feel safe.
What will happen to this world’s Paul? Will he find other people to love him in Zurich? Mentors who become adoptive parents, like mine, can’t come along that often.
Paul studies my face; I wonder what he sees there. Finally he says, “Is that all?”
“Not quite. Do me one favor?”
“Anything.”
I get to my feet and take the spare Firebird from around my neck. He looks at it, uncomprehending; apparently the project didn’t progress far enough in this dimension for him to recognize it on sight. So I simply say, “Hold still.”
Paul nods, and remains rigid in his chair, not even looking directly at me as I drape the chain around his neck. Once all four splinters of my Paul’s soul are reunited, he should awaken within this body.
Please let it work. Please let Conley not have lied to me. Please, please, let me have him back again.
I take a deep breath, hit the final sequence and drop the Firebird.
He jolts, grabs the arms of his chair, and opens his eyes wide. When he looks up at me, he whispers, “Marguerite?”
My Paul, at last.
We reach for each other at the same instant, and somehow I wind up in his lap, and we’re embracing each other so tightly we can scarcely breathe. Everything I’ve had to do, everything I’ve gone through—it was all worth it for this. For him.
29
WE HANG ON TO EACH OTHER SO TIGHTLY THAT NOTHING could tear us apart. Paul’s broad hands span my back as he rocks me; I kiss his mouth, his cheeks, his eyelids, his chest. Even our breaths rise and fall in the same rhythm, as if we’d merged together. As if I’d leaped not into another version of myself, but into him.
“I was so scared,” I manage to choke out. “You were torn apart. Conley tore you apart—”
“You mean—my consciousness—”
“Splintered. Conley splintered you into four pieces.”
He swears in Russian. “I only remember this world at all. None of the others.”
“Well, trust me, you were all over the place. Italy and New York and even a terrible world war. You really don’t remember that?”
“I only remember being here. We’ll deal with the theory later. I’m all right now.” Paul kisses my neck, then frames my face in his hands. “I didn’t find the cure for Theo before they caught me.”
“It’s okay! I got it for him. We—well, we had to do some dirty work for Triad, but it’s all right, because I think I know how to turn it against them.”
He frowns, no doubt wondering just how dirty the work was. But then I see his expression begin to cloud over. “A few minutes ago—the things I said—”
“Forget it. That’s between another Paul and another Marguerite. It doesn’t have anything to do with us.” Knowing that makes me feel so impossibly, perfectly free. Like I could soar on wings, carrying Paul upward with me.
“But I hurt you.” Paul looks down at my scarred wrist.
“Not on purpose. And it wasn’t you, just like it wasn’t me. Okay?” Explaining this to Paul will take time, just like it took me a long while to believe it.
He doesn’t look like he can fully accept that. “You—she can’t be an artist anymore.”
That hurts, even if it isn’t me. But I say to him what I hope this Marguerite will someday understand—something I might need to consider myself, really. “There are other careers. Other ways to be creative and lead a good life. She’ll figure it out.”
Paul isn’t comforted. “Theo’s safe?”
“Yeah. He even came on the trip with me, because he said if you’d do it to rescue him, he’d do it to rescue you.”
“That idiot,” Paul says, in a tone of voice that makes it the most
affectionate thing he could possibly say. “Where is he now?”
“Japan. I mean, in this universe Theo Beck is getting his doctorate in Japan, but our very own Theo has already leaped home. He’ll be waiting there for us.”
Paul looks around at this apartment. “This Paul—” He laughs slightly, but without humor. I can tell he’s embarrassed by how far this version has sunk. “He needs to get a life.”
“Yeah, probably. Look at it this way; at least you’re not stuck in an apocalyptic war. Is that coming back to you at all?”
If it is, he might remember me making out with another Paul. Uh-oh.
Instead, he shakes his head. “This world is the only one I have any memory of. I think there was . . . more of me here than anywhere else.”
“Well, you didn’t miss out on much in the Warverse.”
I throw it out merely to distract him, but Paul latches on to the new information. “Conley hasn’t forced you into working with him, has he?”
“Not any more than this,” I promise.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
There’s so much, and the threat of the Home Office is almost too terrifying to speak out loud. Right now I only want to go home with Paul.
But Theo’s back where he belongs, safe and sound. He’s telling my parents the risks even now. Paul and I are together in each other’s arms. There’s no reason not to talk, if that’s what he needs.
So I begin in Italy, with Conley’s announcement of what he’d done, and say it all. If I hold anything back, it will only make it more awkward to talk about later. So I tell him about appearing in the bed beside Theo, in a world where I chose differently. I explain how I flattered him to try and get secrets, and that we kissed—that I hurt that world’s Paul, and he lashed back. But I emphasize the deal we cut above everything else. “They’ll be okay, so I didn’t do any harm. I didn’t have to play Conley’s game. See?”