Ten Thousand Skies Above You (31 page)

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 chokes 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.

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?”

Paul nods. He looks like he's in shock. “And then what?”

“Then I went to a New York where—where you went into business with your dad.”

His entire body tenses. I realize he wants me out of his lap, so I stand; Paul begins pacing the length of the room. “I couldn't have. I would never.”

“Not often,” I say as gently as I can. “But in at least one universe.”

“How did you know? How did you find out?”

“I might have reached out to you in a way that freaked out your, um, colleagues and—well, they kidnapped me.”

He blanches. “Oh God. My father didn't—”

“I wasn't hurt. Paul—you know you could have talked to me about your dad. I wouldn't have judged you for the things he's done.”

“Things I would do.” His voice has gone dull. “In the right circumstances.”

“Don't obsess over—”

“How did you escape? I know you wouldn't have left the other Marguerite there.”

“Theo led the cops to my location. I was able to get out.”

Paul steps closer to me. “You're keeping something back.”

“
While Theo and I were trying to get away, you found us. When I retrieved that splinter—I think it made you angry.”

“And?”

Deep breath. “And you shot Theo in the kneecaps. Both of them.”

Paul groans and turns away. He slumps against the wall, facing it, both hands above his head like someone being put under arrest. “Did he die?”

“No! No, the paramedics were sure he'd make it.”

“So he'll just lose one or both of his legs, then,” he says flatly. “Our Theo had to feel it too.”

“Theo specifically told me not to blame you for that! You're not the same man as the one who decided to work with your dad. I mean, how could you be?”

“Theo's a better person than I am,” Paul says. His mood is darkening; looking at him now is like watching storm clouds roll in to blot out the blue sky. “What then?”

This is even worse—but here, I'm the one to blame, not him. “I went back to the Russiaverse. I wanted to be in a world where you weren't.”

“I don't blame you.”

“It was just so I could think things through, someplace where I thought I'd be safe.”

Sensing my hesitation, Paul says, “What is it? Is the grand duchess all right? If her father found out about us—”

“She's kept the main secret.” I force myself to meet his eyes. “Paul, she's pregnant.”

He whirls toward me then, almost angry. In one of those flashes of understanding that's almost like telepathy, I know exactly why: His disbelief is so strong that he wants to think I'm joking, and he wants to hate me for making a joke that personal, that hurtful. Worse is seeing the truth sink in.

“She's having a baby?” Paul can hardly do more than whisper. “Because of me?”

“Because of me. I'm the one who chose, remember? You were just—a shadow in Lieutenant Markov's mind.”

“But what if I made the difference? If I pushed him over the brink of what he dreamed about, and what he would actually do?”

I don't have any comfort for him, not about this. The most terrible mistake I ever made was in someone else's body, someone else's life, and I can never, ever put it right. “We both know I'm the one to blame.”

“Is she going to be all right?” Paul's voice shakes, and I remember that he lived within Lieutenant Markov for nearly a month, loving the grand duchess as much as he loved me. It doesn't make me jealous, exactly—only reminds me that I'm not the only Marguerite he'd sacrifice for. “She can't hide that forever.”

I walk to him and put my hands against his chest. He doesn't respond, even as I say, “She
wants
the baby. Vladimir
knows, and he's taking care of everything.”

“That's our child,” Paul says. “Yours and mine.”

I remember that faint goldfish-tickle, and the shivers that went through me as I felt Paul's baby inside. “Yeah. It is.” I try to smile. “We managed to get pregnant before we slept together. That takes talent.”

He doesn't laugh. He shouldn't. Even having cracked that weak joke makes me feel cheap.

So I try to bring us back to the here and now. “Listen to me. We have to deal with the consequences of our actions, absolutely. I'm not even sure we can justify doing this.”

“Doing what, exactly?” Paul says.

I hadn't known I would say this until the moment it comes from my mouth. “Traveling through dimensions at all.”

His eyes meet mine, and as surprised as he is, I think he might agree.

“We shouldn't stand around tearing ourselves up about it,” I say. “There are things we need to do as soon as we can. I want to take this treatment to Theo, to see if we can get him back in shape. And we need to talk with Mom and Dad about everything—what the Home Office is, how we might be able to communicate—”

And about the Home Office's plan to collapse as many universes as necessary until they get their Josie back. I need to tell Paul that, too. But not this moment. He looks weary and battered by what I've said so far. Wounded. The rest can wait until we get home. When we're all together, able to make plans for defending ourselves, then he can bear it. Not yet.

I reach up to put my arms around his neck, but Paul pushes me away, gently but firmly. “Marguerite—I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

He stands there a long moment, the harsh light from his one cheap lamp painting his profile in stark lines and elongating his shadow on the wall. This place smells musty—unclean and sad. The pretty green campus and cozy town house seem to belong to another world altogether.

“You've talked a lot about how the dimensions bring us together, time after time. You were the one who made me believe we belonged with each other in any world we could ever find.” Paul takes a deep breath. “I believed in destiny even before I fell for you. I saw it written in the equations. Woven into the fabric of the universe itself. But you helped me understand that we were part of destiny, you and me.”

“That doesn't mean we're the same in every single world,” I say. “Yes, there's something powerful that we share—and maybe that's a soul. But we're separate people, every time.”

This isn't the game-changing revelation for him that it is for me. “I know. When I traveled, and got lost within the other Paul Markovs—I always sensed the differences. The ways they thought and spoke and dreamed that I never would, or could.”

He had told me this much before, but I didn't truly understand until now.

By this point Paul looks wretched, like he'd rather be anywhere in the multiverse than here. Yet he still gazes at me with a love so strong I can almost physically feel it. “Don't
you see? We find ourselves in worlds so altered we can hardly understand them. When we're people so different we can't comprehend how we could ever be made of the same DNA. But so many times—so many—I only wind up hurting everyone around me. And more than anyone else, I hurt
you
. What if that's our shared destiny? What if it's not love but pain?”

That's not the journey I've taken. Not the Paul I've seen. But I look at it through the lens of what I've just told him—imagining Theo bleeding in a New York alleyway, and the Grand Duchess Margarita pregnant and in hiding—

“Hey.” I embrace him around his waist. His hands come to rest on my shoulders, though I can't tell whether it's a caress or a prelude to pushing me away again. “You don't only hurt me. You help me, and you love me. You
save
me. Don't forget that, because I never will.”

“Look at the scar on your arm.”

“That was just a stupid accident!”

“Yes and no.” His expression clouds over. “I remember the things Paul said to you during that last fight, because he keeps thinking about it, over and over, replaying it like a loop inside his head. That day, it was like—like my father had taken over my body. Like his words were coming out of my mouth. All that anger he threw at me, I kept inside to throw at you. So yes, I'm to blame for what happened to you, and it could easily have been worse.”

“Not you. Another Paul Markov did that, and I'm not worried about him.”

Paul isn't convinced. I can tell by the sadness in his eyes. But when he brushes his fingers through my hair, I take hope from his touch. He says, “You never know when to quit, do you?”

“I'll know when the time comes, but it hasn't yet.” How can he be saying any of these things? After everything we've seen and done, how can he believe that he's only destined to hurt me?

But then I remember—Paul has spent the past couple of weeks within this world's version, who is mired in depression and guilt. That sadness lingers inside him; it's not the kind of thing you can shake off easily. I never should have told him about the shooting or the grand duchess when he was in this state, because now he's looking at me like it's the last time.

“Listen to me,” I say. “The multiverse is infinite. So, yeah, we go through some terrible things together, and I've seen versions of you who are darker, and damaged, and I don't care. I want you even when you're broken. I want you no matter what. Your darkness, your anger, whatever it is you fear inside yourself—it doesn't matter. I love you completely, don't you see? I even want the worst of you because it's
still a part of you
.” I press one hand against his chest, as if I could send everything I feel straight into his heart. “I want you when it's crazy, when it's frightening, when it's impossible, because there's nothing within you that could hurt me half as much as not having you.”