Ten Thousand Skies Above You (6 page)

That's definitely not the vibe I've gotten from our world's Conley, but whatever. “Besides, you need to give that order protecting my parents. From the ‘witchcraft' mobs. Right?”

“Oh, right! You got it.” He thumps the side of his head, like
Duh
. “I'll talk to Her Holiness right away. Pope Martha the Third. Rumor has it she puts our Borgias to shame.” As he begins to walk away, Conley adds, “Listen, someday, when you're on board with this and we've been working
together for a while, you and I will look back on this and laugh.”

I don't dignify that with an answer. Instead, I wait for him to leave, and then search for Father Paul.

As I guessed, he's been waiting. Paul kneels in a small room off to the side that turns out to be a private chapel. A mural of Jesus raising Lazarus covers one wall, perspective wonky and faces stylized—the art, too, looks older than the Renaissance. They haven't rediscovered the techniques of the ancient world yet; this civilization is still crawling away from the Dark Ages. Light flickers from a handful of tallow candles in iron stands. Paul—Father Paul—is praying, but when I walk in he quickly murmurs something in Latin, crosses himself, and turns his face to me. “Is everything well? The cardinal will take care of your family?”

“I hope so.” This chapel has no pews, only kneelers. So I go to my knees beside him; it's the only way to be close enough.

Paul glances at the doorway, no doubt worried we'll be seen. “You could claim sanctuary here. The sisters would keep you safe until your parents fall under the cardinal's protection.”

Nuns? I'll be spending the night in a convent? This world's Marguerite doesn't get to have nearly enough fun.

She'll be near her Paul, though. That's enough. All I want now is to be back with mine.

I bring my hand to Paul's face and brush my fingers along his cheek. He draws in a sharp breath. Have they even
kissed? Paul tentatively covers my hand with his, so that I'm cradling the side of his face. If I were to kiss him right now, he wouldn't resist. He'd kiss me back so passionately that—well, this chapel might be deconsecrated.

But I stole the Grand Duchess Marguerite's first and only night with Lieutenant Markov. I won't steal any more firsts with Paul. Each me should get to experience that moment.

“Everything's going to be all right,” I say, to myself as much as to him. “You and I—we'll figure it out.”

“Ours is not an easy path.”

Paul's old-fashioned, elegant phrasing reminds me of Lieutenant Markov, which reminds me of falling in love with Paul in the first place, and now I can't take it anymore. I have to go home; the journey to save my Paul has to begin.

“The path isn't easy,” I tell him. “But we're walking it together.”

It's true in every world, everywhere. I have to believe that.

I take hold of my Firebird and Paul's—the two of them around my neck, one of them carrying a splinter of Paul's soul—and leap back home.

I fully expected my parents to freak out about what Wyatt Conley had done and the bargain we'd struck. What I didn't expect is that they would flat-out refuse to let me go.

“Dad—” I pull my hair back with both hands, trying to calm myself. “You know we don't have any other choice.”

“We don't know that,” Dad insists. “We have to at least
try to get Paul out of this ourselves. We tracked him to the—Medievalverse, didn't we? So we could figure out a way to trace the other splinters. We don't need Conley's bloody coordinates.”

“We already
have
the coordinates.” Theo sits on the sofa in a plaid shirt and jeans, a pale shadow of his usual self. His plastic hospital bracelet still hangs around one wrist. “Why wouldn't we use them?”

The data packet arrived from Triad Corporation a couple of hours ago, just after I returned. While we can already see the first coordinates, the ones that will lead us to the second two dimensions have to be “unlocked”—by storing data that proves I've done Conley's dirty work. Each betrayal wins me one more dimension, one more piece of Paul's soul.

My parents don't even want to download the information into the Firebirds. Dad insists, “We can manage on our own.”

Theo groans. “Come on, Henry. We didn't even know splintering was possible until a couple of days ago. Tracing those splinters in alternate dimensions? We could be months away from cracking that.”

“Or days,” Mom says. “The only reason we haven't solved the puzzle is because we haven't yet tried. Obviously our counterparts in another universe managed to master this; if they hadn't, Conley wouldn't have the technology to splinter Paul in the first place. What they did, we can do. We only need to begin.”

Dad nods, becoming encouraged. “And if Triad could
think of a treatment for Theo's condition, well, then, so can we.”

“We're not physicians, Henry.” My mother glanced at the bottle of Nightthief on the shelves, the one they'd hardly begun to study. “Still, we must make an attempt. Obeying Conley has to be our last resort.”

“This
is
the last resort!” I don't argue with my parents that much anymore, but right now I feel like I could scream. “Don't you get it? Paul has been
torn apart
. If I don't do this, we might never get him back. If even one of Paul's other selves dies, then—then we've lost him forever.”

Mom's expression is more sympathetic, but she still shakes her head. “That is a risk, yes. But a fairly remote one given his age and health.”

I remember Lieutenant Markov, bloodied and weak, dying in the Russian snow. “That depends on where he is. He could be somewhere dangerous; Conley would do that. You know he would.”

My parents exchange a look, and Dad sighs. “We'll give it one week. If we can't make substantive progress on finding Paul ourselves in that time, then—well, then we'll consider it.”

“
Consider
it?” How can they do this? I step away from them, hurt and confused.

“Enough of this,” Mom says sharply. “You know how much we love Paul. We loved him even before you did, if you'll recall. We aren't standing our ground because we don't want to get him back as soon as possible. We're doing this
because the price of cooperating with Conley is too high.”

My father adds, “Conley has his hooks into Paul already. That doesn't mean we should hand you over too.”

I close my eyes tightly until the wave of anger passes. “Dad—”

“This discussion is over.” Mom heads toward the rainbow table. “If we're going to save Paul, we need to get started.”

Dad follows her, as does Theo. But when Theo walks past me, our eyes meet, and I realize he knows what I'm thinking. I expect him to rat me out to my parents—that's what the Triadverse's Theo would do. Instead, he sits down at the table, pretending he doesn't understand what's about to happen.

They work until almost midnight. By that point I'm lying in bed, twisted up in the sheets, unable to sleep. All I can think about is the last time Paul and I were alone together before Theo collapsed—the last moment our lives seemed normal.

We lay together on the narrow twin bed in his dorm room, my head pillowed on his chest. Soft classical music played from his phone deck, almost covering the noise from other grad students down the hall. His dorm room is as stark as any other cheap student housing, plus Paul isn't the kind of guy who would fix it up even if he had the money. He owns this utilitarian navy-blue bedspread, and there's only one piece of decoration on the walls.

Hanging above us that night was my portrait of Paul. Not the one I'm painting now, but the first one I ever attempted.
I cut it to ribbons when I thought Paul had betrayed us and killed my father. To my surprise, Paul insisted on keeping it just as it is.
It reminds me how close I came to losing you
, he said. That's the kind of thing I'd want to forget, but that he always wants to remember. At least he let me patch it up.

Paul stroked my hair, his fingers untangling my curls. It's the gentlest, most comforting touch in the world. “I heard from a few more universities today, about my postdoc.”

One of the weird things about being a scientist is that you have to get multiple college degrees—and even after you get your PhD, you remain a student for another year or two, usually at a different college than the one you studied at before. The point of the whole postdoc thing? I have no idea. It's a hoop they all have to jump through.

It would drive me crazy that Paul has to leave, if I weren't headed to college myself in January. “Which ones?”

“Oxford made an offer; so did Stanford. I expect to hear from Cambridge and CERN soon.”

This is information that would make most people jump for joy. Paul takes it in stride, but my stomach knots. “Nothing from Harvard or MIT? Or maybe Princeton?”

“Not yet. MIT is a possibility, but—professors at Harvard and Princeton are skeptics.”

About Mom and Dad's work, he meant. Those are the professors trying to tear them down, the ones who don't believe us about what happened in December. “Okay, so, we think about MIT.”

His gray eyes met mine. “It doesn't matter where I go. I'll still be yours.”

I kissed him softly, enjoying the way we were tangled together, the soft sound of his jeans against mine as we shifted to get closer. “But I'd like it if you could be mine, like, every weekend. Not just at Christmas and spring break.”

What with all the craziness of December, I'd deferred starting college until next January. The Rhode Island School of Design had agreed to that; they preserved my scholarship and everything. January is when Paul's likely to start his postdoc. If he goes to MIT, we won't be far apart at all.

Paul said, “Are you still unwilling to apply to any schools besides RISD?”

“RISD's the best in the country for art restoration.”

“What about fine art?” His thumb brushed along the line of my cheekbone. “Forget taking care of other people's paintings. Create your own.”

“See, this is how I know you're a genius in physics but not economics. Ever heard the phrase ‘starving artist'?”

“I doubt you would starve, as both your parents and I are gainfully employed.” Paul went from adorably literal to practical. “If you could study art anywhere in the world—to be an artist—where would you go? I've heard Josie tell you to think about the University of Chicago—”

“Not Chicago.” The words came out too easily, for something so hard for me to admit. “I mean, that's a great school, but if I could go anywhere? I'd pick the Ruskin
School of Fine Art, at Oxford.”

“Why Ruskin?”

“They teach everything there.” I couldn't keep the envy from my voice. “You study anatomy as in-depth as medical students do, so you understand what's under the skin of the people you're trying to paint or sculpt. They have professors who teach just about every technique, ancient or modern or experimental. They're better than anyone.”

“So go there,” said Paul the genius who has the world's top physics departments fighting over him.

“I'd never get in. Remember, I haven't even been to high school, really.” The downside of homeschooling: Colleges find it tougher to evaluate you. RISD got with the program, but a foreign university would probably find my record harder to assess.

Paul shook his head. “You'd get in when they saw your work. Oxford would admit you immediately.”

Would they? We both glanced up at the shredded portrait of Paul; his eyes stare from the portrait as intensely as in real life. Yet I couldn't imagine the professors at the single best art school in the world would understand this painting in the same way. “The important thing is getting you into the right postdoc. I know that. You're doing groundbreaking research. I'm just painting.”

“I'm just solving formulae. You're creating works of art that might be meaningful long after my scientific work seems mundane.”

I laughed. “Not likely.”

“But possible. Your dreams are as important as anyone else's. Your future is as important as mine. I'm willing to make compromises, if that's what it takes for us to remain together—but we shouldn't compromise before we even start.”

“It's different for me,” I said. “I'm not brilliant like the rest of you.”

“You have no particular aptitude for science. But there are many kinds of intelligence. I'd never want to take your career as an artist away from you, any more than you would take my research from me.” Propping himself on one elbow, Paul looked down at me, almost grave. “Stop measuring yourself against us. It's not the right scale. You have your own gifts, your own talents. Show the world everything you're capable of, Marguerite. You don't even see how amazing you are.”

There are moments when Paul's awkwardness drops away and he suddenly says the exact right thing. Those moments make me feel like I'm melting—like we're fusing together, ceasing to be two separate people, turning into one.

That night was one of those moments.

“Hey,” I said, more softly. “Mom and Dad are going to that conference in Tokyo in a couple of weeks. You're not traveling with them, right?”

“We decided against it.”

“Well, then, maybe”—my cheeks flushed with heat—“maybe you could stay over.”

We could be alone in the house. Nowhere near family members who know way the hell too much about my love
life already. Instead, we'd be together with absolutely nothing between us, all night long.

He looked at me for a long moment, eyes darkening in a way I remember from that night in the dacha with Lieutenant Markov. Slowly, he nodded. “Okay.”

I laughed softly, self-conscious. “It feels like we haven't done this before.”