“Surely, my lady, the Prince of Wales will prove a devoted husband. I cannot imagine that any man would not—would not count himself fortunate to have such a wife. That he could fail to love you at first sight. Any man would, my lady.”
In that moment I knew what he felt. He lived for such a short time after that, not even two whole days after the one and only night we spent together. I hope Lieutenant Markov was able to understand how much I cared. He deserved that—and even more than that, more than he ever got to have—
I loved him so much. I love him still; I will always love him, I think, to the end of my life. But I’ve spent most of the past three months convinced that my love for him meant that I loved every Paul, everywhere. Every person he could ever be.
Could I have loved the Paul I met in New York? The one who could savagely attack a stranger and maim him for life? Part of me wants to say no—but as strange as our connection was there, we did connect. I saw how damaged he was by the horrible life he’d been forced to lead. I also saw his brutality. His capacity for cruelty. When I think of the Paul in the Mafiaverse, I don’t know whether I’m moved by the vulnerability I glimpsed in him, or whether I’ll always be afraid of him.
Both, I think. Somehow that’s the worst answer of all. The only thing I know is that I can’t be near that Paul or any other, now. Not until I’ve figured out what this means. I need safety and solitude.
Lieutenant Markov died fighting for the tsar, fighting to protect me. I held his hand and watched him die. The horror and pain of that moment will never leave me. But right now, I am taking advantage of his death, which made this a dimension no other Paul Markov could ever enter.
His death is my shelter. I think, Even now, you’re still protecting me. Tears well in my eyes, but I blink them back.
A soft rap at my bedroom door makes me sit upright. “Yes?” I call in English. Hopefully that’s the language I’m supposed to be speaking here.
The reply comes in French. “Are you ready for your breakfast, Your Imperial Highness?”
“Bring it in, please,” I answer in the same language. (I’ve become better at French through a few of my visits.)
One woman opens the door for another, who comes in bearing a silver tray. She walks to a small table in the corner and begins setting out a feast: teapot, cream, bread, butter, some kind of pastry.
And now I know I’m not in any of the tsar’s palaces. If we took meals in our rooms, those meals were simple, by his order. Also none of the servants wore a uniform like the one this woman wears, a long black dress with white apron, and they spoke Russian or English, never French.
A sky-blue robe lies on the foot of the bed. I reach for it, but the maid hurries from my breakfast to hand the gown to me instead. It’s velvet, thicker and softer than any other I’ve ever felt. As I wrap it around myself, the maid curtsies, then hurries away, leaving me to my meal.
I ought to begin exploring immediately to figure out exactly where the Grand Duchess Margarita is. But my stomach is too empty; I almost feel sick. So instead, I go to the table and start eating.
This turns out to be the best thing I could’ve done. Not only because this pastry is amazing, but also because my seat at the window reveals the scene outside.
I’m about three or four stories off the ground, looking out at a plaza—one surrounded by elegant buildings, with an Egyptian obelisk in the very center. Despite the early hour, and the cloudy sky overhead turned milky by the morning light, many people hurry by outside, all of them dressed in clothes that look more like they belong in the 1910s: women in long dresses wearing big hats; men in three-piece suits and bowlers, all of them sporting mustaches.
I recognize this plaza. My family traveled to this city a few times when I was young to visit my Kovalenko grandparents before they died. I’m pretty sure that in our universe, something besides an obelisk stands in the center, but I know the locale all the same.
The grand duchess has gone to Paris.
After I’ve stuffed myself with pain au chocolat, I feel steadier and begin to explore in earnest. At first I wonder whether the grand duchess is staying in some other royal residence. For all I know, the French Revolution never happened here. I might be the guest of Marie Antoinette’s great-great-great granddaughter.
But I don’t remember a surviving French monarchy in this universe, and besides, this building stands in the Place Vendôme. My mother explained to me once, when we were visiting almost a decade ago, that this was where the finest hotels in the world were located. I asked why we weren’t staying there, then, which led to my dad giving me a really long lecture about how capitalism works, and how professors usually aren’t the people it works best for.
On the hotel napkin, embroidered in white on white is a small crest and the cursive letter R. I remember Theo looking at the hotel in the Warverse and saying it wasn’t the Ritz. This is the Ritz.
This has to be the nicest hotel suite that exists in the world. In all the worlds. Three bedrooms, enormous sitting rooms, a small kitchen, all of them decorated as richly as the room I woke up in. I think the ceilings must be twenty feet high, and—how many chandeliers can you fit in a hotel suite? Whatever the number is, this place maxes it out.
I must have come to Paris on my own. If the tsar were here, military guards would be all around; if my siblings had come along, they’d be in the other bedrooms. Yet it seems unlike Tsar Alexander V to let me romp to Paris alone.
The wardrobes are filled with elegant clothing, though much of it appears new and more modern—more flowing silhouettes, a dropped waist or none at all, and deeper colors than the pale shades I usually wore in St. Petersburg. Less lace, more beading. Apparently the grand duchess has done some hard-core shopping while in Paris. Who wouldn’t?
She would be mourning for her Paul as deeply as I mourn him, probably even more. So she’s consoling herself with this holiday, all the pleasures France has to offer. And the grand duchess has even gained a little weight. I cast a glance at the enormous breakfast behind me, or what remains of it.
I find a sketch pad sitting next to a box of pastels. At first I reach for it, but then I remember when I got those pastels. Lieutenant Markov gave them to me for Christmas. We stood just outside my bedroom door, the threshold all that lay between us, looking at each other almost dizzy with wanting—
She will have sketched him. I can’t look at that now. Maybe not ever.
Instead, I turn my attention to a small leather book that seems like—yes. It’s for appointments.
Her handwriting is so much better than mine, elegant and flowing, like a professional calligrapher’s; ironically, that makes it harder to read. But I can make out two appointments for today: 11 a.m., Dr. N. Then, 9 p.m., dinner Maxim’s.
When a maid comes to help me dress, a few careful questions reveal that I’m not heading out to a physician’s office. Dr. N, whoever that is, will be coming to me. The perks of royalty, I guess.
Is she—am I—sick? Is that the reason for this trip to Paris? Surely if that were true, though, I’d be in a hospital rather than the Ritz. Also, I doubt my family would have let me travel alone; the tsar would of course never leave Russia on my account, but surely Vladimir at least would have come along.
The maid gets me dressed quickly—the Paris fashions are easier to wear than the long lace gowns from St. Petersburg. Also, thank God someone has invented the bra. It’s kind of weird—triangles of satin, really, without any kind of structure—but even with the extra weight, my breasts have only grown to be “small” instead of “practically nonexistent.” At any rate, I won’t miss the corsets. My drop-waisted gown is the color of roses, and the hem stops well before my ankles. Shocking.