“Thank you, Markov.”

Is that how a princess would behave? Walking away easily from her dancing partner without ever glancing back? I hope so. I sit down at my desk, pretending I can read the letters in front of me, that every part of me isn’t completely, utterly aware of Paul going to once again stand guard at the door.

The way he dances with me—looks at me—I have to understand it. What was there between this dimension’s Marguerite and Lieutenant Markov?

That evening, as I wait for my maids to appear and make me ready for the ball, I go digging through the Grand Duchess Marguerite’s things, looking for . . . love letters, a diary, anything like that. When I see a portfolio case, my heart leaps. She’s an artist too! I’d give anything for my oil paints right now.

But this Marguerite doesn’t paint with oils. She draws.

Pencils and charcoal: those are her tools, discovered in a small leather case. My own intense interest in color and depth isn’t a part of her work in the slightest—instead, she’s drawn to details, to precision. And yet I recognize elements in the work that are like my own.

Here’s Peter, reading a book, his eyebrows slightly raised in fascination—Katya, trying so hard to look grown up that she instead seems slightly ridiculous—

—and Paul.

Sitting on the embroidered carpet in my bedroom, I flip through the sheets of paper to see two, three, even more sketches of Paul Markov. When I remember my shredded portrait of him, I feel ashamed—not only for destroying my work because I believed something untrue about Paul, but also because I never really captured his personality in the painting. Not compared to this Marguerite: she’s good.

She’s caught something almost intangible about him in this profile, that sense of purpose Paul has that infuses every moment, no matter how casual. This one shows Paul standing at attention, his shoulders sketched with a loving attention to detail that tells me she notices the way his uniform drapes over his body, the way he moves.

Finally I lift a sketch that’s set in the Easter room. I can’t tell whether Paul willingly posed for the others, but he didn’t pose for this; there’s something softer about portraits done from memory, both more affectionate and yet more unsure. She’s caught that subtle tilt of his head that means he’s paying attention, the stormy cast of his eyes. The eggs are sketched in behind him, more as shadows than anything else, though I can see how she’s penciled in a few fine details: a hint of enameling on one, the sparkle of gilt on another.

I try to pay attention to those, rather than the way she’s drawn Paul here, looking straight at the artist with an expression that is equal parts pain and hope.

(Looking at me. Always, always looking at me.)

Quickly I shuffle together the drawings scattered across the lap of my dress and put them back in their folder. The pencils and charcoals remain out, but—no portraits while I’m here, I think. Maybe it’s time to try landscapes for a change.

What the hell, I think. If I get stuck in this dimension, I can be the one who invents abstract art.

But I won’t get stuck here. I won’t. If all else fails, Dad can save me. I have to believe that.

If I don’t get stuck here, then I never have to ask myself what emotion made this Marguerite draw Paul over and over again. What she saw in him that allowed her to capture his soul more completely than I ever have.

Or how it is that both Paul’s souls seem to be the same.

My maids outdo themselves in preparation for the ball. My dress tonight is pure silver—the silk, the stitching, the beading sewn around the low square neck, the cuffs, and the hem. Once again they nestle the ruby tiara in my hair; they give me diamond earrings so heavy I can’t imagine wearing them all night. My reflection in the mirror astonishes me.

Why do I get to look like this in a dimension with no phone cameras? I think in despair, turning that way and this. I would take selfies for about an hour, and those would be the only pictures I would ever use for the whole rest of my life.

But when I walk out of my room, I see my truest reflection in Paul’s eyes.

He draws in a sharp breath, then says, almost a whisper, “My lady.”

“Lieutenant Markov.” Even though I know he’s supposed to walk me down to the ball, it’s all I can do not to hold out my arms and invite him into another dance.

Could we dance tonight? Probably I have to dance with the nobles first—and Vladimir, surely, because if he danced with Katya he’ll dance with me—

“Surely you don’t mean I’m not invited?”

The masculine voice rings from the hallway as Paul and I descend the stair. From the way everyone around me freezes, I know this is bad news.

Katya comes thumping down the steps behind me, graceless despite her long white dress. “He came,” she whispers. “They said he wouldn’t.”

“It’s all right,” I say, though I have no idea whether it is or not.

Paul turns to me. “If at any point during the evening you feel yourself to be unsafe—”

“I’ll come straight to you,” I promise.

Vladimir makes his appearance then, expression grim and at odds with his crisp uniform and shining medals. “Come along, then,” he says, offering me his arm. “It looks as though we have to play Happy Family tonight. Let’s face the dragon together, hmm?”

By Vladimir’s side, with Katya ghosting along behind us, I walk into the main hallway. Once again, dozens of bejeweled and beribboned nobles are milling around, pretending not to notice the thinly veiled confrontation in the center of the hallway. There, Tsar Alexander stands stiffly to receive . . . someone. A man a year or two younger than him, somewhat thinner, but equally tall, wearing a look of prideful disdain and a uniform as resplendent as any of the others in the room.