Wayfarer

  “What’s this about?” Nicholas asked, moving toward the table. Sophia dropped back into her seat, glowering as the serving girl swept up the last of the glass into her apron.

  “Someone,” Sophia emphasized, as if that someone weren’t standing directly beside them, “decided to be a right and proper fool and waste perfectly good rum by making me bathe in it—”

  Truthfully, the liquor had improved her smell.

  “I’m not a fool!” The serving girl’s face reddened. “I was watching where I was going, sir, but something caught my foot!”

  She stormed off before he could tell her it was all right. And, of course, Sophia only seemed further infuriated by her absence.

  “What? She can’t take a hint of criticism?” she snapped, then yelled after her, “Stand up for yourself, you sodding—”

  “Enough,” Nicholas said. “Let us have a look at the letter.”

  Sophia crossed her arms over her chest, slumping back against her chair. “Hilarious. You couldn’t even let me hold on to it for a moment before you took it.”

  “I don’t have time for your games,” he said. “Just give it to me.”

  She returned his sharp look with a blank one. A cold prickling of unease raced down his spine.

  “The letter,” he insisted, holding out his hand.

  “I. Do. Not. Have. It.”

  They stared at each other a moment more; Nicholas felt as though her gaze was slicing him to pieces as his mind raced. He stooped, searching the floor, the chairs, the area around them. The serving girl—no, he saw her kneeling, and surely she wouldn’t have hovered by the table if she’d just stolen something. She hadn’t swept it into her apron, either. He would have seen that. Which left—

  The other man. The one who had wiped down the table.

  “Where did the man go?” he said, spinning on his heel.

  “What are you on about?” Sophia grumbled, pushing herself back up to her feet. As she spoke, he caught sight of the deep blue jacket he’d seen before, but the wide-brimmed hat did nothing to disguise the slight man’s distinct features. The Chinese man stood, watching them from the landing of the staircase leading to the private rooms above. Nicholas squinted through the tavern’s dim lighting and took a single, cautious step in his direction. A flicker of a movement, really, but the man bolted with all the ease and speed of a hare.

  “Hell and damnation,” he groused. “You wait—”

  Sophia slid a pistol he had never seen before out from under her jacket, aimed wide, and with a single, careless glance, fired in the general direction of the staircase. The ringing silence following her shot swung the attention of the room toward them. Pistols, knives, and the odd sword rang out and clattered as they were drawn. And with that small explosion of powder and spark, the fight Sophia had been looking for, the one she’d tried a dozen times to get from him, from the serving girl, from whoever so much as looked at her the wrong way, broke out in earnest.

  One man, limbs clumsy with rum, elbowed another man in the back of the neck while trying to pull his own weapon out. With a strangled cry, that sailor swung his fist around, knocking the first clear across the nearest table, scattering cards, dice, food, and ale in every direction. The card players rose and charged into the nearest throng of gawking men, who were forced, of course, to push back lest they be trampled.

  A sailor emerged from the fray, swinging a chair up from the floor, aiming at Sophia, who stood where she was, smirking.

  Blind to it, he thought in horror, in that short instant before he bellowed, “On your left!”

  Sophia’s hat flew off as she jerked around. Her foot rose instinctively, her aim true: the powerful kick landed directly on his bawbles. As the sailor crashed to the floor with a shriek, she relieved him of the chair and smashed it over his head.

  The fiddle shrieked as the bow jumped off the strings. The fiddler himself dove to the floor, just in time to avoid a chair hurtling toward his head from a whiskey-soaked doxy trying to hit her rival across her rouge-smeared face.

  One lone drunk seaman stood in the center of the chaos, eyes shut as he swayed around in some odd reel, holding out his rum bottle as if it were his dancing partner.

  “Damn your eyes!” Nicholas hollered.

  “I think you mean eye,” Sophia said, reloading the last of their powder into the pistol, pausing only to steal the half-empty rum bottle from the next table over when its occupant turned to the sprawling fight.

  Nicholas shoved his way through the thrashing tangle of limbs, dodging to avoid a sword winging its way through the air. The proprietor climbed to the top of his counter, and, instead of stopping the fight with a well-timed shot into the room, leaped onto the back of the nearest man, tackling him to the floor with a loud cry.

  Nicholas had seen more civilized tar-and-featherings than this.

  He arrived at the stairs in time to see a man, while fleeing the fight, shove a doxy out of his way and send her tumbling in a mass of skirts down the stairs. He managed to catch her, narrowly preventing her from breaking her neck.

  “Christ!” he gasped, coughing as he waved away a cloud of her wig powder.

  “Thank ye—thank ye—!” The woman kissed whatever patch of skin she could find, moving to block his path up the stairs, even as he tried to gently push her away.

  “Ma’am, please—”

  “Move, wench!” Sophia stood at the bottom of the stairs, pistol aimed at the doxy’s face. “He doesn’t have two coins to rub together, let alone any to waste on you!”

  At that the girl ceased her assault, turned in a huff, and marched down the stairs to join the fray.

  “Did she kiss you senseless?” Sophia snarled. “Go! He’s getting away!”

  Nicholas took the steps two at a time. He burst onto the second floor, his chest burning as he drew each heavy, uneven breath. Down the hall, at the very end of a length of worn rug, a bedroom door had been thrown wide open, and Nicholas strode toward it. Just inside, a dark-haired girl, wrapped in a knit blanket, leaned onto the shoulder of another girl who patted her back now and then as she spoke in rapid, almost nonsensical English.

  “On me—the door—a mite—funny little man—waving his knife—out the window—”

  “A funny little man?” Nicholas asked, just as Sophia repeated, “Out the window?”

  The girl blinked at their sudden appearance. “Why—short, yes, very small, almost like a child. And he’s one of them—he’s, how do you say—”

  “From the Far East? Chinese?” the other offered. The first nodded, then turned to him, clearly thinking she should be rewarded. But Sophia was right—he didn’t have two coins in his pocket. After their drinks and supper, he no longer had even one.

  Sophia pushed past him into the room, Nicholas following at her heel. The room was choked with the scents of smoke from the blown-out candles and perfume reeking of flowers. Rain had blown in from the open window and soaked the carpet in dark splotches.

  Sophia retrieved a torn piece of fabric stuck to the frame, and inspected it as Nicholas stuck his head out, searching the flooded streets for any sign of movement. He swung a leg over the window frame and climbed out through it, jumping from the ledge to the porch’s roof and, finally, dropping to the ground. A heavy thud and curse followed as Sophia landed behind him.

  Nicholas ran forward, shielding his eyes against the tropical torrent. Water rushed along the dirt and cobblestone paths, carrying away, just for the night, the grime and filth of the island.

  But the thief was gone, and Rose’s letter along with him.

  “Carter!” Sophia stood a short distance away, at the edge of the tavern, rooted in place. A large dark lump leaning against the brightly painted wall suddenly took the shape of a man.

  “What’s the…” The words shriveled in Nicholas’s throat as he took a step back.

  The Linden man sat slumped, his eyes open and unseeing. His skin had taken on a white, waxy quality, as if the blood had been drained
from it. Between the rain and the near complete dark, Nicholas could see no obvious mortal wound—no gunshot, cuts, marks of strangulation.

  “What happened?” he asked Sophia as she knelt beside the body. She turned the dead man’s head to the side, where a rivulet of blood was working its way down from his ear and along his jawline.

  “There they are!”

  Nicholas looked up to where one of the doxies was leaning out of the window, pointing directly at them. Several men at her shoulder turned to run back down the stairs, through the tavern, at the sight of them.

  “We need to run,” he told Sophia.

  “No argument from me,” she said, and sprang forward, leading them deeper into the night’s storm.

  ETTA FELT HER WAY ALONG the edge of her dreams, carried by the soft rocking of memory.

  The waves thrashing beneath her suddenly steadied to a gentle pulse that mimicked her own. Faces ringed around her in the dim candlelight, whispering, their rough hands tugging at her bruised skin. She pulled back to the cool silk and shadows of her mind, searching for that bit of light she’d seen: the moon on water stained with midnight.

  He found her first, as he always did, from across the length of a ship. The parts of her that had dimmed with loss flared again, flooding the aches and fears until nothing but the sight of him remained. The tide kept the same pace, dipping, rising, with each step they took toward one another.

  Then, suddenly, he was there, she was in the circle of his arms, and her face was pressed to the folds of his rough linen shirt. She breathed in his sea scent, her hands sliding along the strong planes of his back, seeking the familiar warmth of his skin. Here, here, here—not without, not anymore. The simplicity of it took root in her chest, blossomed into all of the possibilities she had dreamt about. A rough cheek brushed her smooth one and his lips moved against her ear, but Etta couldn’t hear a word, no matter how hard she gripped him, drawing him closer.

  The world beneath her eyelids shifted again; the shadows pulled back, just enough to see the others around her, the curve of the Underground tunnel. A violin’s notes slanted against the air, and she realized they were swaying to its sound, moving in a slow, endless circle of two. She thought of the way she had taken his arm, stroked the strong veins and ligaments, created a masterpiece of his pulse and muscles and bones. The walls shook and banged and roared, and Etta thought as she looked up, as she tried to see his face, Let them roar; let it all fall apart.

  He ducked his head down and drifted back, receding. She tried to catch him, his sleeve, his fingers, but he disappeared like a warm breeze, and left her overturned and alone.

  Don’t leave me, she thought, as the heaviness in her body subsided and she resurfaced in her skin, flushed with panic, not now, not now—

  Nicholas called back, laughing, And now, good-morrow to our waking souls….

  Etta opened her eyes.

  The fire that had singed her veins in the desert was gone, at least. But she felt as insubstantial as the specks of dust dancing around the flickering lamp on the nearby bedside table. She stayed still, keeping her breathing even, and surveyed the room beneath her lashes.

  And there, right at the foot of the bed, slumped in a high-backed chair, was a man.

  Etta caught her gasp and swallowed it back. All she could see from the bed was the crown of his head, his thick, dark hair. Candlelight caught the few silver strands mixed into it. He wore a simple shirt and dark slacks, both crumpled from the position he had slept in. One hand rested on the open book in his lap, a loose bow tie woven between his fingers; the other arm had fallen over the side of the chair. His chest rose and fell slowly with each deep, sleep-drugged breath.

  Her discomfort at the thought of being watched while she slept, unable to do anything about it, was defused by how weak of an effort this guard had put into the task.

  A breeze caught the tears and sweat on her face and ruffled his open shirt collar. The window, framed by long crimson velvet curtains, had been left open.

  Slowly, so as not to make a sound, Etta shifted up, biting her lip against the pain that lanced from her scalp down to her toes. Her eyes skimmed quickly around the room, searching for anyone else, but saw no one. A handsome little writing desk was nestled up against the floral wallpaper, a short distance from a bureau that looked so large, Etta had a feeling the room must have been built around it. Both had been carved from the same gleaming wood as the bed; leaves and vines arced along their edges, the pattern weaving in and out of itself.

  It was a pretty little gilded prison, she had to admit. But it was already past the time when she needed to be searching for a way out of it.

  Several candles were burning in the room: on a side table, on the desk, in a sconce near the door. It was the only reason she could make out her own reflection in the dusty mirror hanging over the bureau, though the image was split by an enormous crack across its center, and distorted from hanging at a crooked angle.

  Oh God.

  Etta rubbed at her eyes and examined herself again with growing disbelief. She knew her time in Damascus had given her pale skin some color, but now her face, ears, and neck were sunburned to the point of peeling. Her greasy hair had been braided away from her bruised face and hollow cheekbones. She looked ill—worse than that. If someone hadn’t cleaned the dirt from her face and arms, she would have guessed she’d been dragged beneath a taxi through Times Square. Repeatedly.

  Yet, somehow, the worst thing about it all was that someone had taken her clothes from Damascus off her—while she slept—and replaced them with a long, ankle-length nightgown, tied high and prim at the throat with a hideous mauve ribbon. She hoped it was the same person who’d taken the care to wrap and bind her shoulder—the same person who had cleaned her up the best they could. Still, she shuddered, both at how vulnerable she’d been and how badly it could have gone for her.

  Unable to ignore the stinging pain a second longer, Etta turned her attention to her left shoulder, peeling the fabric back to inspect the itchy bandage that covered it and her upper arm. Biting her lip, she fought the unhelpful rush of tears that came as she pulled the fabric away from the sticky, healing wound.

  It was a hideous, grim shade of pink—not the sheen of new skin, but the furious color of a burn. The splotch was still swollen with an uneven blister. The tightness in her throat became unbearable; Etta heaved in a breath, her gaze darting back over to the sleeping guard.

  Let’s go, Spencer. Run first; think later.

  As soon as she could manage without feeling as though she would vomit from the motion, Etta swung her legs around and pressed her toes into the dusty Oriental rug. Just as she began to test whether her legs could bear her weight, a fast clip of steps drummed out beyond the closed door at the opposite end of the room.

  In a rush of motion that smeared black across her vision and made her head feel like it was collapsing, Etta dropped to her hands and knees, ducking down until the bed blocked her from the view of anyone who might come barreling through the door.

  “…have to get…”

  “…try telling that to him…”

  The voices trailed past, disappearing as quickly as they’d appeared, but the faint buzzing in her ears had subsided long enough for her to detect the strains of garbled music rising up through the floorboards. The clinking of glasses cut into the rising voices that bubbled like champagne froth.

  “—three cheers—!”

  “A toast!”

  Fear woke inside Etta all at once, blazing through her confusion.

  It seems like this Ironwood does have some luck left to his name, after all.

  Both Nicholas and Sophia had warned her that Cyrus Ironwood had guardians watching each of the passages. She hadn’t recognized the man who’d spoken to her, but it didn’t matter, seeing as that single word, that single name, was enough for her to know she was in serious trouble.

  But even that thought was devoured by another fear.

  Where is Nicholas? br />
  Those last few seconds in the tomb were splintered in her memory. She remembered the pain, the blood, Nicholas’s horrified face, and then—

  The only way to describe the sensation she had felt next was as if some invisible rope had knotted around her center and yanked her through a veil of imploding darkness. Etta pressed her fists against her eyes, unknotting the idea inch by inch.

  I’ve been orphaned by my time.

  The timeline has changed.

  My future is gone.

  Panic swelled in her chest, hot and suffocating. It fit—all of these pieces fit with what Sophia and Nicholas had explained to her. Time had reached out and snatched her, tossing her through a series of passages before spitting her back out at whatever the last common point was between the old timeline she had known and the new one they had inadvertently created.

  Because the Thorns took the astrolabe? Etta knew carelessness could change the timeline, but not severely enough to cause travelers to be orphaned. That required intent. Focus and strategy. Taking the astrolabe from her, preventing her from destroying it—that hadn’t been enough to orphan her, but something else had. They must have used it. That was the only explanation she could think of. The Thorns had used the astrolabe and irrevocably changed—broken—some event or moment in history.

  And now she was here, with the Ironwoods, and Nicholas was not.

  Colors burned beneath her eyelids, blood beat between her ears, a crescendo that broke over her in a frenzy of pain and grief.

  Mom.

  She couldn’t think about her right now. Ironwood had sworn to kill Rose if Etta didn’t return with the astrolabe by his deadline. But…She took in a deep breath. Knowing what she did about her mother now, Etta had to believe—she had to hope—that Rose was alive, that she’d already escaped from wherever the Ironwoods had been holding her.