Wayfarer

  Nicholas can’t be helping Ironwood, Etta thought, her hands curling at her side. But then—he had made that agreement with Ironwood behind her back, hadn’t he? Nicholas was supposed to follow her, ensure that she returned with the astrolabe. In exchange, he’d receive Ironwood’s holdings in the eighteenth century.

  She straightened. No. He’d turned his back on that. He’d confessed, he’d told her that he loved her. Loved her.

  The small, dark wisp of a voice in her mind returned. Infatuation.

  “I don’t need to hear another word from you, you bloody selfish coward,” Sophia snapped. “You’ve lost the right to care about me. In fact, why don’t you just walk off that cliff now, finish what you started? At least Grandfather will have a body to bury this time.”

  “You don’t mean that,” Julian said, and Etta was almost surprised by how calm he sounded, how he didn’t retreat from any of the ugly looks Sophia sent his way, the hissing words. “Tell me what’s the matter, what’s hurt you so badly. We’ve been friends our whole lives—do you honestly believe I can’t tell when you’re just lashing out?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said, finally pulling free of Etta’s arm. Sophia stalked over to pick up the bags she’d dropped. “None of it matters. Jump now, or destroy the astrolabe—your life is over either way. Since you can’t seem to do anything yourselves, allow me to paint the full portrait for you: the Ironwood timeline won’t just disappear. We will all be returned to our own godforsaken times, and the passages will slam closed behind us forever.”

  “God,” Etta said, “you’re such a liar.”

  Sophia had begun up the path, ignoring how Julian’s hand reached for her. At Etta’s words, she turned. “Am I? I guess you’ll see, won’t you.”

  “Wait,” Julian called, following Sophia along the trail. “Soph, please—”

  The two of them disappeared around a bend in the rocky path, and took that last small need for control with them. Etta’s breath left her like she’d taken a punch to the lungs, and she brought both fists to her eyes, pressing the freezing skin there to cool the thoughts racing behind them.

  Infatuation.

  Returned.

  Closed.

  Forever.

  If what Sophia said was true, and Etta had every reason to doubt her, then Henry clearly had never got the full story. He never would have risked separating the Thorn families from one another. God, what if a child was born in a completely different century than his or her parents—what if one of those children running wild in the house in San Francisco found themselves locked inside a violent time, in a place where they had no friends, and couldn’t speak the language, much less ask for help?

  Etta remembered what it felt like to have Nicholas’s hands on her face, the way his fingers had run along her skin as if he could paint his feelings onto it. She remembered the way Nicholas had trembled, just that small bit, when she’d lain down beside him in the darkness. The warmth of his lips on her cheeks, her eyelids, every part of her, and how he’d given her his secrets. She remembered the way her fear had broken and dissolved against him, how carefully he had held her together each time she came close to shattering.

  How quickly his mind worked, how earnestly his heart believed, how desperately he’d fought for everything in his life, including the belief that they could be together. In her heart, Nicholas was a song in a major key, bold and beautiful.

  But Etta remembered, too, the way it had felt when the Thorns had reached for her, embraced her, claimed her with a thousand smiles and questions, trying to defeat the lost time between them. She remembered hearing her father’s music join her own. She remembered her city, how its occupants and streets and trees had been blown into the same shifting, swirling cloud of ash.

  She needed to talk to Nicholas; she needed to touch him, and kiss him, and know how he had hurt himself, know how she could help him. But there were a hundred men between them on the beach, and now, even more dauntingly, a hundred questions between them that Etta couldn’t begin to answer.

  There’s so much darkness to this story, there are times I feel suffocated by it, Henry had said. How these things came back around. How everything circled back to the astrolabe, again and again and again.

  A pattern.

  No—Etta shook the thought away as hard and as far as she could.

  Julian jogged back to her, running his hands back over his hair, breathing hard. “She wouldn’t listen. There’s something else going on that she’s not telling us, I’m sure of it.”

  Etta nodded, keeping her back to the rock as she circled back to watch what was happening on the beach below. She found Nicholas immediately—it would have been impossible to miss him standing beside the old man, a short distance from the cave’s entrance. He stooped slightly, to better hear what Ironwood was saying. Nodding, he stepped forward, cupping his good hand around his mouth to relay the message to the others.

  What are you doing? she wondered. What can you possibly be planning?

  There had been so many moments on their search together when Etta had felt like she understood his mind better than her own. But for the life of her, she couldn’t understand why he’d taken this role in a game he’d never wanted to play in the first place, unless something had forced his hand.

  “What should we do?” Julian said. “If she’s right, then we’ll get the original timeline, but then…that’s the end for us, isn’t it? Without the astrolabe to create the passages again, we’re stuck.”

  Nicholas looked up toward them suddenly, as if searching through the mist and snow. Etta ducked before she realized she was doing it, her heart slamming in her chest as she leaned into the hard, jagged ground. She squeezed her eyes shut.

  The one thing she had never doubted, never once questioned, was the constancy of her feelings for Nicholas; it was the part of her heart that kept a steady beat, that drummed a song only she could hear. By leaving Nicholas behind so she could chase the astrolabe with the Thorns, had she damned him to this choice, to survive the only way he could—through twisted loyalty?

  The snow built around them, flake by flake, blanketing the black rocks and their twisted formations, smoothing them over until their wrinkles and crevices disappeared. When the idea came, it wasn’t new; it was repurposed.

  “How long would it take us to get back to San Francisco from here?”

  Julian felt around the pocket of his coat for his journal. “If we hurry, maybe three, four days? Why? You want to try to link back up with the Thorns?”

  “From there, how long to get to the auction site?” Etta pressed.

  “If we use the direct passage that’s in Rio de Janeiro…maybe three more days?” He thumbed through the pages again, checking his math.

  “Then there won’t be enough time,” she said, sitting back on her heels, rubbing her muddied hands against the rough wool of her coat. “Especially if we’re going to find a hundred pounds of gold. You didn’t happen to notice any Thorn stockpiles, did you?”

  “They spent everything that came in on food and water,” Julian said. “Your father might have a reserve or two somewhere, but I’m not sure how we’d locate them and still make the auction date.”

  Etta nodded, recalculating. “And there are no other Ironwood reserves?”

  “He’s already cleared out the others—”

  There was a sharp whistle from below, from the longship, as the men climbed aboard with the overstuffed leather bags. Nicholas followed suit, cupping his hand around his mouth to call out some order that was lost to the wind. Ironwood, it seemed, had already climbed aboard.

  “Look at that,” Etta breathed out, her heart giving an excited kick. “Did that look like more than a hundred pounds of treasure to you?”

  “No,” Julian said. “A hundred and a bit extra, maybe. But there’s definitely more than that in the cave. They’re not moving this cache, then, or clearing it out, are they? They only took what they needed.”

  “Which means w
e can take whatever he’s left for our entry fee,” Etta finished.

  If Sophia doesn’t beat us to it.

  “And then what?” Julian asked. “Etta…I know you don’t want to believe her, but Soph is never more truthful than when she’s aiming for the heart.”

  “I know,” she said, unable to take her gaze off Nicholas as he walked beside Ironwood back toward the vessels. One hand was tucked behind his back, and it reminded her of the way he had walked the length of the Ardent’s deck, so completely in his element.

  Henry and the others had only known that destroying the astrolabe would revert the timeline, and prevent any new passages from being created to replace those lost by age and collapse. They had no idea that it would close all the passages, and strand everyone back in their natural times. She had to think he wouldn’t want that—that Henry would come up with another, middle way.

  Until she was able to figure out what that could be, she would have to try to keep the astrolabe in one piece. Once they confirmed that what Sophia had said was true, then she and the Thorns could turn their attention back to using the astrolabe to reach history’s many linchpin moments, and nudge the timeline back to its original state by influencing them. It would send the Ironwoods lurching into panic, destabilize the old man’s rule, destroy him with the knowledge that the astrolabe would remain just out of his reach forever.

  It would be slow, dangerous work that might take years, but they could do it. She could do it, if Henry could not. It was a stark, disorienting reversal of their original plan, but Etta took comfort in the stabilizing thought that this, this would help her make amends for everything her family had done to contribute to the world’s suffering across history.

  They could start again. They could be better.

  “I know,” Etta repeated. “We’ll get the astrolabe and try to regroup with the Thorns again to decide what to do with it. We can’t destroy it, though, not until we know for sure what the consequences will be.”

  They did not have to sacrifice their families for the good of history and the future. Those two things didn’t have to be mutually exclusive. There was a way to have both, and she would find it.

  “And what of Nick?” he asked. “I hate leaving him with Grandfather—not because of what Sophia said. Being the heir is a curse, not a blessing. It just feels like, as much as he can handle himself, he’s standing in the open mouth of a crocodile.”

  Etta drew back from where she’d been watching over the edge of the cliff. She felt light all of a sudden, as if she’d left something crucial there. “He’s safe for now. We’ll find the astrolabe, and then we’ll come back for him.”

  If there was a path back to him in all of this, she would find it, or she’d carve a path where none existed—meet him halfway, as she always seemed to. There was a place for them, for all of them, to live with their families, and love and care for one another, but it couldn’t exist in the world they lived in now.

  They waited only until the longships had disappeared into the swirl of fog and snow before continuing down to the beach. Etta tried to shake the feeling that Nicholas was still there, that she was somehow walking beside an imprint of him. There were too many footprints on the beach to tell which were his, and she didn’t want to cover his tracks with her own; not if it cost her proof that he had been here. That he’d been alive, and so close.

  The cave was darkness incarnate, the mouth of a thousand-toothed creature. Ice-coated stalagmites shot up from the ground, the freezing wind whistling between them. It was as if the steps had been intentionally carved into the cave, and she followed them down, stepping with intent, ignoring the splatter of freezing water dripping from above.

  “All right, then,” Julian said, stopping a short distance ahead of her. They were at the very edge of the natural light emanating from the entrance, but there was a crack of sorts in the mountain above them. Etta looked up at it in wonder, watching the snow drift lazily down to her. She imagined each flake was a note falling against her skin, and the music in her began to stir once again, coaxing out a tentative, sweet song of hope. Nicholas hadn’t gotten to see this. She would bring him back here one day.

  “It looks like we’ll have enough, though it might be close,” Julian said, tossing Etta one of the sacks he’d brought with him. “Come on, Linden-Hemlock-Spencer. Gawking is my job. Appreciate the beauty of the world later, will you?”

  Etta shook herself out of that reverie, crossing the distance between them. It was obvious where the Ironwoods had hidden their barrels beneath false rock covers. They’d been in such a hurry, they had left the empty ones to slowly rot. Julian popped the lid off a barrel stowed beneath a pile of rocks, cooing at the bright gold inside.

  “The lost treasure of Lima,” he told her, as if this explained everything. “He’s greedy as sin, but lord, does the man have taste.”

  “Let’s just hurry,” she said, her fingers digging into the cold metal. There were days ahead of them before the auction, and too many chances for her plan to fail. But here, in the darkness, in the midst of their silent work, it felt safe to think of Nicholas on the beach, to wish that she had been there to warm his hands while the cold air nipped at his skin. She could almost remember what his voice sounded like as it whispered secrets into her hair.

  Etta could be grateful even as she felt longing rise in her like an unfinished crescendo. One look had been enough; one reassurance that he was alive would sustain her. And whatever would come in the temple on the mountain, in the darkness of midnight, she hoped that he, at least, would be spared.

  SEAMEN WERE A SUPERSTITIOUS LOT, and it did not surprise him in the least to find that stories were being traded in the confines of the forecastle, trailing him like sharks now that death had its fingers on him.

  A ship’s bell, as Hall’s old sailing master Grimes had once explained, was the soul of the vessel. It was why they were meant to make such an effort to retrieve a bell from a wreck; over the course of its tenure, it served much in the way a church bell might: it marked the time for watches, and its bold sound was, to many of the men, a ward against evil and storms. But when it rang on its own, or when that same sweet tone seemed to rise from the depths of the dark water, it was an omen—it was a signal that a man was bound for his eternal reward.

  Nicholas lay awake in his rented room, listening as the storm that had blown in at supper battered the city. The violent winds made playthings of the shutters and signs and roofs; it should not have surprised him that they were strong enough to shake even the nearby church bell, but it did. He felt the sound move through him as if it were striking each of his bones in turn.

  The rain lashed at the window as Nicholas tried to sit up. Every joint in his body felt inflamed, locked into place. He attempted to roll himself over and put his feet down on the carpet, only to realize his left hand and wrist could no longer support his full weight without collapsing. It was slow, hard work to edge over on the mattress, and harder still to quell the disorienting feeling of foam sloshing around inside his skull. He regretted lying down for the night. It was always more difficult to begin again when you’d ground yourself to a halt.

  “It’s worse now, isn’t it?”

  Nicholas jerked back, forgetting yet again he couldn’t lunge for the flintlock he’d placed beneath his pillow.

  But it was only Sophia. She sat in the far corner of the room, shadowed. The steady drip he’d been aware of for a few minutes now hadn’t been coming from a hole in the roof, but from her drenched overcoat. Beneath her, a puddle of muddy water was gathering around her feet.

  “I feel as if I’ve been keelhauled, but it is manageable.” Nicholas coughed, trying to clear the sleep from his voice. “How did you get in?”

  “The guards downstairs are drunk, and the ones outside the old man’s door are asleep,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “What’s that face for? There’s a tree outside your window I can use to climb down, if you’re going to be a grump about this.”
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  At least one of them felt in command of the situation. The past few days of gathering and moving obscene amounts of gold and treasure from all of the old man’s various hidden hoards to more secure locations had reaffirmed for him that he would never have a solid grip on the extent of the resources Ironwood had at his disposal. It only further served to reinforce his belief that another man or woman would simply seize control of it in the event of Ironwood’s death, and the cycle would perpetuate itself.

  “Where’s Li Min?” he asked, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. With the storm clouds knitting themselves together so thickly, he couldn’t rely on the light of the moon.

  Sophia glanced toward the rivers of rain pouring down his window. “Out…finding food.”

  Suspicion stirred, rising in him like the winds outside. Somewhere, at some point on this journey they had undertaken together, he’d begun to develop the ear to pick out the subtle tones of her voice. He recognized this one all too well. It was the one she used when she was lying.

  “Did he get the gold he needed?” she asked faintly. “For the entry?”

  “That and a bit more to pay off the men for their silence on the cache’s location,” Nicholas said. “The old man assumes the astrolabe is as good as won, and has had us moving various stores and supplies to different locations. He wants access to them when he changes the timeline again.”

  Sophia nodded, rubbing a finger over her top lip. “That makes sense…so it’s on, is it? Have you finally convinced him to let you accompany him to the auction?”

  The old man had wanted to go alone with a small group of men and women for his protection. He claimed to need Nicholas to keep an eye on things at home, to fend off any attacks the Thorns might launch. Nicholas thought it more likely that some part of the old man still was struggling to fully trust him after what had happened with Etta, and did not want the astrolabe within Nicholas’s reach.