“When did you become such a Whig?” Nicholas asked, glancing up at his friend’s face. “Surely you’re not that eager to hear about Washington’s latest defeat.”
Nicholas was, in fact, rather curious to see if anything had been altered in the course of the war, due to the timeline shifting to its original state. But he was equally as frightened to search out the answers.
“He wasn’t defeated on Long Island.” Chase’s lower jaw, heavy with blond whiskers now, jutted out as his pale blue eyes narrowed on Nicholas. “It was a strategic relocation of his forces.”
Nicholas laughed, his first true laugh in quite some time. “Now you sound like Etta, turning over manure and calling it soil.”
Nicholas did not understand the rise of Chase’s brows, the suggestion tucked into his smirk. “Etta?”
The spray of seawater against Nicholas’s face did nothing to ease the rush of hot blood there, the clench of his heart. “That is—”
“Ehhhh-tah. Etta, Etta, Etta.” Chase toyed with the name, rolling it over his tongue. “Who is this lovely Etta? Oh, do not be cross with me about that—of course she’s lovely, if she caught your eye. Where is she? In Charlestown? Is that who was keeping you from us?”
Nicholas pressed his hand to his throat, pulling the tie loose to bring more air into his chest. Hall was a guardian, but Chase and the rest of the crew were not. And now there was no recognition at all on Chase’s face as he spoke, as he’d turned Etta into a stranger.
“I said to the others, a simple sickness would not have kept Nick from the fight, I did! Tell me, did she issue tender…ministrations?”
He closed his eyes, the feel of her smooth cheek against his own still so close to him. The gates were down now, and the flood of feeling and memory devastated him as any hurricane would. His mind had not let him dream of her, unless it was a nightmare—her mother slowly bleeding to death, her wrenching sobs, the future she returned to alone. He was caught by those thoughts, hooked clean through his center, and he could no more escape being wrecked by them than he could avoid Chase’s concerned gaze.
“Nick,” Hall called from behind him. “A word, please.”
Chase put a hand on his shoulder, but Nicholas dodged it neatly, his eyes fixed on the black ribbon that gathered the captain’s faded red hair. He trailed several steps behind him to the cabin, and let the man shut and lock the door behind him. Without needing to be prompted, Nicholas took one of the seats in front of the imposing table that served both as a place to eat supper and a place to spread out the charts and maps.
The captain pressed a glass of amber liquid in his hand, and came around to lean against the desk. Nicholas sniffed at it, but was too wary of the knots lingering in his stomach to drink it just yet.
“You look worse than when I found you,” the captain said at last. “I cannot bear to see you this way. If you won’t tell me what’s the matter, I’ll keelhaul you until you’re picking barnacles out of your teeth.”
“I’ve healed,” Nicholas said, his eyes on the map of the colonies, on the narrow harbor of Manhattan. “Even my hand.”
“However, the bruising runs deep,” Hall said. “You told me of your travels, the auction, Ironwood’s death. But nothing of what you intend to do now with your…newly acquired gift.”
“And I never shall,” Nicholas said.
“My dear boy,” Hall began, crossing his arms over his broad chest, “am I wrong to say that perhaps something unexpected has happened? That, if we were to take account of the night of the auction, we might discover that you walked away with…”
“Don’t,” Nicholas begged, his voice cracking. “Don’t put it into words. I cannot understand it any more than I can understand the stars. I cannot…It cannot be.”
He could not hope for it. If his resolve cracked just once, he would scour the earth for the means to open a passage to Etta, to her future. And that would defeat the very reason he had destroyed the astrolabe in the first place.
I cannot be selfish. No man is meant to have everything.
His life had merged with the very thing his family had hunted and killed for. This ancient thing—the astrolabe—born again. As stubbornly resistant to death, it would appear, as Nicholas.
Was Etta alive? Was she safe in her future? Sophia, Julian, Nicholas, Li Min…all of them flung across the centuries, forever out of one another’s reach.
But not mine.
Nicholas batted the thought away, gripping the arms of the chair tight enough for the wood to creak.
“But you worry for the others, don’t you?” Hall had read him flawlessly. “It weighs on you, not knowing their fates, when it is within your power to.”
My power. When he considered the weight of that, his heart seemed to thunder as the passages had.
“It is not as easy as that,” he managed to say. “The passages were the source of strife, the heart blood of it. I would need to open them again, to spend years searching out the others, and by then, anything might happen to the other travelers.” The skin of his palm was still stiff, thicker than it had been before. He clenched his fist again, trying to hide the markings burned into it. “I understand so little of what’s happened. The terms of it are beyond my fathoming. The ancient ones who toyed with us extended their natural years by consuming the other astrolabes. Is that what’s to become of me?”
“Did they bear a mark like yours?” Hall asked. “Or did they consume the power of the astrolabes some other way?”
Nicholas could not recall any such markings on the ancient man, though he vaguely recalled markings of some kind on the Belladonna, who—he was sure of it—had drawn them all to that temple for some purpose other than an auction. The true picture eluded him, but he could guess. He wondered if, perhaps, the alchemist’s daughter had survived in the same manner the son had.
He did not care. He didn’t care a single whit about them. Nicholas had taken stock of himself and found, in the aftermath, he was a selfish sort after all. He wanted Etta beside him. On a ship, in a home, in a city, in the jungle—he didn’t care, so long as her small hand had possession of his own, and he could lean down and kiss her whenever he damned well pleased, which would be often, and always.
He’d been quick to scorn the sickly poets and playwrights who wrote of dying from love, but he saw now that this was a form of grief. A loss that stole some small bit of gladness from him every day until what was left of his heart was as cold and hard as flint.
As cold and hard as Ironwood’s.
One could survive without a heart, but a life like that was stunted, like an unopened flower, never receiving the necessary sunshine in order to bloom.
And it was not just Etta. There was Julian, there was Sophia, there was even Li Min, who now owed him two farewells. That was a family of sorts, wasn’t it? Perhaps not the most graceful example, but it bore all the necessary ingredients of one: care, concern, friendship, guidance, love.
“I used to dream of traveling, of what it might mean to me—that I might master skills enough to find a place for myself in the world beyond what this time was willing to give me.” Nicholas stopped, testing Hall’s reaction, afraid of the disappointment or hurt he might see there.
Instead, the captain nodded.
“There is good in it, Nick,” he said. “There is wonder. You can sit and ponder the nature of morality and corruption, like all the old, moldy philosophers. But it was never the passages themselves that were evil. It was the way they were used.”
“But that’s my point. The fact that they exist—that they existed—and that some of us have this ability…it does not mean we have to travel,” Nicholas said. “We do not have to risk causing further instability.”
“You’re thinking aloud,” Hall noted, “but you’re dancing around the heart of the matter. You recognize that there is an inherent threat in their existence, that just by being used, they open the timeline up to change. And yet…?”
“These are families,” Nicholas
said. Etta’s words that night on the mountain had never left him; they’d only crystallized in his mind. “You did not see the massacre. I don’t know how many of us survive now, but it seems a crueler thing to keep apart those of us who did. I never felt the Ironwoods were my own, but I have people now I consider near enough to be my own blood. If others are stranded in their natural times, trapped there…How do they go about living their lives, knowing they will never again see the ones they love?”
“I suppose Miss Spencer is included in these ponderings,” Hall said, innocently enough. “Perhaps you might make one more passage, to her time? It would allow easy access to return when you feel the call of the sea, or wish to see this old man.”
But as soon as that warm thought settled, guilt rose to dash it to pieces. “I cannot. It’s…Isn’t it self-serving? And in truth, I’m not sure I’d be able to reach her at all. To create a passage, I would need something from her time. She is not just from the future—she is from the far future.”
There was nothing in his possession that had originated in that place, not even Etta’s earring. The Lindens seemed to be collectors of the first order, if the home in Damascus had been any indication. There might be something there he could use. So there were two passages needed, at least. How quickly this could spiral beyond his control.
Hall’s brows rose sharply as he stroked his beard, considering this. “If there are as few travelers left as you say, then would it not be easy to establish rules and hold others accountable? It was always my understanding that the greater portion of traveling was done innocently, for the experience of it, or to see the guardians who had to remain in their natural times.”
“What you’re speaking of is a new system of order,” Nicholas said. “Simply considering it is overwhelming. The judgment about where and when to open a passage would fall to me, time and time again.”
“And I’m grateful for that,” Hall said. “For there is no traveler alive who would torture himself and labor over each decision the way you will. There will be sacrifices, no matter what you decide. You may spend your days tunneling through the years to link travelers to their families, and never know the life of a captain. You may risk persecution for what they’ll discover you can now accomplish for them. Or you may choose the dream of your youth, and one day, perhaps, learn to live with knowing your choice has affected more than just your life.”
Nicholas took a sharp breath in. “I did not ask for this. I never desired it—I only wanted to live my life as any man would.”
It was too much power for any one person to hold. Was this not the exact reason he had fought so hard to keep Ironwood from seizing control of the bloody thing? To make a decision to act in his own self-interest, to save only Etta—how was that different from the selfish ends Cyrus Ironwood would have used the astrolabe to pursue?
He would not simply be able to stop after searching for the other travelers. He knew his heart too well, and thanks to Hall’s searching, he knew where his mother had been sent after she’d been sold from Ironwood’s service. He knew where she was buried. He had been gone, traveling with Julian, the very year she wasted away and went to her reward.
I can save her.
No—no—not without risking the stability of the timeline. Bloody hell, he needed to get out of there. Hall was chipping away at his logic, and soon he’d have none left to counteract the greed in his soul. He started to rise, but was startled by a knock at the door.
One of the ship’s boys slipped inside at Hall’s “Enter!” with a bundle of letters clutched between his hands.
“From the packet boat, Captain,” he explained, then dashed back out before Hall could utter a thank-you.
“Am I really as frightening as all that?” the man wondered aloud, cutting the string that bound the letters together. He sorted through them quickly.
“Positively ferocious,” Nicholas said wryly, noticing for the first time that the man had spilled ink down his shirt again. “Is that the one who struck you with the spoon on the Ardent?”
“No, that wicked little imp refused service—” Hall’s jaw clenched suddenly, the words falling away.
“What is it?” Nicholas asked, leaning forward.
“There’s a missive in here for you,” Hall said, holding up a small yellowed envelope, then turning it backward to show the black wax seal. A single B, surrounded by creeping vines and flowers. He felt himself shudder.
“Yes, that’s the correct response,” Hall said. “This is the Witch of Prague’s mark.”
Nicholas took it from him, hesitating only a moment before breaking the seal. The smell of earth and greens rose off the page; a look at the date told him the letter was over three hundred years old. The brittle, withered quality of the parchment seemed to confirm this. How it had found its way to Port Royal was anyone’s guess.
Darling Beastie,
I told you before that everyone has a master. As you may have sensed the night of the auction, so had I. Not a man, nor a woman, but a certain dark history which threatened to repeat itself once more, cycling endlessly through generations, until at last none of our kind would survive. It is a cunning businesswoman who plucks at the greed in other hearts, and a wise woman who acknowledges it in herself. I searched many years for the answer, only to find you. A mere boy. I have enjoyed watching your progress from afar these many years.
Indeed, a boon has been granted to you. Rather than despair, consider the fact that this was by my design; that you were tested, your heart measured and found worthy to bring this ancient story to an end. The copies of the master astrolabe, when consumed, prolonged life by hundreds of years. However, my brother sought the master for its raw power, the ability which you now possess. Had he seized it, everything would be ash and cinders, with only his chosen few left to survive his dreams of a total rebirth of the world. With him, naturally, as its god. The ego, beastie; honestly.
“Honestly,” Nicholas repeated, his pulse thrumming in his veins. Hall’s eyes never left him as he read, but he could not bring himself to say the words aloud.
The only soul deserving of such an ability is one that refuses everything it desires, in the face of death and great loss, to protect the lives of the many from untold strife. I applaud your decency, which is rare and formidable, and something to be prized in a world that has struggled so terribly to make you aggrieved. Whatever you choose to do with this gift, take comfort in knowing that it will die with you. You will live long, but you will not be impervious to harm or unnatural death. A fine limitation indeed, should you choose to open the centuries. Or, perhaps, simply seek a single girl. To that end, I have something useful in my collection. You may find me in a willing mood to negotiate on it.
The short letter concluded with As always, your business is greatly appreciated. Please visit again soon.
Wordlessly, he passed the letter to Hall, who devoured its contents like a man knowingly swallowing sour milk. His brows seemed to inch up his face with every successive line.
Nicholas’s mind was a whirlpool, one that threatened to draw him into its depths and drown him forever. This had all been a game between a man and a woman—between a family. No one, save the Belladonna and the Ancient One, held all of the cards, but the truth had been scattered across the generations, waiting for someone to fit it together. He saw a thousand points of light connecting one traveler’s life to the next as if they were stretched out in the room before him.
He understood, too, the source of Rose’s great plan, its mysteries and contradictions stripped away. She knew—she must have known—that whoever destroyed the astrolabe would take its ability into him- or herself. That was the reason she had allowed Etta to be taken into the past, why she hadn’t destroyed it herself or merely hidden it for her to find. In Rose’s heart, the only one worthy of the power was Etta, in all of her goodness.
Hall leaned back in his chair, a whistling breath escaping his teeth. For a long while, they merely stared at one another, ignoring th
e ship’s bell as it rang for the next watch.
“I knew from the moment our lives crossed, Nicholas,” Hall began softly, “that yours would eventually lead to a road I could not follow you down. You have been on it for many years, with you none the wiser. Tell me, aside from saving the others, if you knew that it would not alter the timeline beyond repair, if you released yourself from the prison of right and wrong, what would you do? No—don’t argue it with yourself. Just tell me.”
“I would save my mother, purchase her freedom, set her up with a comfortable life,” he said without hesitation. “But it’s impossible. I can’t risk an alteration.”
“Impossible,” Hall agreed, reaching out to take his hand, his eyes lit from within. His words spilled out of him with the force of a river dammed for far too long. “But tomorrow you leave this ship. You travel five years into the past, where you found—will find—me in Norfolk, force me to swear to God to keep this infernal secret, and then, my boy, we do precisely that.”
ETTA’S DEBUT AS A CONCERT soloist came months after she’d released that dream to the wind and let it soar away for someone else to claim.
“You’ll do great. Don’t be nervous!”
Etta glanced over at Gabriela. They stood in the wings of the stage, listening to the intermediate orchestra sail through its rendition of Mendelssohn’s Symphony no. 4—the “Italian Symphony,” as it was also known. They were playing only the first two movements, giving Etta about fourteen minutes to mentally take stock of her nerves and decide whether or not she really did need to throw up or if it would pass, as it usually did, once she was actually onstage.
She forced herself to smile at her friend, giving her a weak thumbs-up before she turned back to listen to the symphony. She breathed in and out, as Alice had taught her, but inside she was a little girl all over again, the one who burst into tears from fright the moment she stepped out onto the stage. It had nothing to do with whether or not she would be able to remember nearly thirty minutes of music, and everything to do with the fact that it was the same piece she should have played six months before with the New York Philharmonic, in Avery Fisher Hall in Lincoln Center, with Alice sitting directly in front of her in the audience.