And with that, the tension bled from her limbs, and the knot of confusion in her heart finally loosened.
“Then, yes, I think I should like that very much, too,” she said, mimicking the formality of his tone. “But first…there’s someone we need to see.”
He nodded, plainly curious. “Name the horizon, and it’s ours.”
By the time the auditorium doors opened, they were gone.
THERE WAS A MAN IN THE GARDEN, hidden behind Mama’s rosebush. She noticed him only because the sun was setting, but the gold of his long robe caught the light and seemed to burn behind the branches and bramble like a sunrise. And because she, too, was hiding in the garden; only, she was the one smart enough to choose to crouch behind the hedge.
There were always travelers arriving without warning, and never dressed properly. Fewer now, and soon none, if Grandpapa had his way.
You’re in the twentieth century, she wanted to whisper to him. But when he turned, she did not recognize the stranger’s face—not from memory, and not from any of the books of photographs her parents had compiled of the Ironwoods, Jacarandas, and Hemlocks for her to memorize.
The only reason to hide was for fear of being discovered, and the only reason to fear being discovered was if you’d arrived with bad intentions.
Rose drew herself deeper into the hedge, but the man heard the subtle shift of the leaves. He slowly turned his head toward her, revealing himself through the flowers. Her Mama had declared her brave so many times, but Rose found she could not move, not with his eyes locked on her face, glimmering like gold coins.
It was painful to look anywhere else. She saw only pieces of him. A long, thin nose. The skin over the curve of his forehead; tight, the way a snake’s might be. Neither handsome nor hideous. Something else entirely.
“Hello, child,” he called softly. “Are you frightened? I have only come to help you.”
Rose knew the response to this was to run back into the house and call for Grandpapa. But she could not look away from him, the way his skin glimmered with light as he came toward her. His footsteps made no sound as they passed over the stones and grass.
Rose crossed her arms over her chest, shrinking back against the high wall that separated their town house from the neighbor’s.
“S-stay back!” she ordered, reaching down to pick up a stone to throw.
The man’s gliding path came to a halt in front of her. He towered, taller than any man she had ever seen, but he cast no shadow over her. Standing there, staring into his eyes, Rose felt only…warm. The hungry parts of her were suddenly full, calm. For a moment, she could not remember the reason she had come into the garden at all.
“I would never harm you,” he told her, his voice drifting between her ears, soothing like an ointment over a cut. “There is such sorrow in your heart. Tell me, have you lost someone?”
She hesitated, but felt herself nod. “Mama. Papa.”
“Death is an enemy few defeat,” he said, coming closer. “But there is a way to save them, child. They should never have died.”
Rose felt her eyes sting with the truth of his words. Her voice wobbled as she asked, “How?”
“There is a special object your family possesses. It is the key to saving not only your dear Mama and Papa, but all those around you.”
Rose shook her head, trying to bring her hands up to cover her ears. Her arms would not move, not while the man’s words wove around her, coiling and coiling around her until her chest was too tight to breathe.
No matter how hard she squeezed her eyes shut, Rose could not shut out images of the things he spoke of. Each word painted the images inside of her mind. Smoke, not the smell of wet grass, filled her lungs. Something hot and metallic-tasting filled her mouth and nearly choked her.
A cool hand closed around her wrist softly, leading her. It was only when Rose heard the distant honk of a horn that she realized she was standing at the open gate, the edge of the darkened street. She tried to tug her hand free, but there was a fever in her, painful and cloudy. His face was blotted out in her vision, a smear of ivory and gold.
Grandpapa.
“All I need is that special gift your family was given. Only that, and you can save everyone. You.”
The images raged through her now, flickering like colored film. Mama, Papa, the blood, a great city shuddering with flames, an explosion, bodies charred to bone and piled as high as mountains, her hands spilling over with tar, a rising dark river of drowning animals, children, blades flashing, tearing through skin and bone—they burned their way through her, searing her mind. The pain slammed into her, plucking and pawing and tugging at her until blackness rose in her vision and she felt hands cupping her back, her legs—
The astrolabe. The golden disc. Grandpapa had drawn it for her to see, but she had never touched it, never seen it pass through the house.
She realized she had been saying all of these words aloud when the man, at the end of a long tunnel, nodded.
“Rose!”
That voice…
“Rose!”
That was…Rose tried to think of whom the voice belonged to, but nothing existed outside of the man’s face, the long, elegant fingers that stroked her cheek.
“Rose! Where are you?”
Afraid.
There is a place where you will never feel hurt. Where you will become strong.
The words slithered through her, unstoppable. When she opened her eyes again, the street was gliding past her, streaked with night.
“Rosie! Rosie! Come out, Rosie, this isn’t funny!”
Alice. Why did she sound so far away? Why did she sound so frightened? Who is hurting Alice?
The man’s face came into focus, glowing against the darkening sky. It felt good. So easy. So very safe here. He would protect her. He would make her strong, like Mama.
But who would protect Alice?
Rose struggled, squirming to break from his grip. He did not put her down. If anything, his grip tightened and, all at once, the soft blanket of contentment he’d wrapped around her was stripped off. Rose, suddenly, was fighting. Kicking, clawing, slapping, screaming. The images of death and destruction slammed into her again, tearing through her mind, but she did not stop. Rose screamed until her throat turned raw and she fell to the ground on her hands and knees. The darkness swelled up around her, over her head, crashing down the way she’d seen the tides of fire break over an unfamiliar city.
“Rosie!”
“Rose!”
Alice. Grandpapa. Someone—anyone—please—
Help me.
WHEN ROSE WOKE, IT WAS TO SUNLIGHT AND JASMINE, on a bed of cushions and silk, centuries and continents away. She remembered Grandpapa easing her up, carrying her through the passage, but her mind had been soft with sleep.
Her heart began to beat madly when she saw that neither Nanny nor Grandpapa were with her. This was a room she’d never seen before.
He took me. The words were like claws in her mind. Rose flew to the corner of the room, crouching down, her arms above her head. He’s come back for me.
The breath whistled out between her chattering teeth. For a moment, Rose could not move at all, not even to swallow.
But then she remembered.
Grandpapa’s worn face as he’d told her again and again, Hush, darling, nothing happened, you gave yourself a fright.
“It wasn’t real,” she told herself, the way Grandpapa had barked at her when she’d tried to describe the man. “Not. Real.”
But then, why could she still feel the sharp press of the man’s fingers on her wrist? Why, every time she shut her eyes, did she see that same burning world?
“Stop it,” she ordered herself, hating the tremor in her voice. She scrubbed her fists over her eyes. She’d only upset Grandpapa; he’d been so angry at her for wandering away from the house. He’d thought she’d run intentionally, because…yes, they were leaving London. He had bought them a new home, far from her mama’s garden. S
he wouldn’t upset Grandpapa anymore by crying and hiding like a baby.
He was all she had left.
Rose stood, breathing in through her nose, and ventured outside of her room, exploring the house. She called for her grandfather, for her nanny, but the rainbow of tiles in the enclosed courtyard only echoed her voice back to her.
Safe.
But alone.
Rose returned to the room she had awakened in, searching through the trunks at the far end of the room for books. Instead, she found her small easel and a neat stack of canvases and paint. Nanny had remembered to pack them.
She set everything up, but before she could begin to think of what she would paint, she heard voices on the street below. Pulling back the bedroom shutters, she leaned out. Down the dust-filled alley, the other children were playing some sort of game with a ball, women in rainbow veils and tunics hovering over them, clucking like chickens. Rose scoffed at the sight.
She swung her legs out of the window so that they dangled, pale and long, over the world below. The street emptied and silence returned.
When the tears burned her cheeks, Rose knew they were because of the wind and the heavy dust it carried. It had nothing to do with the man, the dreams of fire and blood. That was all. Grandpapa had told her to be brave, and so she would be. Rose Linden was not afraid, not ever.
“Not real,” she whispered again, squeezing her eyes shut.
A crack from behind her caught her attention, and Rose turned, searching for Grandpapa’s face, or Nanny to call her to supper. She would have even accepted silly, stupid Henry, if he’d be nice just once and not pull her braid. But no…she was not supposed to play with the Hemlocks anymore. Rose needed to remember this now. Not with the Jacarandas, either. And never, ever with the Ironwoods.
Instead, there was a woman at the door, staring at her.
“Ma—”
The word was swallowed back down her throat. This girl—this young lady—wore a simple cornflower-blue tunic of sorts, with a short jacket over it. She hadn’t thought to do her hair, or even wear a hat, which was most improper.
But she was not like the man in gold. She was nothing like him.
Now that the young woman was coming closer, Rose found herself swinging her legs back into the room. She saw the echoes of Mama’s face in the girl’s eyes and her mouth. Reaching down, she picked up the small letter opener Grandpapa had left on the room’s table and held it up. “Who are you?”
The girl stopped where she was and let out a startled laugh. She held up her hands. “I’m…like you.”
Her accent was American. Rose had not expected that, either.
“There’s no one like me,” she said.
The girl laughed. “That’s very true. I meant that I’m—”
“Don’t say it!” Rose hissed, shocked at her carelessness. Anyone might hear. “I know what you are. You’re doing a terrible job of it. You didn’t even buy the right kind of shoes!”
The girl looked down, then back up again, her face flushed. “Well, you’ve got me there.”
Rose slowly lowered the letter opener. “What do you want? Grandpapa isn’t home.”
The girl took a step closer. Rose allowed this. She took another step closer. Rose allowed this as well.
“I came to talk to you, actually,” the young lady said. “I wanted to see how you are—to talk to you about what happened.”
Rose shook her head, slapping her hands over her ears. “No, no, no! We aren’t supposed to tell, we aren’t—”
“I know, I know,” the girl said, crouching down in front of Rose. “But…I could use someone to talk to, too. And there’s no one I trust more to help me, to keep my secrets.”
Rose could not tell her what the man had said. It would be like pulling splinters out from under skin that had already healed over them. It hurt so very badly to think of it.
But this stranger—not her Grandpapa, not any of the other travelers—believed her to be someone to speak to, not speak down to. She liked this idea, that she was strong after all. It was a very sad, hard thing, her Papa had told her, to be a traveler, for there were so very few people who knew what they could do, and fewer still that they could talk to.
“I’ll listen,” Rose allowed, her voice trembling only a little.
The girl’s face clouded, her pale brows drawing together as she knelt down on one of the cushions, watching Rose come toward her, almost in awe. “I’m sorry about your parents. That must have been beyond terrible for you, and you were so brave. I’ve lost someone I love, too. My heart still hurts, even though I understand why it happened.”
Rose stood with her back straight, clasping her hands in front of her as she met the girl’s blue-eyed gaze with her own. “I’m not afraid.”
“I know you aren’t,” the young lady said, almost in a whisper, “but I heard that you had another visitor recently, and that some of the things he said might have been upsetting. I promise you, though, everything will be…okay in the end.”
Rose swallowed hard. Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw that man, the one who’d visited her before they left London. He had told her about terrible things, horrible things. She dreamt of what he said, the burns, the suffering—the—the blood.
“Will it?” she whispered, even though she knew it was wrong to press about the future.
The young lady nodded. “I promise.” She turned toward the corner of the room, where Grandpapa had set up a small easel. “Do you like to paint?”
Rose hesitated a moment, then nodded. She had not painted since Mama and Papa had…
She closed her eyes, scrubbed at her cheeks. The girl rose up off the ground and touched her hair gently, stroking it down. “Would you paint something for me? Maybe…maybe something from your memory?”
“Something…happy?” Rose asked, looking up at her.
“Yes,” the girl said softly, taking her hand. “Something happy.”
SOME BOOKS ARE BORN MAGICAL and shiny from the first draft, but this one proved to be a true labor of love. I’m so grateful for the friendships I’ve made this year, both with my fellow authors and with my amazing readers, for keeping me going on the journey from first draft to the finished book you’re holding in your hands.
First and foremost, I’d like to thank my agent, Merrilee Heifetz, who fights so hard for her clients every single day and is always there to pick me up, dust me off, and set me on the right path. I’m so grateful for your unfailingly good advice, kindness, and patience. Thanks also to Allie Levick for being so reliable and wonderful—I don’t know how you stay so on top of things! I’d also like to send some major love to Cecilia de la Campa, Angharad Kowal, James Munro, and the many subrights coagents who have ensured that readers around the world can find my stories. Rock stars, all of you!
Emily Meehan, Hannah Allaman, Laura Schreiber…thank you for navigating the absolutely insane world of time travel with me. I’m so grateful for your help in shaping this story and helping me find its heart. Thank you to Andrew Sugerman, for being such an incredible champion (Go Tribe!). Mary Ann Naples, Seale Ballenger, Dina Sherman, LaToya Maitland, Holly Nagel, Elke Villa, Andrew Sansone, Sara Liebling, Guy Cunningham, Dan Kaufman, Meredith Jones, Marci Senders, and the entire team at Hyperion: you are all so, so, so amazing. I could fill an entire book with thanks for you.
I would have been completely lost this past year without Erin Bowman and Susan Dennard. Thank you both so much for your invaluable thoughts, your support, and for not letting me give up on this story. I’d say more, but we’re probably already on Gchat talking…and, well, I think you know (#cattleprod). Massive love to Victoria Aveyard for staying up until the wee hours of the morning brainstorming alternate history with me. To Anna Jarzab, I love ya, buddy—thanks for putting up with me and my neuroses all these years, and for being the kind of good friend I aspire to be.
I’d also like to thank Sabaa Tahir and Leigh Bardugo for their caring, much-appreciated check-ins, and for whatever
psychic ability they possess that allowed them to know exactly when I needed moral support most. To Amie Kaufman: your guidance through rocky waters is always spot-on, and I’m honored to call you my friend.
A special thank-you to my two favorite Kevins: Kevin Shiau for your help with honing Li Min’s character and checking my Mandarin, and Kevin Dua for being kind enough to give me your thoughts last year on Nicholas and his journey. Likewise, my eternal gratitude to Valia Lind for helping me nail the right Russian phrases and to Evelyn Skye for helping fact-check.
Thank you SO much to my family. I love you guys which, duh, you know, but I thought I’d put it in print. (And Mom, I promise Rose isn’t based on you.)
Finally, to the readers who came on this journey with Nicholas and Etta: thank you, thank you, thank you. You are the reason I’m able to do what I love, and I’ll never forget that. Now go out there and make history.
Also by
ALEXANDRA BRACKEN
PASSENGER SERIES
Passenger
Wayfarer
THE DARKEST MINDS SERIES
The Darkest Minds
Never Fade
In the Afterlight
Through the Dark
STAR WARS: A NEW HOPE
The Princess, the Scoundrel, and the Farm Boy
ALEXANDRA BRACKEN is the #1 New York Times best-selling author of the Darkest Minds series. Born and raised in Arizona, she moved east to study history and English at the College of William & Mary in Virginia. After working in publishing for several years, Alex now writes full-time and can be found hard at work on her next novel in a charming little apartment that’s perpetually overflowing with books. Visit her online at www.alexandrabracken.com and on Twitter @alexbracken.