Passenger

  Based on Sophia’s description, she’d been expecting the walls to be falling down around their ears, the furniture and rugs to be moving around the halls on the backs of a sea of rodents. Instead it seemed tidy, if cramped and a little bleak.

  It was even plainer on the third level. There were three doors to choose from. Sophia smoothed her hair, then her dress, and moved to the one on the far left, where a man armed with a rifle was standing guard. Nicholas measured him with a single look.

  Before Etta could knock, a ringing voice called, “Enter.”

  Etta, Sophia, and Nicholas followed the voice. This room was as bare as the hall, but practically stifling with the heat from the fireplace. With the exception of a four-poster bed with a side table, a trunk, and a porcelain chamber pot, the only other occupant was a wing-backed chair. A man was in it, positioned directly in front of a roaring fire.

  He didn’t stand as they came in; merely absorbed each of them with a single look. Etta heard Sophia swallow hard. The old man raised his right hand expectantly, and she practically tripped in her rush to step forward and kiss the gold ring on it.

  “Hello, Grandfather. You look well.”

  “And you smell like a horse’s arse.”

  Etta let out a shocked laugh and his sharp gaze swung toward her, choking the sound off with a single tilt of his head.

  His face was round like Sophia’s, his features bold, despite the drag of age. His hooded eyelids hung over icy blue eyes; the corners of his mouth were naturally tipped down, giving him a look of tired apathy, like he could hardly abide their presence. He adjusted the blue silk damask robe he’d tossed over his shirt and breeches.

  That single look ripped Etta open faster than any razor.

  He turned to Sophia. “You’re dismissed.”

  She jumped as if he’d shoved her in the direction of the door. “But—”

  “You question me?” he asked calmly.

  Sophia sealed her lips and turned to look at Nicholas.

  “He stays,” the old man said firmly, with an impatient wave. “My God, child, I’ll die of old age before you ever reach the door.”

  Etta saw the way Sophia took in a deep breath, set her shoulders back, and moved with practiced grace on her way out—and she understood something about the other girl, truly understood it for the first time. Sophia wanted in, when she was only ever being sent out.

  “Step fully into the light,” the old man ordered when the door was shut. He set the book in his lap on the floor.

  Nicholas stood with his hands clasped behind his back, fingers curled into fists. When she stepped forward, so did he, remaining a small step in front of her.

  “I’m Etta,” she said, trying to fill the agonizing silence that followed. The longer she went without any sort of response, the more she had to fight the way her feet naturally wanted to turn toward the door. In all of her experiences of stage fright, each crippling attack of performance anxiety, she’d never felt so smothered by pure dread. With the heat of the fire at her back, and hours of travel behind her, she felt a pressure start to build just beneath her lungs.

  Why was she just standing here? Why wasn’t she yelling, telling him what she really thought of the way he’d forced her to come here without any explanation? She could have been home, but here she was, because he wanted her, and he wasn’t doing a damn thing other than a passable impression of a gargoyle. And this was the same man who had kept both Nicholas and his mother enslaved—who thought it was fine to sacrifice their freedom in the name of playing a role and blending in.

  “You’re late, Samuel.”

  Maybe it was only a trick of the light, but Etta could have sworn Nicholas stiffened.

  “My name is Nicholas now, as you’ve known for years. And I don’t see how you’ve reached that conclusion.”

  “I wanted them here by the twenty-first. And yet here we are, ten past the first hour of the twenty-second. Your pay will be docked accordingly.”

  Etta’s blood steamed. “That’s—”

  “My man of business is downstairs. I expect you remember him? Of course, he’ll know you by your true name. Nicholas! My word. Perhaps you should have chosen the name Charlemagne when you decided to remake yourself. You certainly strode in here like an emperor.”

  Was the old man mocking Nicholas? For choosing a name that he liked and wanted, rather than the one given to him? What a vicious way to remind him of what he had been.

  I can handle this. She clung to her mom’s voice, the words, that trace of belief. If nothing else, she wouldn’t flinch under the old man’s steely gaze. She would make her mom proud.

  “Tell me why I’m here,” she said coldly.

  “Why do you think you’re here?” he asked, cocking one thin silver brow. A lion, staring down a common house cat.

  “I think your plan is to hold me hostage,” she said. “To get back at my mom.”

  Cyrus let out a deep laugh. “Do you? How would you feel if it was quite the opposite?”

  Etta’s gaze shot back toward him, disbelief twining with terror as the old man retrieved a small, glossy photograph from the front pocket of his silk robe. Her dread was so paralyzing, she almost couldn’t lift an arm to take it from him.

  Her mother’s face, partially obscured by a gag, glared back at her. If she’d looked frightened, rather than furious, some part of Etta might have been able to believe it was someone else they’d found to impersonate her. But no—Rose was still wearing the dress she’d worn at the Met. The room around her was dark, but Etta recognized their living room all the same. An arm reached into the photo with a copy of the New York Times, dated the day after the concert.

  All she could see was Alice’s face as her eyes slid shut that last time.

  All she could feel was Alice’s blood as it dried on her hands.

  “Because of her, you owe this family—our kind—a debt,” the old man said. “And you will do exactly as I say, or she will take her last breath and you will never, ever leave this godforsaken time.”

  THE SHOCK SNAPPED, LEAVING ONLY a pool of anger in the pit of her stomach. Etta lunged toward Cyrus, only to be caught around the waist by Nicholas and hauled backward, still struggling. “You bastard—!”

  “Miss Spencer—” Nicholas’s arms tightened, trying to hold her still. “Etta!”

  At the pleading note in his tone, she stopped struggling, sagging against the tight band of his arms. Cyrus stood, studying her face more closely as he circled around them.

  “I thought, actually, that you might be an Ironwood—that Augustus had made another folly—but I see now I’m wrong. You don’t bear our stamp at all. Who is your father?”

  “As if I’d ever tell you,” she snarled back.

  He gave a dismissive wave, moving to a trunk near the bed. “It hardly matters, seeing as it’s clearly not Ironwood, Jacaranda, or Hemlock.”

  Sophia had said there were three other families who could travel, Linden included. But she and Nicholas had both also said that the other families were gone now, or had been forcibly merged into the Ironwood clan.

  “Your mother was the last living traveler of the Linden line, until we learned of you.”

  Cyrus found what he was looking for in the depths of the trunk and pulled it out. He held it out for her to take, and only then did Nicholas release his hold on her.

  It was a small leather-bound book, embossed with the initials RCL and a gorgeous golden tree. Etta found her eyes tracing the shape of it over and over, the slight curve of the trunk, the branches that stretched and twined until they disappeared into the heavy, full body of leaves. The roots of the gold tree were similarly interwoven, the thin lines weaving in and out of each other’s paths.

  “You don’t recognize it, do you?” Ironwood said, clearly amused by this. “Your mother and her grandfather, Benjamin Linden, were so blasted proud of their heritage. It’s your family’s sigil.”

  “Each house has a tree sigil,” Nicholas said quietly when
she looked up for confirmation. He nodded at the chest, its lid emblazoned with a magnificent, strong-armed tree, its thick branches so low that they seemed to rise directly from the ground.

  Her grandfather. Her mother had told her she’d been raised by her grandfather. So then…everything wasn’t a lie? Just a carefully crafted truth?

  “We crossed paths with Rose, sightseeing in Renaissance Italy—it seemed quite the happy accident at the time, as her grandfather had recently passed, and she found herself alone,” he continued, something accusing in his gaze. “I’d made the necessary arrangements to bring her into our family, to marry Augustus and rescue her from a life alone, but your mother disappeared seventeen years ago, and we’ve been searching for her ever since.”

  Her hands clenched around the book until she couldn’t resist opening it. She flipped the cover open, scanning the neat notations—all in her mother’s handwriting. It felt like opening a random door and finding her waiting there.

  Victorian London. Rome in the fifth century. Egypt in the early twentieth. There must have been a hundred different places listed, all with small journal entries, like Saw the Queen as she and the Prince rode past us on their way to Buckingham Palace and The camel nearly ate Gus’s hair, ripped it from his scalp like grass and My God, if I never see another big-bellied man wrapped in a toga…

  “Travelers keep journals,” Nicholas explained in a low voice, “noting the times and dates of when they move through the passages, to avoid crossing paths with themselves by accident.”

  Etta nodded, her fingers pressed tight against the leather, but her mind spun. What did that mean, crossing paths with yourself? Why would they need to avoid it?

  “Stand up straight, child—you’ll give yourself a hunchback before you’re even an adult. My God.”

  Instead, Etta began to pace.

  Her mother went missing? Or ran away?

  The realization ripped her down the center. Her mother had run away. She’d run away from an overbearing foster father. One who’d tried to control her life.

  Etta turned, studying the old man from under her lashes. The remaining members of the other family lines had been adopted into the Ironwood clan. What if that’s what her mom had really meant? If, after her grandfather died, she’d been forced to become an Ironwood?

  “I, too, looked for her.” Cyrus turned, pulling a leather satchel up from the floor. He thumbed through the bag, finally plucking out a piece of parchment and thrusting it at Etta. She took the parchment and carefully unfolded it. Inside, the handwriting was unfamiliar.

  January 2, Our Year 1099

  Gus,

  I’m about to make my report to Father, and yes, gladly receive the punishment, but I’ve been battling my conscience over whether or not to tell you this. You’ve kept a brave face about it, but I know it’s been a considerable source of pain for you over the years. Surely knowing is better than living the rest of your life with the uncertainty hanging over you? These are the questions I’ve sat with for days now.

  Earlier this week, I found a passage near to where I was staying in Nassau, and well, chap, the truth of it is that I was bored and more than a little resentful at being called back again to 1776. Why must I follow every absurd lead in his never-ending quest to find this blasted obsession of his? So I heard it, and I went—and you can imagine my surprise when the passage put me out well past 1946, into what looked to be some kind of museum. I’ll spare you the rather vulgar actions of the people around me and say that, upon checking a newspaper, I realized I was in Manhattan in 2015.

  Yes. You read that correctly. It was an absolute crush of humanity all around, and the amount of building that’s been done to the island is startling. You’ll see for yourself soon, I believe.

  But here is where I hesitate again. Will you hate me for this? I can’t be sure, knowing how one sight of her in Paris tormented you for years. Gus, I read through the newspaper, trying to get a sense of what was happening in the world—better to butter up the old man with it, right? But in one section I saw a photo that nearly stopped my breath, because I thought, with all certainty, it was of our Rosie.

  Instead, it was a girl named Henrietta Spencer—she’s a violin virtuoso, and the article was about a competition she’d just won in Russia. I skimmed it to the end and sure enough, there was mention of a mother—a Rose Spencer.

  The technology of this time is remarkable, but I haven’t the space here to tell you of it. A librarian at the city’s public library helped me search for more information on something called—the InterWeb, maybe? No, InterNet. In any case, it was easy enough to continue on my own, and I felt I owed it to you to chase this down the rabbit hole. The earliest record I could find of them was a police report on October 5, 1998, stating that a young woman, a Rose Spencer, along with her three-month-old, had been picked up for theft in some sort of department store. In it, Rose said she was new to the city and was hoping to contact a friend.

  I hope I haven’t upset you, brother. I know you’ve built yourself a life, and you’ve Amelia and Julian to content yourself with. But I also hope that this helps you put it all to rest, and eases your bedeviled mind. Both Rosie and her daughter seem well enough, and despite the pain she’s caused this family, I felt content to see them settled.

  —Virgil

  “Virgil was my other son, gone shortly after this letter was sent,” Cyrus explained, snatching it back out of her numb fingers. “Augustus a year later, when his ship sank in the seventeenth century.”

  Nicholas swung his gaze back to the old man, an edge to his voice. “Enough of this. Tell her straight what you need of her.”

  Cyrus leaned back, giving him a long look. “I could not use Rose, therefore my task falls upon Miss Linden—”

  “Spencer,” she corrected sharply.

  “Linden,” he practically roared, “and damn you for it. I need you to steal back what was stolen from me by your mother.”

  That put a stop to the scalding words she was about to fling onto him. “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t play deaf, I haven’t the patience for it. I meant precisely what I said earlier. If you continue to be uncooperative, I’ll resume the search for it myself, and you’ll be left here. I’m sure you saw the women as you came off the ferry, the ones who linger by the docks?”

  Nicholas growled, “You dare imply—”

  “I imply nothing. I mean precisely what I say. That will be your own recourse for survival. What, without any skills or knowledge or protector in this time, will you do otherwise?”

  So, her choices were to prostitute herself to others, or to serve him? “I know where the passage is.” Roughly. “All I need is to get back to Nassau—”

  “I would bury the passage before I’d ever let you through it again, child, so think twice before you spite me. Let’s play a game, shall we? Close your eyes and try to envision a scenario in which you could possibly get to the island before my men. What funds would you use? What friends do you have here who would help you?” Cyrus asked, his voice light, like he was speaking to a child. “And what would prevent us from coming to claim you again?”

  Nicholas would help me. Etta risked a glance over to him, feeling the air vibrate around the two of them with unspoken fury.

  “What would prevent us from killing your mother?”

  She sat back on her heels, defeat rising up in her like a wave of nausea. When she spoke, her words were sharp enough to draw Nicholas a step closer to her side. Etta wondered if he was worried he’d need to grab her again to keep her from clawing the old man’s face. “You already have one life on your hands. Are you really so evil that you’d kill another woman?”

  “Another woman?” he asked, brows rising. “My agents didn’t report a casualty, though they were authorized to…shall we say, use force and their best judgment.”

  Fury blazed in her. “She was innocent. She was a defenseless, elderly woman!”

  Cyrus shrugged one shoulder. “Then she was already
at the end of her life. Don’t waste tears on this woman. Most don’t get such a full life. My son, for instance. My grandson. I’m far more concerned with the blood your mother has on her hands. By our old traveler laws, I’d be more than justified in killing you to end this feud. Be grateful I’ve chosen the high road.”

  Etta was so stunned, so tackled by disbelief, her next words flew out of her mind. Clearly seeing this, Cyrus continued as if she hadn’t spoken at all.

  “After the passage was discovered, I sent numerous agents to your filthy, crowded city to conduct their investigations. When it became clear Rose had borne a child, and one that might possibly be gifted, arrangements were made to put you directly in a position to travel,” Ironwood continued, lacing his fingers together over his chest. “My agents bestowed a rather sizable donation on my behalf to the museum that employs your mother. They suggested that the museum might invite you to perform—of course, anything is possible when money is being passed beneath the table.”

  She felt her lip curl into a snarl, but she forced herself to stay silent, too afraid of crossing that line between cooperative and uncooperative.

  “It occurred to me that perhaps your mother didn’t realize the passage was there—that she hadn’t heard it. Or perhaps you didn’t carry the ability. And so Sophia was sent, to see if you could hear the passage, and if so, bring you through it.”

  Hear. He knew she’d heard something. But Etta had been inside the museum any number of times, and that night was the first time she’d ever heard that booming call.

  “How very thoughtless of Rose to not explain this.” Cyrus seemed to read her thoughts before she did. “Our ancestors, those who created the passages a thousand years ago, were of purer blood than those of us today. It became necessary to…mingle…our bloodlines with common ones in order to survive. The ability to hear and see the passages naturally has faded. We rely on resonance.”

  Cyrus slid a harmonica out of a velvet sack in his satchel. Putting his lips to the mouthpiece, he released a powerful burst of air, playing three simultaneous notes.