“I worry, though,” Hasan continued. “It is a three-day ride from Damascus on horse, longer by camel. You may be able to push the horses harder, arrive in two days, but it is dangerous—water is not plenty, and if you drive them to exhaustion you will have to go on foot.”
“It’s a risk we’ll have to take, then,” Nicholas said. “We’ll need a map, a compass if you have one—water, food—can we go to the markets at once?”
“Well, yes, of course, but you will not require a map nor a compass, for I shall go with you. As your guide.”
Nicholas was rising to his feet, but at that, he stopped. “We don’t need a guide.”
Why? she wondered. Did he think navigating the ocean gave him some kind of magical insight into handling the desert? This was a gift that Hasan was offering. She wasn’t about to spit in his face.
“It would be my honor,” Hasan said. “It is not ideal to go in a group so small, but I will protect you both with my life.”
“I am perfectly capable of—” Nicholas began, stopping only when Etta put a hand on his shoulder.
“I would hope that will not be necessary,” she said, “but we accept your help. Thank you.”
One to recognize when a battle was already lost—maybe—Nicholas made his way back into the house, crossing the courtyard in long, purposeful strides. He might as well have turned back and glared at them, his posture was so rigid.
“That is a man who does not like to lose.” Hasan waited until Nicholas was well out of sight before leaning toward Etta, soft concern on his face. “I would be pleased to kill him for you.”
She was so startled by the words, it took his laughter to make her see it had been a joke. “He’s been on edge lately. It’s been a hard couple of days.”
“I am more concerned for you. You seem unhappy this morning,” he said. She knew that they were roughly the same age; that, if anything, he had only a few years on her. In that moment, though, his face was so knowing that it felt like she was being offered the opportunity to unburden herself to someone as ancient and knowing as the sun itself—someone who could make sense of what she was feeling.
“We had a bit of a fight,” Etta admitted. “We resolved it the best we could, but it’s not a permanent solution. He’s upset about it and on edge about everything happening. So am I.”
“Has he harmed you?”
“No—nothing like that,” she assured him quickly. “It was just…coming to the conclusion that the…” She didn’t want to lie to him, but she also wasn’t sure how to say it without actually saying it. “That my future might not be what I thought it was going to be.”
Not to mention a healthy dose of fear for her mom—where she was, how they were treating her, if she was hurt—
“I think perhaps…” Hasan caught himself, seeming to consider his words more carefully. “I think perhaps this thing that is between you is not so simple as he would make it sound?”
A shiver of worry passed down her spine.
“Listen well, little niece,” Hasan said, clearly sensing this. “I know his reasons. I do not judge, the way others would. Abbi and Ummi were not married—they could not be traditionally bound. It is forbidden for a woman of my faith to marry a man who is not. But Allah in all his wisdom still brought them together. When they were discovered, she was cast out most terribly from her family. He brought her here, to a foreign land, to begin a new life and try to escape the shame that others had tried and failed to cast upon her. He cared for us, provided, but we could not be seen with him without fear of condemnation, and we could not go with him. We never wanted for anything—except, at times, his presence.”
Hasan gave one last gentle pat to her hand, continuing. “It is blasphemous, I know; it goes against our teachings and beliefs, but I accept their choices. I cherish them in my heart. I cannot help but think, it matters not who you love, but only the quality of such a love. And so what I wish to say to you is…a flower is no less beautiful because it does not bloom in the expected form. Because it lasts an hour, and not days.”
Etta nodded again, somehow managing to swallow against the tightness of her throat. It was what she needed to hear, that reassurance, the echo of her own thoughts. “He is very concerned about the judgment of others. I admire the courage of your parents—I can’t imagine how difficult it was.”
“His wish is your protection; it is a good thing,” he said. “I cannot find fault in it. But Abbi described to me what it was to travel, to see the fabric of life spread out before him. He said it was ‘possibility.’ It is said that there is time enough for every purpose, and so you must continue to believe that there is a time for you.”
“What if it’s already passed?” she asked.
He leaned forward, a small smile on his face. “Then perhaps you will find a way to make more time. Possibility, dear one. Possibility.”
THERE WAS AN EFFORTLESS BEAUTY TO THE CITY. ITS BONES WERE so ancient that one could just as easily imagine a Roman soldier passing through as one could a Crusader, or the brightly garbed Ottoman Janissaries who filled the city in their elaborate robes and tall, plumed hats. It was a crossroads of centuries.
Damascus gleamed white as a pearl, and seemed to fit together like a puzzle; the streets were curved, crooked, narrow, with the large exception of the aptly named Street Called Straight, which provided a firm backbone. Rooms hung out over the stone streets, some creating arches to pass under, all dripping with green plants and shade. At any point, it seemed as if they could turn off a street and escape into a second, hidden world inside of this one. The way the sunlight filtered through the city made her feel as though she were looking at the world through an old pane of glass.
Minarets of mosques stood proudly over homes and covered markets, peacefully sharing the sky with churches. The greatest of these, as Hasan explained, was the Great Mosque, built in the time of the Umayyad. It was the size of a palace, and some part of it always seemed to be visible, no matter where they stood inside the city’s walls.
In her era, Syria was in the midst of a civil war, one so destructive and burdened with death and despair that millions of refugees had been forced to flee from it. Even Damascus had not been spared. But it was comforting, in a way she hadn’t expected, to understand that the city had stood in one form or another for thousands of years. It had passed through the hands of any number of masters, had faced bloody revolts and subjugations—and it had survived.
“Come, come,” Hasan said, ushering them on. “There are Ironwood guardians who make this city their home. We must get to the souks and return home as quickly as we can.”
Etta walked on faster, searching the crowded streets and squares around them for any sign that they were being watched; beside her, Nicholas’s expression was grim as he kept a hand tucked into the folds of his entari, on a dagger of some kind.
Each souk was a covered market—a bazaar—that coincided with a different trade, each blooming with offerings. If Etta had thought that escaping from the sun for a short time would bring some relief from the heat, she was wrong—there were so many people walking the souks’ narrow lengths, admiring the fine cages and sweet chirping songbirds of the bird-sellers, testing the weight and strength of the armorers’ weapons, examining the copper wares for any flaws, that she was reminded of New York’s subways at rush hour.
Baskets hung like clouds from the ceiling, and when they passed the walls covered in lanterns—lanterns of every shape, every color of glass imaginable—she felt her feet shuffle to a stop.
The spice merchants and perfumers provided welcome relief from the less-than-savory smells of the city, especially the smells of those occupying it. Herself included. There was nothing quite like getting a lungful of a fruit vendor’s sour breath to remind you how many days had passed since you’d stopped trying to find a toothbrush.
The friendliness of the merchants and local people was unrivaled, and unlike anything she’d ever experienced. Nicholas, through Hasan, tried to negotia
te for skins to hold water, as well as less conspicuous clothing. Etta watched the other women around her and hoped she didn’t look as awkward as she felt, standing away from where the men were conducting their business. Nicholas had entrusted the satchel to her, including what gold was left after London. When she handed the sack to him to buy the dried fruit, he shoved it back into her hand and allowed Hasan to carefully count out his own money.
“We’ll give him the gold,” Nicholas murmured, stooping close to her ear. “But to use raw gold and unfamiliar coins so liberally would attract the wrong kind of attention.”
Hasan had clearly come up with some viable excuse for their presence. He negotiated in whispers, with laughter, and the occasional stern look, slowly filling their baskets and arms with necessities. While he and Nicholas examined and debated the merits of several different saddles, she was caught in the path of a roving textile merchant who practically flung his silk shawls at her, extolling their virtues in a language she had no chance of understanding.
Etta didn’t know what it was, exactly. Even as the sweet-faced man draped a beautiful length of gold brocade over her shoulder, following her as she turned, she suddenly had an eerie feeling, almost like a spider walking up the back of her neck. Etta glanced around, her eyes leaping from woman to man to merchant.
There were two bearded men in black robes nearby, at a mercantile stall with cloth stacked so high on crooked shelves that it actually brushed the ceiling. One had the darker skin of the people around them, but the other was clearly a Westerner, his complexion nearly as pale as her own. They weren’t looking at the material they’d picked up and draped over their hands. Their focus wasn’t on Hasan, and it wasn’t on Nicholas. It wasn’t even on her.
They were staring at the young woman standing a few feet behind Etta, tucked against a pillar, who was very clearly watching Hasan. A small section of her golden hair spilled out from beneath the white scarf she’d wrapped around her head. Etta pulled her veil fully aside to see her—to convince herself she hadn’t been conjured out of smoke and dust.
Etta must have made a sound, because the young woman spun toward her, and her own veil fell back far enough to reveal her face. The blue eyes that stared back at her matched her own.
But…how? Hasan had said she’d left days ago. Was she only just leaving now to hide the astrolabe? Or was she returning from stowing it away?
“Rose?” Etta said, voice catching on the name. That was her first mistake.
Running after her when she turned and bolted was Etta’s second.
It was easy to track her progress—they were the only ones pushing against the flow of people moving through the bazaar. Angry words rang out behind her, but Etta barely heard them over her wheezing breath and the slap of her soft-soled shoes against the ground. Her mom was fast.
Reaching out, Rose tore down a display of silver platters, sending dozens of them slamming to the ground, along with the tables they had been artfully arranged on. Etta stumbled, barely catching herself with a sharp gasp. Rose tossed a look back over her shoulder, and Etta had a full, perfect view of her twisted scowl as her own mother threw a small dagger right at her.
It missed Etta’s neck by less than an inch—and only because she had finally tripped, her shoe catching on something jutting out from one of the nearby booths.
“Rose!” she called. “Please, I just want to talk to you—”
The crowd scattered around them—a woman screamed in alarm—but Etta’s whole attention was fixed on that face, the way her expression had sharpened like the finest of the blades in the market.
“You can tell Henry or Cyrus or whoever the bloody hell you work for,” she said, her accent so clipped it was nearly unfamiliar, “that they’ll never find it.”
“You mean the astrolabe?” Etta asked. “I’m not trying to get in your way, I swear—”
A pair of hands lifted her off the ground, and the last thing she saw before her veil was dragged back across her face was Rose—her eyes wide, backing away.
“Let me go!” Etta said, disoriented. She was lifted off her feet and thrown over a shoulder. “Nicholas, stop, it’s her!”
But…she sucked in another breath, the veil sticking to her lips and tongue, blinded by the fabric and her own hair. That smell—Nicholas always smelled like the sea, like soap and cedar. And now, with arms crushing around her legs, keeping her in place, all she could smell was camel—animal.
They veered right just as someone let out another cry of alarm. Wood splintered against the ground, and there was the sound of something shattering a second before Etta heard the call to prayer sound over the city.
Etta’s back was suddenly drenched in heat, and the world burned a fiery red beneath her closed eyelids. Her hands were trapped beneath her, pinned to someone’s shoulders. She thrashed wildly, kicking, her screams muffled by the fabric around her.
I’m being taken—
Etta’s foot hit a soft spot that brought the man to his knees. She spilled out onto hot stone and had barely crawled to her hands and knees when a sharp kick to the head sent her back down. Dust and dirt filled her mouth, grinding between her teeth as she tried to crawl away. Black and white exploded across her vision, blocking the sight of her bleeding hand against the pale stone.
There was a howl of fury and a shift in the wind at her back. Etta fell forward again, but managed to get the veil away from her face. That’s when she saw Nicholas barreling shoulder-first into one of the men she’d seen before.
People gathered around, some beginning their prayers, others arrested by the sight of Nicholas throwing his fist into one man’s face as the other attacker jumped on his back. The second attacker’s hand disappeared into the folds of Nicholas’s robe and Etta heard Nicholas cry out as he threw his head back and knocked him off.
No one moved to help, not until Hasan burst out of the bazaar and began to shout for aid. By then, both of the men in black robes were on their feet; Etta didn’t see how they managed it, but they ran into the chaos they had created, chased off by the Janissaries.
“Etta—Etta!” Nicholas dropped to his knees in front of her, his lungs working like bellows. “Are you hurt?”
Before her thick tongue could form a response, he swayed, his eyes blinking as if in surprise. She reached out, one hand gripping his arm to steady him, the other going to his side—where a large, wet patch of violently crimson blood was spreading.
“No—” Etta choked out, “no, no! Nicholas!”
She couldn’t even catch him as he fell.
HE KNEW THAT HE WAS IN trouble when the wound did not pain him at all.
Fragments of the last few hours were scattered across his mind, the way the wind had toyed with the white petals dusting the open courtyard. Had that really been only a few hours ago? Impossible. It was dark now. Days might have passed, and he could not surface long enough from the depths of a terrible, gripping sleep to see for himself.
Soft voices carried on above him. Soft hands lifted the bandages at his side to inspect his wounds. Soft cloths mopped away the infernal sweat from his face. If there was one thing Nicholas had not been expecting, it was how soft a touch Death had for him. It seemed unfair, somehow, to not go out fighting. To be denied the chance to burn, to rail against it, to shout it down until his last breath left him. Wasn’t that his right? Or did it only feel so wrong because he had spent the whole of his life fighting so bloody hard? To go with a whisper…the thought seemed to sit upon his chest, making it harder and harder to breathe.
Perhaps he would think upon it some more, when he was not so tired.
Yes.
THE PLACE WHERE THEY HAD BROUGHT HIM SMELLED OF THE earth. There was a constant shuffle of quiet feet and voices around him. What he knew of their language was irrelevant; it was impossible to concentrate over the roaring of his own blood in his ears. A hospital, then? He forced his eyes open at the first touch of light on his lids.
Around him were walls as white and pa
le as a tomb, ornamented lavishly with carvings. Nicholas tried to focus long enough to see what was there. A thousand suns. A thousand flowers. The atmosphere was calm and peaceful. Even the water they sponged his face with was sweetly fragranced, strewn with flowers that reminded him of Etta. But, of course, what didn’t make him think of Etta now?
Though there were beds open beside him, he was alone in this stretch of the hallway, left to watch the water spilling over the room’s fountain, to watch the young men and women who came to fill their basins from it. He was lifted, made to drink tasteless broth. Nicholas might have told them that it was pointless—his throat was swollen and raw, like he’d swallowed the whole of the sun. He knew.
The wound had not killed him.
The fever would.
Despite his weak struggling, they kept him wrapped tightly in the bedding, trapped inside his own heat until there was little choice but to sweat and suffer. All of these people tending to him, and no one would help him.
Etta will.
Etta would. Holy God—he’d seen a man try to smash her skull against the stone, and the very last chain of his control had snapped. Was she all right? Where was she? And the date…how many days had passed? Would she know to go without him?
When his eyes slid shut again, it wasn’t her face that he saw, but Hall’s—the way he had looked when he’d crouched down in front of Nicholas, when the boy was barely as high as his hip, and told him that they were leaving. He’d offered his hand—big, so big and warm—and it had closed around his.
Hall…who would tell Hall what had become of him? And Chase? Perhaps one of them might seek out Ironwood, only to find that he had no definitive answers, either.
Lost. He would be known not by what he had accomplished, but for the manner of his demise. Most sailors knew to accept the word as final, with all of its deadly simplicity. But Hall and Chase were relentlessly optimistic. Would they be able to shoulder the burden of not knowing? Sold back into slavery, food for the sharks, rotting away in prison…there were endless ways for their minds to torture them, and none would even come close to the truth.