“How, if their lives were prolonged?” Sophia asked.
“Their lives were prolonged and they aged and aged and aged, but only so long as they were not unnaturally interrupted by, say, foul murder,” Remus said. “Though our bloodlines have been diluted, and we no longer live beyond the normal years of men, some small spark of the astrolabe remains, allowing us to travel.”
Nicholas shook his head. The talk of alchemy, this kind of immortality outside of heaven, was almost too heathen to believe.
And yet…he thought again grimly.
There was a kernel of pure, primal truth in Remus’s tale—fear, even more so than greed, was a powerful motivator, especially when coupled with the determination to survive. However the story may have been embellished, there was some validity to it.
“The daughter fell to history’s mercy, and no record of her remains, other than that her elder brother stole her astrolabe and used it in some unnatural way. The record is unclear, only that the copies disappeared. There is only one left now—the master astrolabe—and, if Cyrus’s wild beliefs are true, the eldest son still hunts for it.”
“I thought each of the four families had their own astrolabe?” Nicholas said. The Lindens, then, had held the master copy in their family for generations.
“Perhaps they possessed them for a time, but all were stolen back. The eldest son has quite the force behind him—travelers taken from their families, who have had their lives stolen and shaped to serve only him. For lack of a better, proper term, they were noted only as Shadows in our histories.” Nicholas’s mouth tightened at that, a small flinch that Remus caught. The old man chuckled before he continued. “I can sense the disbelief in you both. I realize how it all sounds, of course.”
“Like bullshit you’re trying to sell us,” Sophia snarled.
“There are things in our forgotten history that are so ancient, one must search for the few clues embedded in our lore, our shared nightmares. Generations ago, the old records vault was burned in what was said to be the fault of a single candle, and now, so little proof remains of the alchemist and the Shadows that many travelers simply refuse to believe in their existence. Missing children are explained away as having been orphaned by the timeline, or that they simply wandered off into passages, never to be seen again. The mind can dream up any number of explanations for dark things, of course.”
Nicholas shook his head, rubbing at his eyes once more. “What is the role these Shadows play, then?”
“It is said they work on behalf of the alchemist’s surviving son, carrying out his wishes and stealing traveler children to continue a cycle of service to him and his mission to find the master astrolabe,” Remus said, as if this were not absurd. “Though their story itself has been lost, and fewer and fewer children are lost, the fear is still taught to traveler children to this very day, however unwittingly. Tell me, girl, that you don’t recall the old song: From the shadows they come, to give you a fright…”
Sophia surprised Nicholas by easily finishing the rhyme. “From the shadows they come, to steal you this night.” She looked unimpressed, to say the least. “You don’t need to shill bad poetry.”
“Finish it, girl,” Remus said. “How does the rhyme end?”
She gazed at the man in defiance, but softly sang, “Mind the hour, mind the date…and find that path which does not run straight.”
“These Shadows are the ones who hunt you now,” Remus said. “The shadows of his glorious sun. They will stop at nothing to prevent you from taking possession of the astrolabe, should you find it. Your paths have crossed, unfortunately, and now there is no way to disentangle them.”
“Is there really nothing to be done about it?” Nicholas asked. “You read nothing else about their methods in your time as a record-keeper?”
The old man shrugged the question away as he stood and went back to the hearth, this time for his own meal. In the silence that followed, he was absorbed in the simple, hypnotic task of stirring, and stirring, and stirring. A spark of instinct began to tug at Nicholas’s ear, begging an audience.
Sophia, in deep contemplation of this information, pressed her face into her hands, breathing deeply. But Nicholas felt too anxious to remain seated, too full of absurd stories to sit idly by. He began to do laps around the cramped room, stopping occasionally to study a small piece of decorative tile, a bust, small wooden boxes. One of which yielded a solid, rectangular object wrapped in burlap: a harmonica.
It was one of those painful moments when need was at odds with morality. His fingers ran over the cool, shining surface, and he leaned over, far enough to see the reflection of his haggard face. He’d stolen as a child—scraps of food, affection, his own freedom for a time—and the thought of doing so now stirred a poisonous self-loathing inside of him. Nicholas shut the box and turned to the spot where Fitzhugh Jacaranda ground his medicines and did whatever it was physicians or ship surgeons or healers did when they weren’t pulling rotten teeth or sawing off limbs.
Below the wooden bench, tucked nearly out of sight, was a stiff, cylindrical leather bag with a long strap, its drawstring opening just wide enough to look into. Glancing back to ensure the man was busy with the pot on the hearth, he nudged it open the rest of the way with his toe. It was filled to the brim, nearly spilling over with sachets, neatly wound bandages, and those same small vials he saw on the table. Beneath that was a layer of tools, primed and ready for use.
That nagging feeling was back, until realization lit Nicholas’s mind like a blast of gunpowder, blowing him back off his feet. Studying the man out of the corner of his eye, he forced his voice to remain even, and took a deep breath before asking, “Why, if Fitzhugh is making his rounds as a healer, has he left his bag here?”
Remus stopped stirring, his shoulders bunching up as he froze in place. Nicholas’s heart made the dive from his chest to the very pit of his stomach, and his hand came to rest on the hilt of his sword.
In the breath of silence that passed between them, Remus reached for one of the nearby knives, his hand shaking as it closed around the hilt and he brandished it.
“Don’t run. You’ll only make it worse for yourself,” Remus said. “And you won’t get far at all.”
ETTA WAS MISTAKEN IN ASSUMING the “Small Dining Room” would bear some sort of resemblance to the simple dining room you’d find in any house—slightly worn furniture, a floor scuffed by chairs and feet, a few personal touches here and there. Instead, it was a miniature version of the grander rooms they’d passed on the way in, with one chandelier instead of five, six, or seven.
There was almost too much to absorb at once—Etta saw her stunned reflection in the mirror that hung over the small fireplace, just past the gold clock and candelabras artfully arranged on the mantel.
Etta was led to a seat two over from the tsar, beside Henry, who sat at his right. Winifred, preening, sat to the tsar’s left, and beside her was Jenkins, who seemed as much at a loss as Etta over what to do with himself. Missing were the other Thorn bodyguard and Julian, who, despite being invited to the palace, was not welcome in the tsar’s company. She thought that wise, given the havoc his grandfather had brought to this side of the world in the other timeline.
A footman pulled out her yellow-silk-covered chair for her, guiding it back in once she’d settled into place. Now that she was sitting, the arrangement of the table seemed egalitarian—the tsar could easily look at and speak to everyone around him. It did have the trappings of some kind of a family dinner in that way, at least.
And then, the elaborate dance that was their meal began. Soup was spooned into Etta’s bowl, and small meat pies were placed on one of the plates. Etta’s eyes slid over to Henry, watching him watch the tsar. Once he began eating, so did Henry, and, for that matter, so did Etta. With gusto. She’d had a bit of bread in San Francisco, and a little fruit at the hotel where they’d changed, but nothing as filling as the rich, creamy soup, or as warm as the meat pies.
“Tell me,
” Henry said into the silence, “how does your wife fare, Your Imperial Majesty? She was unwell during my last visit, and I regret I wasn’t able to see her.”
“She’s much improved, thank you,” the tsar said. “She is enjoying life outside of Petrograd, and it gives me pleasure to see her so content.”
“Indeed,” Henry said. “I’m glad to hear it.”
As he finished his course, Henry set his cutlery on the plate and his hands in his lap. Within seconds, one of the waiters was there to clear. Winifred did the same, and like magic—or at least a well-rehearsed stage production—another waiter swept in.
Etta did the same, and was still surprised by the speed at which her bowl and small plate were taken, and by the sudden realization that each diner had his or her own waiter to serve them. The tsar’s, even more surprisingly, was an older gentleman, who seemed to bow beneath the weight of his heavy tray. Etta watched in sympathy as the tsar subtly helped steady the waiter’s trembling arm when he refilled his wineglass.
Winifred’s and Jenkins’s waiters exchanged a glance over the table at the sight, young and robust compared to Etta’s own waiter, who looked as if he was on the verge of being ill. He was pale-faced and sweating profusely at the brow as he carried another tray out.
The next course was fish, Dviena sterlet in champagne sauce, for which Winifred went into such overblown raptures that Etta felt embarrassed to be sitting at the same table as her. Next came chicken in a richly flavored sauce she couldn’t identify, and, because that wasn’t enough meat, a course of ham. Each was served with a different kind of wine; there was so much of it that Winifred looked ready for a nap, and Etta herself had to switch to mineral water to keep from sliding out of her chair.
Some pirate, she thought. Can’t even handle a few glasses of wine.
Etta was still picking at her ham when the tsar finished his plate. Another apparent rule: when the tsar was finished, so were you, regardless of whether or not you were still eating. Etta lost her plate with the fork still in her mouth.
“Peach compote, my favorite!” Winifred crooned as the next batch of small plates was brought out. Jellies, ice cream, compotes—Etta was afraid that if she ate even one more bite she might be sick. Her waiter might actually have been sick. His hands shook as he set the last of the plates down in front of her, shook so badly that the porcelain clattered against the table. Etta could have sworn she felt a drop of sweat hit her bare neck. She turned toward Henry, to find his narrowed eyes already tracking the progress of Etta’s waiter as he made his way back around the table. Etta felt a jump in her pulse like a staccato note.
“I remembered as much,” the tsar said. “I’m sure they had quite the time finding peaches during this season, but it’s worth it to see the smile on your face.”
Etta’s waiter had left the room at last, and a new waiter swept in, moving to the sideboard. He lifted a wine bottle out of an ice bucket. It looked no different than any of the others, with the tsar’s monogram and the imperial insignia, but as he turned back to the table, he held it by its neck, not its base.
“You are too kind,” Winifred said. “I’m sure it was—”
Jenkins lurched up out of his seat. “Iron—”
One minute Etta was seated; the next she was falling back, knocked over by the force of Henry’s arm as it smashed across her chest. In the sliver of an instant before she hit the ground, she saw the waiter raise the bottle of wine and send it sailing down onto the table, between the tsar and Winifred. Just before the glass shattered, two words tore from the man’s throat.
“Za Revolyutziu!”
The whole of Henry’s weight drove into her, knocking the breath from her as he covered her. The walls and ceiling above her seemed to run with colors, as if washed with rain. Time trembled, thundering with the force of the oncoming change. And with an eardrum-piercing roar, the air exploded into a tidal wave of fire, and the floor disappeared beneath them.
THE FIRELIGHT CAUGHT THE LONG blade of Remus Jacaranda’s knife as he held it between them, but the man’s face was in shadow. The only sound in the room beyond the popping fire was Nicholas’s harsh breathing.
Finally Remus said, his voice small and quaking, “You have to understand….There is nowhere we can go….This is the only way.”
“The only way to what?” Nicholas demanded. His eyes slid over to Sophia, who was still sitting at the table, her head in her hands. He hissed at her, “Get up, will you?”
“To survive. None of us can survive without Cyrus’s protection, without kin or kindness. There is nowhere we can go that he will not find us, that the Thorns will not try to kill us for betraying them, too. We need him. I need him to trust me again—”
“Sophia,” Nicholas hissed. “We’re leaving.”
“It’s a sign of how much he wants you,” Remus said, trying to straighten his hunched shoulders, “that a runner came even to us to promise a bounty. This is our way back to his good graces.”
“All of those things you said before, about being free, escaping him—why can’t that be true? Why not leave with us now?”
“It will not work, it will not work….” The weakness, that pathetic quality to the old man, had made Nicholas dismiss the threat of him so easily, knowing he could be overpowered with ease. Twice now, he’d been tricked. Hatred scorched his heart. There truly was no end to the villainy travelers possessed. Each was more self-serving than the next.
“So Fitzhugh has gone to bring back the cavalry, has he?”
Damn his eyes. He and Sophia wouldn’t make it back to the passage in the water, but he might be able to find the other one the man had spoken of, if she would just—
Nicholas turned toward her at the sound of the first, retching gasp. Sophia jerked back from the table with a rattling cough, her hands seeming to spasm against the wood.
“What’s the matter?” Nicholas asked her. “Sophia?”
“Can’t—” she gasped out, “can’t feel—legs—”
Nicholas spun toward the man, drawing his sword so quickly, it sang as it sliced the air. “What have you done?”
Remus smiled, backlit by the hearth.
“Did you know,” he began, his voice brittle, “that the clans of the families united under the names of trees because they thought it was a clever way of symbolizing their reach into the future, and their roots winding deep into the past? Ironwood, Jacaranda, Linden…I’ve always thought that the Hemlocks picked their name not for the tree, however, but for the flowering plant.”
“You—” Sophia choked out.
Nicholas stilled, hollowed by his words. The flowering plant. But then, that was…
Holy God.
“That’s right,” Remus said, smiling. “The Hemlocks are poison itself, and they inflict their terror in the same manner as the tea you drank. They identify what it is you desire, lure you in with promises of trust and respect, only to trick you into doing their bidding, into believing their lies about the timeline.”
Sophia turned to Nicholas, her face etched with naked terror. That alone set his blood to boiling. For someone so unacquainted with fear to have that expression—he was sure it would be seared on his memory forever. Both hands were clawing at the muscles of her legs, as if trying to work the feeling back into them by force.
“You won’t be able to return now, will you?” Remus sneered at her. “I’ve put myself beyond your reach, and you matter so little to this world that the timeline has not even shifted to account for your impending death.”
Nicholas came down on the man like a thunderbolt, forcing him up against the hearth, close enough for his tunic to smolder and for the stench of burned hair to pierce the air. Remus’s smile faltered, his eyes flaring.
“You didn’t…”
“Drink your nasty concoction?” Nicholas sneered. “No, I did not, sir.”
Remus slashed wildly with his knife, catching Nicholas across the back of his sword hand and nicking his jaw. He slammed the man against th
e wall, hard enough this time to knock the breath from his lungs and the knife from his fingers. It clattered to the ground, and Nicholas kicked it into the hearth.
The old man’s face scrunched up mockingly, as if daring Nicholas to push him into the flames as well. Nicholas’s hand knotted in the front of the man’s tunic, giving him a warning shake. “Is there an antidote? Tell me, damn you!”
The bulk of his fury wasn’t even directed at Remus Jacaranda—Nicholas could have punched himself for missing the signals, the clues. Even when he’d noticed the other man stalling, he hadn’t pinned any sort of purpose to it.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Remus said, eyes sliding over to Sophia, who was twisting around on the ground, struggling to rise onto her feet. “You were fools to come here—”
Nicholas smashed the hilt of the sword against the man’s temple, knocking him clear into unconsciousness. He barely managed to keep his grip on him, yanking him forward out of the flames and letting his prone form slam to the ground.
The fool you are, Nicholas thought, if you think for one second that Ironwood will ever show you mercy.
“Nic—Cart—”
He spun back toward Sophia, kneeling beside her. Her hand lashed out; he caught it, giving what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze. What did he know about hemlock, other than that it had killed Socrates? “Do you know any sort of antidote?”
Her face was distorted by pain and panic, but she still managed to give him an incredulous look.
Damn. Who would know how to help her? They couldn’t stay here in Carthage; they didn’t speak the language, they didn’t know how to find another physician, and it would be too easy for them to be tracked.
A crack of thunder cut through the clear morning sky; Nicholas jerked at the drumming beat that muffled the crackling pops of the fire, rivaling the sound of the Romans hammering out in the harbor. The other passage.
No time, he thought, no time—
He dove toward the ground, scooping up his possessions and stuffing them into Sophia’s bag, looping it over his shoulder. He turned back to see her struggling to compose her face and failing.