“One day they will name a plague for you,” he said.
“Hopefully a particularly nasty one,” she answered. “A girl can dream.”
“From the beginning, you treated me no better than a rat,” he continued, ignoring her smirk. “Do you want to know how Etta tolerated me? Because we were partners, because we trusted each other, and because she was capable of taking care of herself. You seem to have appointed yourself to the task of getting us both killed. And while you might consider yourself to be expendable, I need to confirm she survived your treachery.”
Nicholas braced himself for her inevitable snide comment, the smirking condescension she seemed to favor.
Instead, Sophia busied herself by removing her hat, unknotting the small scrap of leather she’d used to secure her short braid. Her hands worked through her hair, mussing the weave in silence. They fell in line with the men stumbling bleary- and beady-eyed out of the inns and taverns, the wreckage of the previous night’s frivolities. Some at least were making an attempt to tuck their shirts back into their breeches. Still, Nicholas shook his head. Captain Hall would have knocked each of them in turn off his ship if they’d reported back in such a state.
Hall. He’d sent word that he was alive and mostly well, but had yet to receive a response. And he likely would not until they returned to port. Nicholas didn’t resist the small echo of longing for the thought of boarding a ship and disappearing into the horizon—for the simplicity of that life, and how quickly it would welcome him back.
Someone began to whistle, a high, bawdy tavern tune that made the men around him chuckle. All at once, seemingly without him knowing, the port city had shaken off the night. Crimson coats dotted the streets, the prim uniforms and gleaming buttons only looking primmer in contrast to their surroundings. Wagons moaned and rattled with the weight of cargo being drawn up and down the path, coming or going, just like the residents of the island. The green palms and underbrush looked as if they had been painted by the sun, glowing with pleasure in the heat, the way they only did after a hearty storm. The old fort stood above it all like a four-pointed star to the west, high walls winking as the light glanced off its wet gray stones.
“Just go,” Sophia said, nodding toward the ships in the bay. “You want an out, you’ve got—two—three—four chances out there.”
“What are you on about?” he asked, batting away how bloody unnerving it was that she’d traced his line of thought. “Are you still drunk?”
“Only observant,” she sang.
“Whatever you think you know, I assure you, you do not.”
“I know you’ve wasted our time here. I know you don’t truly care about the astrolabe, just the first girl who turned her big blue doe eyes on you.”
“That’s not true,” he insisted. “And can a deer even have blue eyes?”
“Then what are we still doing here?” Sophia challenged, hands planted on her hips. “Are you hoping that if we wait long enough, the woman might find her daughter and bring her here to you? We don’t need information about the last common year. It’s irrelevant. If the Thorns have the astrolabe, they’re traveling with it, and finding them is our best bet for finding it. But you haven’t even considered that, have you?”
He was tired; so tired of the Ironwoods, of travelers, of all the meddling in the lives of innocent people and the hardship they suffered over the greed and demands of his kind. He was inclined to say Ironwood could take the blasted astrolabe to hell with him, if it weren’t for the damage he knew Ironwood could do to Nicholas’s own time.
“I made a promise,” was all he said.
“Promises are for saints and losers. Most of the time we can’t even keep the ones we make to ourselves.”
He gave her a sour look from beneath the brim of his hat. “You and I are entirely different people.”
“You don’t say!” Sophia scoffed. “At least be man enough to admit that what you really, truly want is to find Etta.”
More than my next heartbeat. But it was like swimming out to sea in the rain; no matter where he went, he could not avoid the cold drench of truth. Etta would want him to finish what they’d begun by finding the astrolabe.
And leave her to die?
His right hand curled at his side, and he could almost catch the memory of what it had felt like to have her hand tucked there.
And that was it. That calm certainty in knowing her as he knew himself. There was no point to any of this if Etta didn’t survive; the future didn’t belong to him, it had belonged to her, and had always been tied to her dreams. He wanted that success and celebration for her, the chance for her to resolve the unfinished yearnings in her heart. Everything good in this life was her or meant for her.
At the time, it had felt like an inevitability that they would collide, even in the face of such insurmountable odds. Each time something had blocked their path, it had only served to feed that necessity of staying together. Now and then, though, when he stared into the fire at night, or stole a moment to himself, a passing doubt caught him in its snare. They were both so very, very stubborn. So determined to strike back at the rules of life, the way their situation had confined him, that he worried they had only come together purely as an act of rebellion.
But then her face would find him, as fierce as the moment he’d first clapped eyes on her. When his hands were dry and chapped, he recalled the softness of her skin. When the world shivered at the approaching winter, he recalled the warmth of being beside her. When he felt the sneering judgment of the eyes around him, he recalled the invincibility she’d instilled in him with her belief.
And the doubts, they would recede as quietly as they came, leaving a peace as vast as the deep, dark ocean. Nicholas believed they could find that place she had spoken of, the time that was meant for the two of them. He had to believe that.
It was weeks since she’d been orphaned. If she had survived her wound and found help, as he hoped she had, Etta was strong enough to keep surviving and begin finding her way back to Damascus. Perhaps they’d meet each other halfway and continue what they’d begun, rewrite the rules of this life.
Sophia pressed on. “Go find her, sail off into your sunset, and leave me to…”
“To…?” he prompted when she did not continue, already knowing the answer. Leave me to find the astrolabe alone. Oh; he stifled the bitter laugh before it could emerge. She would cherish the opportunity to remove him from the playing field; to not have any obstruction between her and whatever she was planning.
Instead of answering, Sophia turned her gaze back out to the tents and stalls and argued, “What about Rose Linden’s promise to meet you here? Aren’t you sick of sitting here and twiddling your thumbs, waiting for Mummy to tell us what to do? If you want us to find Etta, if that will perk you up and get you back on the trail of finding the astrolabe, then we’ll start by looking for her. It’ll be a risk, knowing Grandfather could get to those Thorns first, but I guess we’ll have to take it. The price we pay for you being so revoltingly lovesick.”
He studied her carefully, frowning. Being compassionate was at odds with her natural disposition, and she was so entirely resistant to niceties that he couldn’t stop the trickle of suspicion inside him—that she was arguing this point for more than what she was letting him see.
“He doesn’t necessarily know what happened—” Nicholas started.
“Don’t be ridiculous. By now, he knows what’s happened. We have the small advantage of him being more interested in finding those Thorns than finding us, and we need to use it. So, ticktock. Let’s go.”
As loath as he was to concede it, she did have a point. Over the last few days, it had become clear to him that he was the only one willing to play this game with any decency, and he’d begun to wonder if decency was merely the trade of fools.
“Where do we begin to look for her?” Nicholas heard himself ask. “How do we go about ascertaining the last common year without turning to another traveler?”
&
nbsp; Any Ironwood or Ironwood ally would immediately report them to the old man for the reward. Without Rose’s information, searching for Etta would feel like a dead reckoning. He did not enjoy navigating a ship blindly, and the same could be said of his life.
“We go find Remus and Fitzhugh Jacaranda, like I’ve been telling you,” Sophia said. “Grandfather gave them the worst posting imaginable when they came crawling back into the fold after they betrayed him and joined the Thorns. I would bet anything there’s no love lost between them and Grandfather, and they might be willing to share what they know for a price. Or you can just tell them your tragic tale, let slip a manly, heroic tear.”
Pity. Wonderful. His patience finally slipped its leash. “If they have such a terrible, remote posting, who’s to say they’ll even have heard about the shift in the timeline?”
“If they haven’t heard anything, they’ll be able to point us to someone who might know. It won’t be a wasted trip either way.”
Nicholas released a harsh breath through his nose, considering this.
Sophia, possibly for the first time in her life, was being reasonable. They were losing time. He was bloody well tired of Rose’s games. If the Jacarandas could aid in making quick work of finding Etta, then that was the way forward. If they couldn’t help him, at least he could console himself with the knowledge that he was actually moving forward, that he’d broken out of the gaol of inaction in which Rose had locked him.
“All right,” he said, relenting. “We will try it your way, then. If nothing comes of searching for Etta, then…we’ll proceed with finding the astrolabe on our own. I promise you.”
Sophia rolled her eyes, moving ahead of him again. “Saints and losers, remember?”
And if Sophia truly was after the astrolabe for her own gain, as he was now doubly certain, then their weak truce would conclude and he would do anything in his power to keep it from her. Anything necessary.
“Being good on your word is a core tenet of honor,” he called.
“Honor.” She looked disgusted. “Good thing I don’t have much of the stuff left.”
NOON ARRIVED, BRINGING WITH IT A MISERABLE HEAT THAT sagged against him, and seemed unjust for October. They passed their walk back to the camp in blessed silence, Sophia stalking forward, Nicholas staying several steps behind, not just because he didn’t want to encourage any words between them, but because he knew that the white men and women they passed would expect it of a servant, a slave—Nicholas shook his head, rolled his shoulders back, as if he could fling it off. The charade sapped what little good mood he’d managed to eke out of the day. And an hour later, when they finally reached the deserted stretch of beach where they’d set up camp, the last lingering traces of goodwill between them evaporated altogether.
“Bloody hell!” Sophia snarled, and would have charged forward had Nicholas not gripped her by the collar of her tattered coat.
Their blankets had been carelessly thrown around, and the hammocks they’d stretched between palm trees had been dug up and left in tangled heaps. Their single cooking pot, the one he’d disguised among the lush greenery to collect rainwater, had been overturned, thereby catching nothing that they could boil and drink.
But it hadn’t been the storm that had turned the earth over and washed up what was left of their possessions for anyone to steal: it was a small figure sitting cross-legged in front of the rain-filled fire pit, eating the last few pieces of their jerky, playing with a light Sophia had insisted on bringing, despite the fact that it wouldn’t be invented until the next century.
“Drop that at once, sir!” Nicholas demanded.
The small man looked up, a piece of jerky dangling from his lips. His dark eyes were strikingly distinct. Two thick, dark brows were angled over them, as if someone had taken ink and thumbed the shapes across. A surprisingly delicate nose and high cheekbones were sunburned—the only flaw in otherwise clear, fair skin.
His mouth stretched into a shameless smile around the jerky clenched between his teeth. A weathered navy coat rustled as he brought a gloved hand up, fingers dancing in a little wave.
Thief.
IT WAS SEVERAL OUTRAGED MOMENTS before Nicholas was able to collect himself enough to speak. “What is your name, sir? And what business do you have with us?”
The man cocked his head to the side, studying him. After a moment he answered, his voice higher than Nicholas might have expected, speaking a language he’d never heard before. The grating laughter, however, did not need translation.
Sophia answered, barking out a string of words in that same language, wiping the gleaming humor from the thief’s face. Nicholas released the grip he’d maintained on her coat, and watched as Sophia lunged toward the small man. He rolled back off the fallen palm tree he’d been perched on, dancing away from her reach again and again.
After everything she’d imbibed last night, he suspected Sophia had a headache pounding like the drums of hell, so frankly, he didn’t blame her for reaching into her coat for her pistol and taking aim.
The small man froze. Nicholas caught a hint of gold tucked into his belt—a knife, perhaps? The ceasefire, at least, gave him a moment to assess the risk: the man wore the attire of an Englishman, but the loose fabric of his shirtsleeves and breeches had been rolled and tucked at the ends to account for his diminutive stature.
“Put the flintlock down, n shén,” the man said.
Sophia lunged toward him, snarling. In two fluid moves, the man had Sophia disarmed and on her knees on the ground, looking stunned.
She growled and, undeterred, rose just enough to try to knock the man’s feet out from under him. He simply leaped back out of the way.
Something in the man’s face shifted, a feminine softening that arrived with a flurry of delighted, girlish laughter. Sophia seemed to realize their mistake the precise moment Nicholas did, and cut off her next attack, stiffening.
Not a man.
A woman.
Nicholas cocked his head to the side, studying the thief again. He could see it now, of course; how blind and presumptuous he’d been, but the Three Crowns had been dark and his glimpse fleeting. The binding of linen wrapped around her chest peeked out from beneath the loose collar of her shirt.
Her focus shifted off Sophia’s face to meet his. “Remove your gaze, gŏu, or I will remove your eyes.”
“I know better than that,” he said, holding his own pistol steady. “I want the letter you stole.”
“Neither of your weapons are loaded,” the young woman said, flicking her fingers in their direction. “They are too light in your hands. Neither of you carry a powder flask. And…” She spared a glance around their pitiful campsite. “Could you afford such?”
“More than one way to use a gun,” Nicholas noted. “Would you like to discover how many?”
At that, a small smile curled her rosebud lips. “I suspect I know far more than you, bèn dàn.”
He tried to quell the tightening in his guts at the knifelike edge to her words.
“Who. Are. You,” Sophia managed to get out from between her gritted teeth.
The young woman removed her hat, dropping it to the sand with a look of disgust. She lifted her long black braid from where she had tucked it under her cloak, and then a heavy jade pendant, the length of one of Nicholas’s fingers. The image of the tree carved into it looked like an evergreen; it stood tall, arrow-like in shape. Its branches were not as full as several of the other family sigils, but still robust and proud.
Damn it all, he thought, feeling a weariness creep into him. And here he’d been hoping, however in vain, that the culprit would be a random thief, one without ties to their hidden world. Nicholas supposed he would never be so lucky.
“Hemlock…” he began.
“Did my grandfather send you?” Sophia interrupted.
The girl scowled. “I will never work for him. Not even if he were to offer a fair price for my services.”
A mercenary, then. He’d heard
stories about them from Hall—members of the Jacaranda and Hemlock families who had refused to bow to Ironwood once he seized control of their travelers and guardians and absorbed them into his own clan. They offered their services to any traveler or guardian who could pay them. He’d always wondered about the kinds of jobs they took, assuming they were mostly occupied with tracking down wayward family members or lost possessions, or maybe even quietly making small changes to history that wouldn’t result in the timeline shifting.
“Call me Li Min,” she said.
“I’ll call you Jackass if it suits me,” Sophia snapped. “Tell me what the hell you’re doing here before I take this knife and slice you from gullet to gut.”
Nicholas wondered briefly if it was his destiny to be surrounded by women possessing varying degrees of murderous intent.
The girl smiled. “This is no way to speak to one with whom you wish to do business.”
Sophia sucked in a sharp breath, filling the bellows of her chest to explode, but Nicholas was quicker on the draw. “We have no business with you beyond retrieving our letter. I don’t suppose you’ll be so kind as to offer any sort of explanation for why you took it? Who hired you to steal it?”
And why you are here, dangling it in front of us, if someone paid you to take it? Unless, of course, she was angling to dip into two different pots of profit, hoping he and Sophia would bribe her for a look.
“I never said I was hired,” Li Min said. “It is in my interest to know the business of the travelers I come across. Work is hard to find, you see, and occasionally I must look for it, rather than wait for it to come to me. Many Ironwoods have traveled here in recent months. But imagine my surprise to see a Linden guardian scuttling around the beaches like a little crab. And then you appeared to conduct your business….”
Unsure of whether or not he’d live to regret it, Nicholas lowered his pistol and returned it to its place at his side. Feeling steadier, he began to consider their situation in this new light.
“If you stole it to ransom it back to us, then you already know we have nothing with which to pay you,” he said, sweeping his arms out to indicate their sorry state of affairs.