Passenger

by Alexandra Bracken

  The grip of panic eased. “You swear you didn’t throw the earrings away?”

  “I was tempted,” Sophia said. “History wouldn’t have missed one ghastly pair of earrings. But—the pearls were real. I thought perhaps you might need them one day. To sell.”

  Etta pulled back in surprise. To sell?

  “Just go get the damned dress—undergarments, too. You’ll find everything you need wrapped in brown parchment,” Sophia said. “And hurry, will you? I have my next question.”

  Etta stood on stiff legs but stopped beside the door, listening. When she was satisfied no one was lingering nearby, she stepped out, ducking into an identical room. There was so little inside it—not even a desk—that she found the wooden trunk immediately and crouched in front of it. The heavy lid groaned as she heaved it up, and a lovely note of lavender rose with it.

  There were satchels of it here and there, tucked inside the blanket at the top, even inside the leather shoes she set aside. The brown parcel was tied with rough string, cushioned at the bottom by another layer of blanket. There was little else inside the trunk: a bottle of what smelled like rosewater, a brush, and—she released the breath that was burning her lungs, and picked up the small velvet bag.

  The earrings tumbled out onto her palm, and Etta lost it. The sob bubbled up from deep in her chest, ripping out of her so violently that her whole body shook. She pressed her forehead against her fist, felt the prick of the studs dig into her skin.

  She shouldn’t have left Sophia’s cabin. She couldn’t keep herself together without the pressure, the need to pretend. She didn’t have to be brave now, or calm. There was nothing to prove.

  Alice. Oh my God. Alice. She looked at her hands, as if expecting to see the traces of her instructor’s blood. They’d killed her to get to Etta—why hadn’t she stopped, listened to what Alice had tried to say to her in her mother’s office? Why had Alice tried to stop any of this?

  She needed to find a way to keep herself together, otherwise she was never going to get out of there. She was never going to find her way back to her own time.

  Breathe, duck. Count it out with me. Three beats in, and three beats out…

  Alice’s voice drifted between the fractured pieces of her thoughts. She sucked the damp air deep into her lungs, focused on the way they expanded, and released the air slowly, the way she’d been taught. It had been so long since she’d been in the chokehold of panic and nerves, she’d forgotten how easy it was to slip into their grasp.

  Close your eyes.

  Listen only to the music.

  Listen.

  She was listening now, to the sounds of men singing above, to the pulse throbbing fast and untamed in her ears. It was instinct to lift her hands the way she did, to mime the shape of a violin out of nothing but air and play herself back to evenness. She stopped as soon as she knew what she was doing.

  Etta breathed out heavily through her nose, rubbing a finger along the bridge.

  Mom wanted me to travel. Not like this, she was sure, but one day. She wanted me to know, to understand what I could do. For the first time in her life, Etta realized she had finally stumbled onto her mother’s secret heart—the core of who she was, why she guarded each and every memory of her past. Why she could close herself off so suddenly; why she drifted away into deep thought. In spite of everything else, Etta felt something inside her click into place. The icy knot their relationship had twisted into unraveled inside of her. She felt desperate with the need to find her, to make sure she was safe, to talk to her and really know her for the first time.

  But none of that answered the question of why Rose had kept this a secret in the first place. The only travel she did now was between countries, across oceans; Etta felt certain of that. So why had she disappeared, as Sophia had claimed? And how many of her stories were actually true, not invented to lull a restless little girl to sleep?

  I need to get back.

  She’d woken up on this ship to find that all of her carefully conditioned composure had flown away, and what she’d been left with was raw instinct and will. She’d felt wild and unhinged at the time, but she’d proven to herself, if no one else, that she was willing to fight. Protect herself. Now she needed to use every ounce of her drive to survive at all costs; to channel her unwillingness to crack under pressure, and form a plan to get home.

  Home…Her time. New York City.

  Etta stuffed her feet into the tight shoes and slipped the earrings back on, pausing only to make sure they were secure. The slight weight of them would be a reminder of home, her mom, Alice, the debut…

  Alice. Etta was a time traveler—could she get back to that moment when she’d fought with her mother and Alice? Could she use her ability to go back in time, leave the concert, and take Alice and her mother away with her?

  Could she save Alice?

  Etta had always known the direction her life was heading; she’d fought to stay on that path each and every time she picked up her violin. Her future was the stage, performances, recordings.…And yet, there had always been a tiny quake in the certainty of that vision. Opening the door even a crack into this was enough of a temptation for her imagination to rip it open and step inside. What would it be like, she wondered, to go wherever, whenever she wanted to?

  To stand in the heart of a long-dead empire.

  To cross continents and see the wonders of the world before they disappeared.

  To sit in the audience in Vienna’s Kärntnertortheater, listening to the debut of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.

  To beg a lesson from Bach in his years at Leipzig.

  To save Alice.

  What choice was there, other than to learn as much as she could, so she could get back to that moment in time? She had to put up with Sophia’s smirks; with the sickening thought that she might be staring into the face of her instructor’s murderer, or someone who’d had a direct hand in it.

  I can make it, Etta thought, bending to pick up the parcel. I can make it back.

  And she’d fight every step of the way if she had to.

  SOPHIA WAS SITTING ON THE EDGE OF THE BED WHEN ETTA stepped back inside.

  “Did you get lost?” she snapped, leaning her face over the bucket again. After the taste of fresh air, the smell of bile and vomit was enough to turn Etta’s own stomach. “How is it, exactly, that you are perfectly fine and I—”

  Etta turned away as Sophia heaved. She unwrapped the parcel, sliding the strings off, until she was left with a pile of linen, cotton, and silk. And something that looked suspiciously like a corset.

  “What do I do with all of this?”

  “Take off your soiled gown and see for yourself,” Sophia sniped. “Start with the shift—the flimsy thing that looks like a nightgown. Next the stockings, which you’ll need to secure with garters. And yes, you must wear them.”

  Someone had cut the front of her gown, and the corset-like garment beneath it, after pulling her out of the water. It was split nearly all the way down to where it met the dress’s skirt. It should have been easy enough to pull off, but the wet strings of the corset had become tangled and knotted when she’d pulled Nicholas’s jacket over her for cover. Once she had them loosened, it was easy enough to pull the pieces apart, drop them to the ground, and wiggle out of the remains of the sodden, bloodstained skirt.

  You can do this.

  Her mom’s words floated through her mind. Etta can handle this.

  She could. She would.

  “What question did you decide on?” Etta asked, reaching behind her. The underskirts were the main thing dragging her down; there were two thick layers of wool tied together, separate from the dress. They slid down her legs, smacking against the ground. She braced one hand against the coarse wooden paneling on the wall and stepped out of them and the stockings. She was left standing in what looked like a long, thin cotton nightgown—with nothing else beneath it. Her face burned as she glanced over at Sophia.

  “Change your shift and br
ing me the other stays. I’ll lace you up again,” Sophia said. “And again, yes, you need it. Twenty-first-century girls have no waists to speak of, apparently. The gown won’t fit correctly otherwise.”

  Etta scowled. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “I rather like the sound of that, thank you,” Sophia said. “No waist, but able to recognize her social betters. Perhaps I can work with you after all.”

  Etta rolled her eyes.

  For whatever modesty it would give her, she turned her back on Sophia and tugged the shift over her head, replacing it with the clean, dry one. She threaded her arms through the sleeves, smoothing the fabric down when it caught and twisted at her knees.

  Sophia stumbled ungracefully in the direction of her trunk. Etta caught a brief glimpse of more fabric before the other girl found what she was looking for—a long thin needle, carved from bone.

  “Slide your arms through the straps of the stays,” Sophia said. “These lace in the front, so you can do them yourself from now on.”

  “Great,” Etta muttered. “Can’t wait.”

  “Part of playing the part—of not being suspected—is dressing it,” Sophia reminded her.

  The needle, it turned out, was used for the stays’ laces. Etta could smell the leather as Sophia worked the needle through eyelets on either side of the opening. The fabric was stiff, and the boning bit into her skin as Sophia pulled, tightened, pulled, and tightened again. Etta’s posture changed, straightening, until she was sure she was at least three inches taller.

  “Leave the laces in when you undress, only loosen them,” she said, “and slide it off. You’ll want to dress quickly on a ship of men.”

  “O…kay,” Etta gasped out, tugging at the strings to loosen them. Sophia batted her hand away.

  “You’ve ruined the nicer of the three gowns I bought you,” she said. “But I suppose it hardly matters, seeing as we won’t be dining with the crew. Both of these are in the robe á l’anglaise fashion.”

  “Translation?” Etta slipped another wool underskirt up to her hips and almost fainted at the sudden, sweet warmth of it.

  “The bodices are closed, see? You won’t need a stomacher to cover the stays.” Sophia pressed the gown against her chest. “You forgot the stockings and garters. They’re easier to do without the bulk of petticoats.”

  Etta blew out a sigh as she picked up the silky strips of fabric, bent to pull one up over her right leg, secured it with a ribbon just above the knee, and started on the left side. Sophia knew a considerable amount about this—but she clearly wasn’t from the “rustic” eighteenth century.

  “How old are you, exactly?” Sophia asked, returning to the bed again. “That’s my next question.”

  “Seventeen,” Etta said, pulling the gown over her head. “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen,” Sophia said. “And a half.”

  Of course. Etta fought the pathetic urge to point out that she still had her beat—she was only a few months shy of turning eighteen.

  “Are you really good enough to play the violin professionally?”

  Etta’s fingers slipped against the ribbon that she was attempting to knot tightly enough to keep the stockings up, but loosely enough to keep blood flowing to her leg. She didn’t have to give her the whole truth. “I think so.”

  “And your father—your future husband—” A swell of a wave passing under them sent Sophia falling back onto the bed. Once she was down, she stayed there.

  “—your future husband,” Sophia ground out, her face squeezed tight against another burst of nausea. “They would allow you to work? Even after you had children?”

  Odd question. “Well, as I said, I don’t know who my father is,” Etta said. “But no one can or will tell me what to do with my life once I turn eighteen. At least, they can’t force a decision on me.”

  Sophia watched her, eyes glassy. “Is that true?”

  Etta knew what her next question should have been, but another one pressed itself onto her tongue. “What century are you from? I have two questions this round, by the way.”

  “I’m from every century,” Sophia said, with a dismissive wave. “My natural time, the year I was born, was 1910. Philadelphia. I haven’t been back then since…forever.”

  “Where is the other opening of the passage located—the one that leads to the Met?”

  Sophia burst out laughing. “As if I would ever tell you. As if it would actually matter if I did. Do you even know what ocean we’re on?” She seemed to realize her mistake a second later. “That wasn’t a question!”

  “Yes it was, and yes I do. It’s the Atlantic, isn’t it?” Etta didn’t need Sophia to respond to know she was right. “Is it—” She paused, trying to think of the right question. “How did we get on this ship?”

  “We came through the passage. You were unconscious. I changed you into era-appropriate clothing and we both traveled to the docks to board this ship. It was the only one leaving out of—out of that particular port that could make Grandfather’s requested arrival time. The issue was, this vessel was bound for England, so he hired that…that rat to capture it and bring it into port in New York, where he’s waiting for us.”

  Those were far more answers than Etta ever could have hoped for. Sophia must have been getting tired to let so much slip.

  “Can you wet this rag for me?” The other girl threw it. Etta caught it between two fingers, holding it out in front of her.

  “Sure,” she said, “and that was a question, by the way.”

  Sophia narrowed her eyes. “Damn you!”

  “Why was I brought here?” Etta interrupted. “Why did you have to come get me?”

  “Those are two different questions with two different answers,” Sophia said. “To the former, I don’t know. I’m not allowed to ask such things. To the latter, because I was told to.”

  “By who?”

  “That’s three, and a stupid one, seeing as I’ve already told you.”

  Etta swore. She had—Grandfather. Disgust coiled in her.

  The question was small, quiet when it finally emerged from Sophia’s pale lips. “When do women get the right to vote?”

  Etta blinked, surprised again. Of all the things she could have asked…“You have passages to different eras, right? Do you seriously not know?”

  “If you must know, before I was sent to fetch you, I hadn’t been granted the privilege of traveling past a certain year,” Sophia said irritably. “Answer the question, then—tell me if it’s true—if what the moving picture box said was right about a woman running for president.”

  Moving picture box…the television?

  This was getting more and more interesting. Sophia was a lot more curious than she’d originally given her credit for. She wasn’t digging into Etta’s past to find something to use against her—no, she’d wasted a question on this because she wanted to know the answer that badly.

  “Yes, one’s running, and with voting…maybe 1920?”

  “Nineteen twenty,” Sophia repeated. “Ten years.”

  Ten years from what—her birth year? Etta couldn’t believe the explanation she’d given; that Sophia hadn’t been given the “privilege” of traveling past a certain year. How could they stop her, when all the travelers had the whole of history at their fingertips?

  That thought sparked another one.

  “Can a traveler change history?” she asked.

  “It’s my turn,” Sophia groused. “But, yes. Travelers have been known to accidentally make small changes with their own oversight and stupidity. It’s quite easy to do if you’re not careful. In most cases, it doesn’t cause a big enough change to merit fixing. But changing something intentionally is against our rules and can result in years of being banned from traveling—or worse.”

  “I don’t see how a small change couldn’t turn into a big one,” Etta pointed out.

  “Sometimes it does, but sometimes nothing happens at all. It can be difficult to predict.” Sophia crossed he
r arms over her chest, closing her eyes. “The best way to explain this is to think of the timeline as a kind of…constant, roaring stream. Its path is set, but we create ripples by jumping in and out. Time corrects itself the best it can to keep later events consistent. But if a small change snowballs into a much larger one, or if a traveler’s actions are devastating enough, it can actually shift the flow of the timeline, thereby changing the shape of the future from that point on.”

  Etta leaned toward her. “What do you mean, the shape of the future?”

  “What is education like in your time?” Sophia countered. “The moving picture box in my hotel made me believe it’s common to attend with men.”

  “The television,” Etta corrected, and gave a very impatient rundown of the educational system in America.

  “All right, it’s like this,” Sophia said. “Big alterations, most of the time, take throwing an ungodly amount of money around and befriending the right, powerful people. Grandfather has done it a few times, of course, to secure our fortune and bring the other families in line.”

  “What?” Etta thundered. Her timeline wasn’t the true timeline—her future was the one the old man had decided on?

  “It’s either a coordinated effort by multiple travelers, or the incredible luck of finding a linchpin moment in the timeline. Things like wars are harder, since they have so many moving pieces and it’s like trying to hold back a tidal wave, but it is possible. It’s far easier to change a city’s skyline, create or ruin a company, back and fund laws that suit our business interests. Grandfather might have caused a few stock market crashes to ruin the fortunes of the other families, for instance, and those might have spiraled into something more, ah, historic.”

  Historic? What qualified as “historic”—the Great Depression?

  “Again, it’s not in practice anymore,” Sophia continued. “We protect our timeline.”

  Your fortune and power, you mean, Etta thought. She was right—this family was ruthless, and she’d never been so grateful not to share blood with anyone in her life.