He wouldn’t be silent again.
“Miss Spencer is my passenger. I’m honor-bound to ensure her safety.”
“You’re honor-bound to me,” Cyrus reminded him, “and me alone.”
“I answer to no one but myself,” Nicholas said sharply.
This man would not take him in again. A snake could shed its skin, but never change its colors.
The old man studied him, resting his hands on his knees.
“When I heard the rumors that you possessed our ability—when I tracked you and Hall to the docks all those years ago—do you know what my first thought was upon seeing you?”
Nicholas stiffened.
“I thought you had the bearing of an Ironwood, for all that you were a knob-kneed stick of a thing. I was impressed by how quickly you agreed to be trained and work beside Julian.”
It was the greatest shame of Nicholas’s life that he had given in to the wonder of what Ironwood had offered. Adventure beyond reckoning. Status beyond imagination. And…“You promised me compensation, and information on who had purchased my mother,” he said flatly. “You provided neither in the end.”
Four years of his life, wasted. And when he’d been exiled to this—his natural time—as punishment for failing Cyrus and allowing Julian to die, he’d been cut to the bone with a second blow. By the time he’d discovered what had become of her on his own, his mother had died of fever—alone, among strangers—as he and Julian had merrily drunk themselves into a stupor in 1921 New Orleans, chasing another fruitless lead for the astrolabe.
The lingering call of the passage filled the silence between them, a low murmur beneath the fire’s snaps and pops.
“I warn you,” Nicholas said, “if you attempt to do the same to me now—deny me that which I’ve earned for bringing the ladies here—I’ll kill you where you stand, and gladly be hanged for it.”
Cyrus gave him an approving look that did little more than make his guts roll.
“Your job is not yet finished, Samuel,” he said.
“My name is Nicholas.” It was the name he’d chosen for himself as a child when the Halls had presented him with the opportunity to redraft his life into something of his own making. It was a name the old man had refused to use, even when he’d brought Nicholas back into the family years ago to serve Julian. Nicholas, the patron saint of sailors, repentant thieves, children—all of the things he was and could be. The name made him feel more than protected. It made him feel like he could be a protector.
Naturally, the Ironwoods saw it as yet another way that he had failed.
Cyrus inclined his head. “You’ve pleased me thus far. I would like to raise the stakes some, if you are amenable?”
Something about the words caught him, held him in place for an instant, before he managed to shake himself free.
“Our business is concluded,” Nicholas said firmly. “I will meet with your man of business downstairs.”
And figure out a way to untangle Etta from this.
“That sum is hardly enough for you to buy your own ship,” Cyrus said. “Oh, yes, I am well aware of the reason you accepted this task. There’s no need for surprise. I am pleased with your vision. Your acumen. You remind me of myself.”
Nicholas felt as though he’d overturned a bucket of boiling tar on his head. “I assure you—you and I are nothing alike.”
Cyrus waved his hand again. “You’re entirely right. I cannot send the child alone. Not only is she likely to give herself away and be killed, she is her mother’s daughter. Wily and cunning—I looked into her eyes and saw Rose Linden staring back. I won’t be taken for a fool twice.”
Nicholas wondered if he’d also seen the flicker of recognition in Etta’s eyes as the girl had looked over the letter. He’d sensed the rebellion rising in her, even as she’d agreed.
“In addition to the original settlement, I will relinquish total control of my plantation holdings to you in this era, to do with as you please,” Cyrus said. “Free the slaves, sell the land, or continue it as it stands. You’ll fund not just a single ship, but a whole fleet of them.”
Nicholas’s whole body went tight, but he couldn’t identify the source of the feeling. Was it hope or terror?
“Why would you do such a thing? Sophia said that you had decided to stay in this era—that you were looking to purchase property,” he said. The Ironwoods earned income from several centuries, made investments, owned shares in lucrative companies. He knew this was merely a drop in the ocean of their wealth, but it came too freely offered. There would be shackles attached.
“Sophia is not privy to my thoughts. I have no desire to stay in this era beyond waiting for the astrolabe to be brought back to me,” Cyrus said, surprising him with an actual explanation.
Nicholas hesitated a moment before nodding for him to continue.
“In exchange for what I’ve offered, you will accompany the girl on her search. That girl has too much of her mother in her. She will try to abscond with it at some point. I will need you to ensure that she doesn’t reveal herself as a traveler, or meddle with the timeline, and see that the astrolabe is returned to me—all without revealing my conditions to the girl. Should she become aware of our agreement, our contract will be destroyed, and I personally guarantee that you will never set foot on a dock again. Not in America, not in Europe, not in the Indies.”
Nicholas felt the cold sweat collect along his spine, and tried to tamp down his desperate longing. He could picture being on the other side of this so clearly, and was struck by the profound power of finally being in the position to free the family’s slaves, of finally being granted reparations. This offer would open the door to nearly everything he desired. Money was power; he could demand respect, and spite those who would not freely give it.
But he could not help seeing Julian’s face. He could not banish the searing agony of that moment as it played out again behind his eyes. Yet again, he was being cast in the role of servant, put in a position to fail. Yet again, he owed something to someone who—
Julian’s face was gone, replaced by Etta’s, pale with terror. The image seared his heart.
Not again. He could not survive it.
“I realize, of course, that you are not a blank slate,” the old man continued. “You will need to ingratiate yourself to her, earn her trust wholly, so she confides in you about the location of the astrolabe once she has ascertained its location. If you are separated from her, you will return to me immediately and we will proceed accordingly.”
And leave her alone, to be lost, harmed, or taken, as she continued on without him in the meantime? The thought pricked his pride, stoked his fear.
Nicholas had promised her protection, vowed to get her away from Ironwood should the need arise; there was no question now that her life was in danger. But…perhaps he could reconcile his hopes with that promise. Keeping Etta safe meant not only shielding her from harm, but also preventing her from crossing Ironwood. Once they found the blasted thing, he could be the one to ensure the old man kept his vow. Nicholas could deliver her back to the passage in Nassau, wherever it might be.
What else was there to do? Give up the future within his reach for someone who, in time, would only be a memory? He had lived nearly his whole life for others—wasn’t it time to live for himself, secure his future?
He owed it to himself. What’s more…he owed it to Julian to finish what they’d begun, so his death wouldn’t be for nothing.
I am the one who truly owes a debt to them—not her. He’d stolen Julian. He could give the old man this, and then he’d never need to see his wicked face again.
Cyrus watched him carefully. “I see the indecision on your face,” he continued. “If it makes the offer more palatable, I will lift the ban on your traveling. Your exile here in your natural time will end. You will be free to go wherever, whenever, you like.”
Nicholas recoiled instinctively, but caught himself. “My exile is payment for the debt I owe for Julian’s
life. I have no desire to return to traveling.”
It was the truth, and it made him uneasy that the man had even offered. Ironwood had raged when he’d returned, weak and wounded and without Julian, and he’d understood his fury; felt, even now, that he deserved it. Not for depriving the man of his last direct heir, but for depriving the world of the only decent soul in the family. Now all would be forgiven, as if it were nothing? As if Julian were nothing?
Nicholas had all but toasted the news that the man who had fathered him had drowned before Cyrus could come to find him; but he’d languished for years now over Julian’s death, battering himself at every turn. He tortured himself with that one question: why travel at all if nothing could be changed? Why travel if he could not save Julian, if he could not so much as warn himself not to go down that path—to stay away from Ironwood? The futility was devastating, and always would be.
Nicholas had worked hard to earn back the trust of Chase and Hall after abandoning them for false promises and hollow revelations. Hall had done everything in his power to dissuade him from leaving with Ironwood, and Nicholas had waved away his every concern like a fool.
“Why the thirtieth?” he asked again. “What is so important about that date?”
“It is merely a deadline,” Cyrus said, “to hold the girl accountable.”
The old man never did anything without a reason. There was something important here that he was withholding, but the man’s chosen currency was secrets. Nicholas wasn’t sure he was willing to trade to find out what this one was.
“Say yes, Nicholas,” Cyrus coaxed, holding out a hand.
Did it matter so much? Nicholas saw the future he’d built during all of these years, and it was resting in the old man’s calloused palm. He only had to agree. A few words to seal that fate…
Perhaps they were more alike than he’d care to admit.
“I need this in writing—a proper contract,” Nicholas heard himself say.
The old man’s eyes lit up. “I’ve already taken care of it. There’s a copy for you to keep.”
The contract was waiting in his trunk, along with a ballpoint pen for signing. It had been so long since Nicholas had used one of them, the weight felt unfamiliar in his hands as he brought the metal tip to the parchment. He felt sick to his stomach reading through the terms. The old man had known he’d be weak enough to give in—should he have put up more of a fight? Were there better terms to be had?
“Good man,” Cyrus said, taking one copy and folding it neatly into thirds, and held out his hand. Nicholas gave it a brief, firm shake, and felt the burn of it as if he’d taken the devil’s hand, still warm from the fires of hell. Cyrus continued. “You’ll leave tomorrow with the girl, just as soon as she has deciphered the next clue.”
Nicholas nodded, a stone lodged in his throat.
Forgive me, Mother, he thought, taking his leave as quickly as possible. I will do what I must.
He was not doing this to take up the Ironwood name, to stay within a family that had never wanted him in the first place. He was not doing this to take up the life of a traveler again, or to see beyond the horizon of his natural years. He was not doing this for a girl who would never truly belong to him. He was doing this for his future. For Julian’s memory.
He would master his feelings.
He would see this arrangement through.
And he would close this chapter once and for all.
NICHOLAS WALKED.
For miles, heading nowhere in particular, he walked for what felt like hours, trying to force his legs to grow reacquainted with the steadiness of land. He carried only his freedom papers in his coat pocket and the money Ironwood’s man had provided for bringing Sophia and Etta to New York—neither of which he was foolish enough to leave behind at the tavern. He passed the time under an unusually cloudless sky, as night edged into the earliest morning hours and the world slowly began to lighten around him. And when those thoughts wove into a long, dangerous rumination on the color of Etta’s eyes in comparison to that same faint blue, he turned his mind back to another unwelcome task: mentally composing his letter to Chase. Dear friend, you were right. I’ll be very late seemed too short, and would give his friend far too much to crow about; but I must venture through time with the pirate queen would be met with confusion, and fear for Nicholas’s mind.
I’ve further business to attend to here in New York. I’ll be in New London by the start of November. That was better.
He felt a pang at the thought of the others sailing without him. But you’ll be sailing on your own ship soon enough, he thought. What would Hall think of him, knowing he’d thrown in his lot with Ironwood again? Nicholas couldn’t imagine better business partners than Chase and Hall—perhaps they would come to see reason once they took a look at the plantations’ ledgers?
The road rose and fell beneath him, riddled with puddles of stale, festering water and sun-roasted mounds of animal droppings, as he passed fields of crops and country homes. It remained empty as he turned back in the direction of the Dove and the Royal Artillery Park.
He knew a hanging would take place within hours. A spy had been caught behind enemy lines, and this was the natural outcome; it was a testament to how rattled he was by Ironwood that he felt the old, foolish guilt come creeping into his heart. A man was set to die, and none of them had done a thing to stop it. If he knew them at all, both Cyrus and Sophia would take in the execution as spectators, and add it to the tally of noteworthy events they’d witnessed.
If Nicholas had not looked up from the mud, he might have missed the distant, dark streak that crossed the road as it blazed a path toward the Royal Artillery Park. A swirl of sapphire fabric, long gold hair braided like a rope down her back—
He took off at a run, cursing. Veering off the road, he followed the tracks that led into a cluster of nearby trees, behind what must have been the officers’ quarters. The air smelled of wet animals, gunpowder, men—all evidence of the camp nearby.
“Miss Spencer!” he hissed into the silence. The river rose up before him, a glimmering line of blue waiting to be lit by the sun. Where had she gone? Had it been a trick of the mind?
No—he found the trail of footprints again. Ironwood had been right after all; Etta was attempting to trick him, in this case by leaving under the cover of night without his knowledge. No doubt in possession of the actual meaning of her mother’s letter as well.
As he pushed forward, a crackle of power snapped against his skin. He knew that sensation. The passage was no longer singing in his ears, but there was a powerful hum below the quiet chatter of birds: a faint burning hiss that reminded him of the moment after a flash of lightning appeared over the sea. Of the rare white-blue lights that sometimes danced upon the masts and sails.
The entrance to the passage was a glimmering wall ahead, just at the edge of where the land met the river. It was still rippling, as if someone had only just passed through it.
“Bloody fool,” he breathed out, rubbing a hand over his head to force down the fear. For a moment, he was at a loss as to how to proceed. There wasn’t time to go back to the tavern to collect the rest of his belongings. She could fully escape, or, worse, be injured or killed in the time it took him to return to the Dove and tell Ironwood what had happened.
Nicholas shook his head. The old man had given him explicit instructions to gain the girl’s trust and return with the astrolabe by any means, both of which seemed impossible if he were to fetch her back. She would doubt his motivations when he needed her full confidence. And he couldn’t predict what punishment Ironwood might levy on her, her mother, or both, for this.
He had signed Ironwood’s contract, and both he and Ironwood knew his punishment for failure; Nicholas would have to trust that the old man would recognize the truth of what had likely happened when he woke in a few hours to find them both gone. Besides, in the end, all that mattered to the old man was that they returned with the astrolabe in hand. What was it that Julian had a
lways said? Better to ask forgiveness than permission.
His brother was still on his mind as he took a deep breath and walked steadily toward the passage, trying to quell his wariness as he approached. How long had it been since he’d felt a passage enclose his skin, his bones, crush the air from his lungs? Longer than a year. Long enough to force him to take a deep, steadying breath.
Come on, Nick. Julian’s voice rose on the breeze at his back. We’ve a journey to make.
And, with one last breath of his world, he stepped through, surrendering himself to the pressure and the devastating blackness as time bent around him.
ETTA CRASHED DOWN INTO AWARENESS in a symphony of shattered glass, hearing it break a split second before she felt the shards slicing through her skin. Pain stole her breath and turned the world to sand around her. Just when she was sure she’d managed to get a grip on her surroundings, the images and sensations drained to nothingness again. Her body throbbed as she fought against unconsciousness. The lingering pressure from the passage didn’t ease, not even when she threw up.
Now she knew why she couldn’t remember what had happened with Sophia—how she had traveled to the ship after arriving through the passage.
Don’t—she clung to the word, forcing her burning eyes open—don’t pass out.…
Etta was caught in between charred beams and what looked like a blown-out window frame, her body cradled in it like a doll that had been dropped from above. Carefully she shifted, twisting until her feet touched the ground. Fabric tore—her right sleeve separated at the shoulder—and in the instant before her knees collapsed under her and the world blacked out again, an unnatural chill crept under her skin and turned her blood to ice. Her cheek struck the cement, and she felt nothing at all.
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