“A calling?” He couldn’t keep the sardonic note out of his voice.
“Sure,” she said. “You don’t believe in that?”
“I believe in choosing your purpose and a direction to head—not that there is a path out there just waiting for me to stumble onto it.”
“So you wouldn’t consider sailing your calling?” Etta asked.
“No. It was the only opportunity that was presented to me, and I saw how I could make something of myself with hard work.”
Nicholas couldn’t quite believe that he’d managed to distill that cloudy feeling into simple truth.
“I enjoy it,” he continued, shifting under her scrutiny. “I love the challenge that the sea presents at every turn. It’s allowed me to see more of the world than I ever dared to imagine, and it feeds my desire to see more. And I happen to be damned good at it. But it does not change the fact that the occupation was chosen for me by another. And it was not a divine hand.”
Had Hall been of a more business-minded nature, he might have placed Nicholas with a tradesman as an apprentice, and reaped the rewards of his skills until Nicholas had saved enough to purchase his own freedom. Instead, his freedom had been a fact, not an agonizing question; not something that needed to be contemplated. The Halls loathed the institution of slavery not only for what it did to the slaves themselves, but for the way it seemed to pollute the souls of those who participated in it.
As a captain, Nicholas would have the means to support himself, plus the ability to prove his own merit in the eyes of the world. As the owner of a company, with wealth beyond imagination, he could make his mark on the world.
Tell her, he thought, fists squeezing at his side. Tell her the truth, you sodding bastard.
“I always thought having a natural talent for something was a sign that it was what you were meant to be doing,” Etta said. “That’s what got me into trouble in the first place.”
“Do you consider the violin to be your calling?” he asked. “Will you see it through after all, then?”
Etta’s hand froze over a small, glossy wooden box she’d dug out from beneath a pile of ledgers. “I think…I’m not even sure it’s possible at this point. My life is so different now. I don’t think I could ever go back to the way it was. But…maybe there’s also something else for me—something I couldn’t even imagine before.”
Or that I’d want to.
“Rest assured,” he said, when he managed to find his voice, “there will always be a position for you on my ship.”
Her face brightened with her clever, beautiful smile. “Will you let me climb up into the rigging? Reef the sails?”
A burst of thunder rolled through him. “Absolutely not.”
She laughed again. “As if you could stop me.”
In spite of all of the voices in his head demanding that he be reasonable, that he listen to his own damned advice and not make more of this than it could be, he reached over to smooth the hair away from her face.
And holy God, when she looked at him the way she did now…he felt like he’d stepped into the blue-white heart of a flame. The dark centers of her bright eyes expanded as her teeth caught the corner of her lip, and he had the extraordinarily unhelpful thought that if anyone should be biting those lips, it should be him.
Nicholas fought his scowl and stepped back, feeling as if he were surfacing from underwater. “What…what precisely are we meant to be doing?”
“I don’t know,” Etta said, with a cheeky little smile. “You’re so handsome that sometimes I completely lose my train of thought.”
He turned to assess the room, struggling to suppress his own grin.
“There’s a desk over there. There might be something useful inside to tell us where we are,” he said. “I’ll have a look through the chest.”
She nodded, turning back to the piles with new urgency. The heavy wood-and-iron chest was unlocked, but save for some sachets of lavender still releasing their fragrance, there were only a few blankets tucked inside. Nicholas turned at the sharp thunk behind him, and watched as Etta fought with the stubborn bottom drawer of the desk.
She blew a loose strand of hair from her eyes. “It’s locked.”
Nicholas tested it for himself; even with his full weight and strength, the only thing he accomplished was to break off its metal knob.
“Did you think I didn’t know how to work a drawer?” she asked, taking the thing out of his hand with a shake of her head. “Why keep all of this out in the open for anyone to find and question, but lock this one drawer? What’s the point?”
“Because,” came a silky voice from the shadows. “You were not given the key.”
ETTA JUMPED BACK IN ALARM, knocking against the desk in surprise. Instinctively, her hands scrambled for something to protect herself, fingers rummaging in the paper until they brushed up against the letter opener she’d seen only a moment before.
When she looked over at him, Nicholas had gone as rigid as a blade, his expression sharpening with the kind of lethal intent she’d seen only once before—when he’d launched himself at the man who had grabbed her in London. He made his way around the furniture between them.
“Do not move.” The accent was heavy, the words formal and stilted. “I will feel no guilt in killing thieves.”
Nicholas seemed to believe those words, stopping exactly where he was, a few feet behind her.
“Who are you?” Etta asked, brandishing the letter opener in front of her. Whatever good that would do.
“The one who should be asking this question is I,” the man said, stepping out from where he had managed to slip through the doorway unnoticed.
He was hardly a man at all; his deep voice was at odds with a soft, rounded face that seemed to indicate his age was close to their own. His skin was a dusky brown, his eyes dark and severe beneath generous brows. His long, white robe rustled as he took a step toward them, bare feet padding across one of the room’s many patterned rugs. Etta recognized the style of his dress—it was a close, luxurious approximation to what you might see in her time, in the Middle East.
Bare feet. Even with a haze of exhaustion drooping over her, that small fact stuck in the front of her mind, forcing her to think it through. I will feel no guilt in killing thieves.… meaning, this house—or apartment, or whatever it was—belonged to him? Now that he was closer, Etta saw red lines marring his cheeks from pillows or sheets; the glazed look of someone still half-asleep.
But…didn’t this house belong to the Lindens?
Nicholas reached into the interior pocket of his jacket, and the young man raised the wickedly curved blade at his side.
This was about to go exactly one way, and that way involved bloodstains on the beautiful rugs.
“We were told to come here,” Etta said, halting both of their movements. “By Rose Linden.”
The young man exploded with movement, launching himself forward at her.
“Duck!” Nicholas called.
Etta dropped to her knees and Nicholas’s fist sailed over her head. By the time she climbed back onto her feet, the two men had fallen to the floor in a rolling pile of limbs, crashing through chair legs as they tried to batter each other with their fists. The sword was knocked away, spinning toward the door.
“Stop!” Etta cried out. “Stop it!”
It was like breaking up the worst kind of dogfight, when you know the only way to separate the animals is to risk getting bitten yourself. She gripped the back of Nicholas’s jacket with both hands, muscles burning as she hauled him away.
“Nicholas!” she said. “Stop!”
He shuddered, the breath steaming in and out of him as he pressed his bruised, bleeding knuckles against his mouth. When Etta moved toward the other young man, Nicholas jerked forward as if to stop her. She gave a sharp shake of her head. With some reluctance Nicholas backed off, understanding, and instead went to pick up the discarded sword from the floor.
“You know the name Rose Linden, do
n’t you?” Etta asked.
He shrank back from the hand she’d offered to help him up. Etta sensed she’d committed some kind of offense.
“What about Benjamin Linden?” she asked, wondering if Nicholas had knocked him hard enough to make his ears ring. The pulse of insects outside swamped the room in sound; she wished she had opened just one of the shutters to let the rich floral scent in, to fill the air with something other than fear and sweat.
The young man closed his eyes, dragging in a wheezing breath. When he spoke, Etta had to lean forward to hear him.
“Abbi,” he said. “Father.”
THE YOUNG MAN, HASAN, WOULDN’T ALLOW HER TO HELP HIM clean his face—he wouldn’t even allow her to follow him out to collect clean cloths and water, so a reluctant Nicholas was forced to trail after him to keep an eye on him—but surrendered the sword to Etta as a show of good faith. The few minutes they were gone gave her a chance to consider something that still seemed impossible.
Time was relative and all that, but…how insane, to think that her great-grandfather had a son who was her age. He was technically her mother’s uncle, which made him Etta’s…great-uncle? Or…no, a first cousin twice removed?
“You look like her,” Hasan said as he brought one of the damp cloths to his face. “Sweet Rose.”
“That’s probably because she’s my mother,” Etta said. “You know her?”
He nodded, his eyes flicking over to where Nicholas stood glowering behind her.
“Abbi…he and Rose lived here for a time before he left it to Ummi—my mother—and then myself, when she died.” Hasan shook his head. “You said you were told to come? But…this does not make sense, for Rose has come and she has gone, only days ago.”
Her stomach rolled. “What do you mean?”
Rose had escaped from Ironwood’s men? She was safe—but they’d already missed her?
Nicholas put a calming hand on her wrist and asked Hasan, “Rose—was she young, or was she older than you remember her?”
Oh.
“Young,” Hasan said, suspicion edging back into his voice. “Too young to have had a child your age. She had come here with a special purpose, but she would not tell me what this was.”
Nicholas glanced at her, clearly taking in her startled reaction. It wasn’t her mother—the mother who had raised her. Because of the way the passages worked, they’d nearly bumped into the younger Rose as she’d come here to hide the astrolabe in the first place.
“Why didn’t you go with her?” Etta asked, curious.
“Because I cannot. Some would call me a…a guardian, but I do not perform a duty beyond the care and keeping of this home,” Hasan said. “I do not answer to the Grand Master’s call. I will not be an Ironwood.”
“Did Rose leave something here?” Etta asked, her words toppling over each other.
Until that moment, Etta hadn’t thought to anticipate this problem. Had her mom or Benjamin Linden warned Hasan of the other families, or told him to only trust Rose with the location of the astrolabe?
Nicholas grabbed the collar of Hasan’s robe, tightening his grip.
Because, yes, obviously what they needed was more violence.
Hasan wet his lips, his eyes flickering around the room. The water from the cloth ran down the side of his face like sweat.
“Answer the lady,” Nicholas grated out.
“I vowed on my life,” Hasan said, dropping the cloth back into the basin. “I cannot simply take your word. You may not be who you say you are. There are many who would trick me—who would trick those of us still sworn to the Linden family and to its secrets.”
Etta’s mind reached for that one last, real chance.…
“The only reason I knew to come here was because my mom told me a story.…She told me many stories about her travels that were true and false at the same time. The last one I heard from her was about a woman who sold her these earrings in a marketplace here in Damascus.” Etta unhooked one from her ear and handed it to him. “She said a woman named Samarah sold them to her.”
Hasan’s hand was shaking as he took it from her, running a light finger over the curve of the hoop. The silence between them seemed to stretch into an hour, until he finally said, “Samarah did not sell them to her. She gave them to her. I know this, for Samarah is my wife, my love, and I was there to see it.”
Hasan moved to the desk. Reaching into the open neck of his robe, he gripped a long, silver chain, brandishing the thin silver key dangling from it.
“We could have just broken it open,” Nicholas muttered, staring at the drawer, but Hasan slid the key not into the lock on the face of the drawer, but beneath it—into a lock they hadn’t seen at all.
The drawer gave a satisfying click as the tumblers turned, and it slid open on its track.
Nicholas immediately tried to use his height to lean over Hasan and see what was inside. Hasan gave him a cold glance before rifling through its contents. Finding whatever it was, he stood and slammed the drawer shut with his foot.
“You remind me…” He held out a small, cream-colored envelope. She unfolded its flap, letting its contents spill out in her hand. The first thing was another black-and-white photograph, again of her mother, only so much younger. She had a sweet smile on her face, and was dressed in some kind of school uniform; her hair was curled and pinned back, her hands resting in her lap. There was a secret tucked into her smile.
On the back someone had written: Rose, age 13.
The other piece of paper in the envelope was a letter addressed to: Etta, my dear heart.
“You had that all this time, and you still questioned her?” Nicholas asked, outraged.
“Stop being so unreasonable,” Etta said. “How could he have known for sure?”
“I am a protector of this family,” Hasan said, his chest puffing out. “Rose is the cherished daughter of Abbi’s son, beloved by all of us. So I think, when I see this girl, she looks like Rose. She looks like my faraway English papa. She has his sky colors. But so do many from his country. On his last visit, Abbi seemed as old as the desert, the bàdiyat ash-shàm. He was confused in the mind, very frightened about what was happening to the other families. I would not risk her life for anything less than a certainty.”
“I understand,” Etta said, grateful and touched by how much passion he had invested into protecting the person she loved. “Thank you.”
She smoothed the letter out on her knee, looking around for some kind of pen. My dear heart…another sweet nickname her mother had never used for her before. Nicholas dutifully retrieved a fountain pen from a cup on the desk.
“Rather dangerous to keep all of this out,” he noted.
Hasan shrugged. “In the event it is discovered, the house and its contents will be burned.”
Etta shook her head at that, roughly sketching out the shape of a heart over the run-on sentences and non sequiturs, until she had isolated what she thought was the true message:
I am so sorry. I wish there was another way. I tried to protect you from this, but if you find this I’ve failed. Trust no one save those who share our blood. Ironwood will destroy your future, he will erase everyone and everything to save one life, and the Thorns mean to do the same. It must be destroyed. No one can decide what is or what should be. Bring jasmine to the bride who sleeps eternal beneath the sky, and look for the sigil. I will find you there as soon as I can. Forgive me. I love you.
Etta looked up, surprised to find herself crying. “I don’t understand—what does that mean, Ironwood wants to save one life? Whose? Augustus? Julian?”
Nicholas knew, but Hasan answered. “His first wife. Minerva.”
“What?” She fought the urge to reach over, to force Nicholas to explain why he looked like the world was crashing down around him.
“He wants it all, then,” Nicholas said finally. “Bloody hell, the bastard—”
Hasan cleared his throat with a meaningful look in Etta’s direction.
“Mine
rva was married to him for a few years when they were both young,” Nicholas continued. “I don’t know the details of it, only what Julian’s told me. It was a love match, rare for travelers, but it occurred during an incredibly unstable and violent time in the war between the families. His rivals from the other families took advantage of the fact that Ironwood had hidden her somewhere in the past for her safety. They discovered her location, and waited for a year in which there was no passage for Ironwood to use to intervene, then murdered her in retribution. In effect, they rendered her murder unpreventable, unless Ironwood chose to warn himself to return and live that year straight through—to be present when she was killed in 1456. That would have, of course, altered his fate and the shape of the world around him. If he’d given up and lived a normal life with her that year, not traveling around waging his little war of terror, he would not have garnered the power or alliances he needed to become Grand Master.”
Oh my God. The letter fell out of her limp hands onto the floor. “He chose power.”
But that—that didn’t make sense. He loved this woman enough to sacrifice sons and grandchildren to find the astrolabe, in order to save her…but his first choice had been his newly acquired wealth, power, and control over the families.
The one thing he truly wanted had been taken from him. Had he always been the way he was now, or had the loss torn some vital part of him away? Would he be the person he was now if she hadn’t been killed?
“He remarried Augustus and Virgil’s mother, but…my God,” Nicholas said. “He must have figured out which events were crucial to his success and seen there was still an opening to travel back and save her. He could get a message to his past self—or get the astrolabe to himself. And September thirtieth? His wife was killed on October first. He set that deadline with the goal of immediately acting.”
“There are rules, but rules may be rewritten if only one hand holds the ink.” Hasan nodded. Etta spun toward Nicholas. “If he changes the past, won’t that prevent your father, and then you, from being born?”
Passenger Page 32
