“She wasn’t supposed to have training,” Rose explained. “Otherwise it would have affected her choices along the way. I met a traveler—one past even the future we lived in. He warned me of what would happen if I allowed anything to change. If Etta didn’t destroy the astrolabe.”
My God. “Who was that?”
“I don’t need to tell you that,” Rose said. “I don’t need to explain myself to you. Everything I did—everything I had to do, I did to ensure that Etta traveled, that she would know how to find the astrolabe. How did this happen? It was all planned out.…Everything…everything was to be as it had to be, to save us from that future. I sacrificed everything, I destroyed every complication.…” She took a shuddering breath, her hand curling into a fist over her heart. “Alice…she…I wouldn’t have gone to such lengths if I knew it would come to this. And now Alice is…”
Nicholas straightened; her words were slithering through his veins like poison. “Alice. It was you? Not an Ironwood, like Etta suspected, but you?” The words raged out of him, and he saw naked pain on the woman’s face, if only for a moment. “The one who called you Rosie—who protected you your whole life—you killed the one person who actually cared about your daughter!”
Etta would have been destroyed by this, torn apart by the knowledge. He was grateful, if only for a second, that she wasn’t there to witness the unraveling of what she loved most dearly.
Rose’s eyes sparkled with fury. “This is what it means to be a traveler—to make impossible choices, to serve the good of the world and not yourself. Ironwood will tear the future apart now, do you understand? A traveler warned me of it, of war unlike anything we’ve seen, of the debts and contracts Cyrus will be called upon to fulfill from powerful men and kings. Etta had to travel. The world—time itself—needed her to destroy it. And if I have to justify that to you, to explain my motivations in any other way, then you aren’t worthy of what we can do.”
How could she begin to justify the killing of kin? Of an elderly woman who her daughter had loved above nearly all else? He could understand the importance of safeguarding the timeline, preventing Ironwood from growing that much more powerful, but the deceit here—the murder of a loved one, the outright manipulation of her daughter, which had led to her death—it all made him wonder if ice water was running through her veins. Even now, there was something so…infuriatingly calm…about the way she spoke, and he had held back his anger for too long to stop himself. “How can you be so callous about your own daughter’s life?”
Rose sent him a venomous look. “I can assure you, I’m not.”
“She’s—she’s gone forever, and you stand there, and you speak of her as if—as if you only care whether she’s useful to you—” He could scarcely get the words out. “Why…why…”
“Gone forever?” Rose interrupted sharply. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
Somehow, Nicholas did. Each and every agonizing word. Coward that he was, he couldn’t bring himself to look the woman in the face.
“When a traveler dies, they don’t disappear,” Rose said, brushing a hand across her horse’s flank, brows drawn together. “If she had died, the passage in Damascus would have collapsed with the surge of energy released as time took her unnatural presence here into account. But it didn’t—I wouldn’t have been able to come through, otherwise.”
His heart was beating so fast in his chest, the pain of it stole his breath. “It’s not…true?”
“It sounds to me like she was caught in a wrinkle—anything you heard, or felt, or saw, was time reaching out to orphan her when the new timeline took effect. Only a traveler can affect that kind of change—these guardians, the Thorns, they were travelers, weren’t they?”
He nodded. If they’d truly followed Sophia as she had followed Etta and Nicholas, then they would have had to be.
“Their presence here instigated the change, then,” Rose said. “They must not have been part of the original event—the version of the timeline in which the astrolabe was destroyed.”
“Why didn’t it shift immediately when the others took it?” he asked.
“Because there was still a chance that it could be destroyed, and time would have corrected itself the best it could to smooth over the snag on the timeline that their presence caused,” Rose explained.
Unless Sophia had planned to go with the men to destroy the astrolabe, or there was a chance it might be damaged or lost on their ride back to Damascus, Nicholas couldn’t see how this was possible.
“If the traveler who warned me is correct, the alteration to the timeline will be catastrophic,” Rose said. “We must prepare ourselves for that.”
“What does all of this mean for Etta?”
“She’s been flung to the last common event before the timeline shifted, whenever that may be.”
“Why were you not affected? Why wasn’t I?”
“Because both of us were born before whatever this last common year is,” she said.
Nicholas shook his head, trying to rid himself of that futile hope. “But…this is what passed with my brother, when he was killed—he fell to his death.”
One of Rose’s brows arched again. “Then perhaps he, too, survived without you realizing it.”
Survived.
Nicholas had not cried since he was a child, and could not remember what it was to weep, but he imagined it had to be what was happening to him now. It seemed the only explanation for the pressure that rose up inside of him, that broke over him like a wave. He was stunned by the quiet force of it.
“She’s not…” The words shook as they left him. “He’s not…”
“Speaking for Etta, I think she’s still alive. The wound sounds serious, but not fatal, especially if she can find help,” Rose said. “I can’t tell you any more than that.”
“Can you help me find her?” he asked. “How? Where is she?”
Her expression sharpened, became assessing. “Who are you to her?”
“I’m the one who will always protect her,” he said. “I’m the one that will see her home.”
Rose allowed a small smile through, and it was so very Etta, he had to press his hands to his side to keep them from shaking. “What’s your name?”
“Nicholas. Nicholas Carter.” He managed a curt bow despite his disgust and fury. “Your servant, ma’am.”
Some of the ice in her expression chipped away as she gave him a small smile. “My, you’re serious.”
“Serious about this in particular,” he told her. “Any help would be gratefully accepted—please, I only mean to—”
She held up her hand. “If I could pinpoint it for you, I would. The only things left are to correct whatever small event it was that caused the timeline to adjust—the astrolabe being in Ironwood hands, likely—and to search for evidence of where the timeline might have thrown Etta. I can be of help with the latter, but can I trust you with the former? I imagine you know where to start looking.”
“Will it be enough to take the astrolabe out of Ironwood hands?” Nicholas asked.
“Only if you get to it before they use it,” she said. “Tell me once and for all that you can do this—otherwise you’re wasting my time.”
“I’ll find it,” he said quickly. Somehow…Sophia was bound to slip up, leave a small trail he could sniff out and track. “Thank you.”
Rose swung up onto her horse’s back. “Then this is where we’ll part.”
“How shall I get a message to you?” he asked. “After I retrieve the astrolabe, how will I know where to start looking for Etta herself? She won’t just be restored to this time, will she?”
“Of course not,” Rose said, unknotting the lead on the other horse and tossing him the reins. After casting an exasperated look at his lack of bags and supplies, she untied one of her saddlebags and gave that to him as well. Nicholas felt his pride take a small knock, but stood up straighter.
“I need to return to my present,” Rose said, “or Etta’s present, at
least, in order to see which events have shifted, and I’ll try to pinpoint the last common event between the old timeline and the new from there. Can you meet me in Nassau in 1776 in…shall we say a week’s time?”
It would be easy enough to follow the passages he and Etta had gone through back to 1776, but accounting for the time they would both need to travel to the island from New York…He swallowed down his frustration. “Better make it nearer to a month.”
If he did not find her sooner himself.
I will tell Etta the truth, he thought, about what her mother has done. And, likely, destroy her world all over again in the process. But she deserved to know. She needed to be at the helm of her life—not a passenger, constantly at her mother’s mercy.
Rose nodded in agreement, turning her horse back toward the city. “There’s one more thing you should know. I have a feeling we won’t be the only ones looking for her.”
“I know this,” Nicholas said. “If Sophia doesn’t bring the astrolabe directly to him, Ironwood will assume Etta has absconded with it.”
“That’s true,” Rose said, “but I was talking about the Thorns. The leader, a man named Henry Hemlock, might attempt to look for her again.”
Christ—this was getting muddier by the moment. “I understand.”
Rose’s face twisted into a sad smile. “I doubt you do. He’s a powerful figure, far wealthier and more cunning than you’re likely to give him credit for. He’s also her father.”
Every thought flew out of his head, scattered to the winds.
“Good luck, Nicholas Carter. Don’t you dare disappoint me,” she called back over her shoulder. “I’ll see you in one month’s time. Nassau—the Three Crowns tavern.”
Nicholas nodded, clenching his reins in his hands as he watched her kick her bedraggled horse into a canter, and then a gallop. He waited until she was well out of sight before the dammed-up air rushed from his lungs and he dropped to his hands and knees. Tears and sweat dripped from his face, and he shook, coughing, laughing, as he pressed his forehead to the earth, trying to master the wild currents inside of him.
“You’re alive,” he rasped out. “You are alive.”
Both of them? Both Julian and Etta? He could scarcely fathom the hope that billowed up inside him, bowing his back like a sail. If Julian were only lost, too, then he would only need to be found.
The horse Rose had left behind just watched him, a picture of serene disinterest. He moved toward it, holding out a hand, until the animal felt comfortable enough to press its nose into his palm. Nicholas ran a hand down its long nose, stroking its dark hair, his thoughts shaken loose again from the ice that had encased them.
Etta was alive, but she wasn’t safe. She didn’t have anyone or anything now—she was entirely alone.
Not for long.
A surge of purpose worked through him as he hoisted himself up into the horse’s saddle. He would bring the exhausted creature to the oasis, give it a moment to rest and water itself, before setting off to locate Hasan. The man might know something of the other passages in this era, and from there…well, he would meet those challenges when they arose.
Nicholas had only just emerged from the hills when he spotted another rider weaving through the ruins of the fallen city. The red robe was unmistakable, even at a distance, and yet another burst of pressure left his chest, which no longer felt as tight as a drum.
“Hasan!” he called. The wind aided him, carrying his voice over to where the other man was perched on an unfamiliar horse.
“Baha’ar!” Nicholas was mildly touched that the man sounded equally thrilled to see him. It wasn’t until they were within a stone’s throw of each other that Hasan seemed to realize Nicholas was alone.
“But where…?” he began, eyes wide with horror.
“She’s gone,” Nicholas said quickly, gripping his arm. “I’ll explain along the way the best I can. I’m afraid I’ll need to intrude upon on your kindness again when we’re back in Damascus. Where have you been? I thought I might have lost you to the desert.”
“My friend, I am touched by your concern,” Hasan said, and clearly he was. “After we parted, I was seen by three men of a Bedouin tribe who provided some assistance.”
From what little Nicholas had gathered from Hasan, he knew these tribes were rather fierce-spirited, nomadic families who lived in tune with the earth beneath their feet, and who passed their days eking out a humble existence from it. They were not to be provoked. In fact, Hasan had recommended avoiding them entirely.
“Are you all right?” Nicholas asked, looking him over again. While the man’s cheerful disposition had dampened somewhat, he seemed whole enough.
“I am humbled greatly by the kindness they have shown in allowing me use of one of their horses,” Hasan said. “We must return it to them as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, of course,” Nicholas said, already turning toward the road out of the city.
“My friend, there is one more thing,” Hasan began. “They have something of yours I think you will wish to claim.”
THIS PARTICULAR TRIBE OF BEDOUIN HAD MADE A TEMPORARY camp near the halfway point between Palmyra and Kurietain, and were slowly making their way to the former, and to the oasis it provided.
Within a mile of the cluster of low tents, Nicholas and Hasan were met by several men who charged up on camelback, kicking up a dust storm in their wake. The demonstration was impressive, and more than slightly terrifying. An effective show of force to protect their own.
Hasan called out a greeting to them and offered up a bright smile that was immediately returned by the man leading the charge. Nicholas shook his head. The man was incapable of not making friends wherever he went. He had a chronic case of good-naturedness that would have made him the scorn of New England. Even these men, clearly warriors and armed to the teeth, weren’t immune.
Initially, he had found the easy bond between Hasan and Etta to be preposterous, inexplicable. But both had such a way of disarming a man, opening doors where none seemed to exist. It was a skill he’d never had himself, and it was surely one to be admired.
They were led into the encampment without further delay, the men talking amongst themselves, never once casting a curious eye his way.
Naturally. Hasan had endeared him to this tribe before Nicholas had even had the chance to meet them.
He understood immediately why Hasan had claimed to be humbled by them. Before Nicholas had even dismounted, they were presented with food and drink, introduced to wives and children. A distinguished elder, his robes marginally grander than those around him, emerged from the largest of the tents. He greeted them not with the simple warmth of the others, but with the polite deference shown to honored guests.
It was only after they had accepted some of the hospitality proffered to them, and went through the rituals of introductions and pleasantries, that the sheikh, as Hasan had called him, led them to a tent a short distance from his own.
All three stooped slightly as they entered the open-faced tent, and Nicholas made a conscious effort not to knock into the thin wooden supports that held up the exterior fabric. The inside was less Spartan than he might have expected—rugs and blankets had been spread across the ground, and a number of cushions were strewn about.
“They would like to continue on their way,” Hasan said, translating for the sheikh, “but they feared moving her.…They are offering us a place to rest for the evening, but I think it impolite to delay them further.”
Nicholas nodded in agreement. This was a matter that should never have fallen into their hands in the first place. He stepped carefully over the rugs, to the still figure lying on her back at the very center of the tent. Sophia.
The face was unrecognizable, swollen and purpled as a ripe plum. She’d been stripped bare to her waist, and three jagged stab wounds to the torso looked to be bleeding through the earthy salve and bandages covering them. A thin blanket had been draped over her supine form to protect her modesty
.
“They found her in the desert, with nothing but the clothes upon her back,” Hasan explained, stepping up behind him. “They believe she was robbed, beaten, and left for dead. What do you think, baha’ar?”
“I think she’s a damn fool,” he muttered. Years of training should have made her far more careful, but ambition often walked hand in hand with impatience, especially if long denied. “Was she harmed in any other way?”
Hasan shook his head. “The women say she was left untouched save for the wounds that you see.”
“And there was no one with her? No other body?”
“None at all.”
Then the travelers still had the astrolabe, and, for some reason, had left Sophia for dead. While it wasn’t in Ironwood’s hands, the Thorns were equally dangerous, equally motivated to see their own agenda through. The astrolabe passing into their possession had been enough to alter the timeline, to orphan Etta from her era—a powerful alteration to the fabric of time.
Would retrieving it, destroying it, be enough to restore the world Etta had known? Nicholas wasn’t so sure, but it would be a start. Determination swelled inside him as he took another step toward the girl. He could do this—by land, by sea, over mountains, through valleys—he could track the Thorns, retrieve the astrolabe, and find Etta.
And he would have an unexpected resource at his side.
Sophia wheezed painfully as she drew in her next breath. One eye was so swollen, the lid looked sealed shut. Nicholas would be surprised if she managed to keep it. The other cracked open a sliver, looking up at him with her usual scorn.
The time would come—not at this moment, not even in the coming days, but soon—when Sophia would answer for what she had done. But for now, she was of far more use to Nicholas alive than in the presence of her maker.
“Look lively,” he said. “We’ve a journey to make.”
I’VE BEEN BLESSED TO WORK WITH THE INCREDIBLE team at Hyperion for…has it really been almost five years? Time flies when you’re having fun! Thank you forever and always to Emily Meehan, my editor, as well as Laura Schreiber and Hannah Allaman, who all put so much time and thought into helping me whip this unruly book into shape. (Trust me, it was not easy!) Thanks also to Seale Ballenger, Stephanie Lurie, Dina Sherman, LaToya Maitland, Heather Crowley, Holly Nagel, Elke Villa, Andrew Sansone—you guys are the stuff that author-dreams are made of! And Marci Senders? You are a cover goddess.
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