He did not think he could survive a final farewell.
The single power that time travel truly held over them was regret. If he could simply move back through the weeks, sift through the days, to arrive at that moment in the Belladonna’s shop, of course he would have steered as far away from it as he could. But hindsight had given him something undeniably precious: insight. Into Sophia, into himself, and into their bitter, beautiful world. All he had ever wanted to do was travel, seek out those horizons; and he had, hadn’t he? He had gone farther in these weeks than the limits of his own imagination.
“If we must act quickly, and there is no time tomorrow,” he told Sophia, “I would like to say that I am proud to have fought beside you. I would never again presume to tell you how you ought to live your life; I would only say, as your friend, that there’s no pain more acute than words left unsaid, and business which can never be concluded—”
She reached forward, pressing her hand against his mouth to silence him. Nicholas started to tug it away, exasperated, but in the next moment he heard it, too. Footsteps. A curt knock on the door.
“Everything okay in there, Carter?”
The Ironwood men didn’t defer to him so much as guard him. Watch him. Judge him. He had seen the looks flying around the table, after Ironwood’s proclamation declaring him heir during their last—and, please, God, final—family meeting.
“Fine,” Nicholas called back. “Reciting…my prayers.”
“Whatever you say,” the man—Owen—grumbled. “Just keep it down, will you? If you wake him up, it’ll be the end of all of us.”
Too right.
Nicholas waited until the footsteps receded before turning back to Sophia, but she was already at the window, unlatching it. A slap of wind and rain struck him across the temple.
Right. The damned tree.
“You’ll break your neck,” he said, trying to stand. “Wait for the rain to settle. I’d rather not have to explain the presence of your broken body in the morning.”
Sophia’s lips curled ever so slightly upward. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
She sat on the window ledge, swinging one leg over, then the next. Her gaze roved over the tree’s shaking limbs, the rivers of rainwater washing the street below clean.
“She might yet return,” he told her as he came to stand behind her.
Sophia turned to him one last time, the mist of the storm collecting on her face. “No. She won’t.”
OUR LADY OF CANDELARIA WAS A STATELY PAPIST—Catholic—church, with all the embellishments the Baroque style of architecture had to offer. Two towers sat proudly on either side of an unfinished dome, dark granite accents contrasting neatly with its whitewashed walls. Inside, however, the design was neoclassical, its pillars and statues of angels, saints, and the Virgin Mother carefully carved with an eye for the size and beauty of the place of worship.
It was blessedly far, at least, from the all-too-prosperous slave market on Valongo Street, the fattening houses where weak and thin “merchandise” were cajoled into gaining weight to increase their value, and the dock itself, which had no doubt been built by the hands of slaves to welcome each subsequent shipment of innocents. Of course, that had not stopped Ironwood from walking their party of an even dozen men right through it, with all the care and sensitivity of a monster.
“What’s the matter with you?” the old man asked.
Wonders abounded—the man had finally broken away from the narrow lane of focus that was the astrolabe. The last five days had proven that when the old man was not speaking of it, he was thinking of it; and when he was not thinking of it, it was only because he was asleep and dreaming of it. It was the first word out of his mouth in the morning, and the last one he spoke in place of his evening prayers. Conversation with Ironwood was already forced, but it had become so rote and tiresome, Nicholas actually found himself missing the man’s vile threats and bitter oaths.
Nicholas shifted his eyes away from the church. “Nothing. Am I not allowed to admire beauty when I see it?”
Ironwood snorted at that. “A terrible liar, now and forever. It’s how I know I can trust you. How’s the arm? Back in fighting form, I see. Good, good.”
Rather than risk being left behind as a liability, someone who wouldn’t be able to protect the old man from any enemies who might appear, Nicholas had removed his sling and tucked his useless hand into his coat pocket.
“It is—”
“Wonderful, yes,” Ironwood said, in a voice that practically sang with glee. Nicholas was instantly repulsed by the heavy hand that landed on his shoulder. The added weight of it might as well have been a mountain, for how quickly his knees threatened to buckle.
Owen—the short, stocky guard—emerged from the church, signaling it was clear to enter and take the passage to Japan.
“One more step,” the man said, as he urged the two of them forward. “One more night. Imagine her face; the future you wish to create is within your reach.”
Owen held the door for them, allowing Nicholas to duck inside without moving his paralyzed arm. And, whether he wished it or not, he did see Etta there. He saw her in the flickering of the candles. He saw her in the smooth, pale lines of the arches. He saw her in the singular way the light struck the stained glass behind the altar and colored the world.
A hymn to her. A requiem to a future that was no longer his to claim.
“Yes,” he said finally. “The end is in sight.”
THE CENTURIES AND CONTINENTS MOVED around her in dark waves, and the passage’s usual bellow was more of a long, continuous whistle. The difference, while pleasant to Etta’s ears, was rather disconcerting. But before she had much time to consider this, her feet struck the ground, and the full weight of the gold she carried in her leather backpack brought her down to her knees.
Julian tumbled out behind her, rocketing into her and sending them both down in a heap of limbs and bags. The gold plates and chalices dug into her spine.
“Ow,” she said.
“Ouch,” came the weak response. “Not one of our better landings.”
“Better than the last six,” Etta said, rolling out from under him.
Julian lurched up to his feet, struggling to stay vertical under the weight of his pack. “Time?”
Etta squinted at the wind-up watch they’d found tossed in with Ironwood’s other treasures, still breathing hard from the run. “Half past ten?”
Julian punched the air in triumph. “Told you we’d make it in time, didn’t I?”
While there had been enough gold and precious stones left in the cave, Julian had previously mislabeled one of the entries in his journal, which had subsequently sent them on a hair-raising journey through Jerusalem during the First Crusade, with twentieth-century clothing and more gold than anyone had any right to.
The passage’s whistling receded, but the drumming continued to pulse through the darkness. The vigor of the drums and chiming cymbals was breathtaking; as Etta stood, stumbling to maintain her balance on the soft incline, she was surprised to find the ancient music wasn’t the heartbeat of the mountain itself.
The passage had deposited them behind a line of flames that snaked up the mountain’s cleared path. Etta crawled through the damp, cool mud for a closer look.
“Sai-rei, sai-ryo!” That same phrase was being shouted, over and over, for all the wild, dark world to hear. She turned to Julian for a translation.
“I think…‘good festival’? Something like that?” Julian scratched at his mussed hair.
The smell of pine and smoke bled through the line of trees, carrying with it the voices of young and old alike. Stripped to their loincloths, men carried torches over their shoulders. Small ones, yes; carried by boys, really, who looked exceedingly proud to have the task. But as the torches increased in size, so did the men who carried them, until a few bore the staggering weight of torches the size of—motorcycles, and likely as heavy. The men staggered beneath their weight as they wound throug
h the one-street village below, ascending up the dirt path. Cheers of encouragement followed from the villagers walking in their footsteps, their faces lit, glowing warmly in the face of an encroaching midnight.
Etta’s brow furrowed. “What is this? Why would this Belladonna person pick a place where we’d be more likely to bump into the people of this time?”
“To your first question, a festival of some sort, clearly,” Julian said, turning to the task of trying to pick the dirt out from under his nails. “In deference to whatever spirit or god is enshrined at the temple. To answer your second, it’s best not to dwell on the dark, spider-infested maze of the Belladonna’s mind, but I assume the festival will be ending soon.”
She blinked. “That was…surprisingly useful.”
“As I like to say, always aim to disappoint in life,” Julian said. “That way you’ll never fail to be a delightful surprise when you don’t.”
Etta snorted. “All right, let’s go.”
They began their climb through the trees, up and over the rocks, until at last they saw that more villagers were flowing down the mountain than up it. Soon that number sputtered to a few, and finally, none.
They moved onto the cleared trail without a word between them, shuffling through the black ash left behind by the fires. Etta caught a glimpse of Julian in a narrow pocket of moonlight—the smear of dirt across his cheek, the stains on his hands and knees, the way the waves of his hair seemed to stand on end. She already knew she looked like she’d been nearly trampled by horses in a street of melted manure and mud…because she had been.
“I’m worried you’re not going to be enough of a distraction,” Etta said quietly, “for me to get behind this Belladonna woman and grab the astrolabe. I might get out, but you won’t.”
“I am a very fast runner,” he told her, “when sufficiently motivated.”
“I was thinking…maybe I should just make a bid. Win it legitimately.” She glanced over at him in the darkness.
“She only takes favors and secrets,” Julian said, stopping to adjust the weight of his backpack. “Do you think you have something Grandfather doesn’t?”
Etta had one thing none of the others did: she had grown up in a distant future, whereas no other traveler still alive had been born after 1945. But that future was gone, and any information from her future was worthless now. Which left one secret—one she wasn’t sure the woman didn’t already know. “We know the real reason why Ironwood wants the astrolabe. If the woman knows that, then she can use it against him. I think it’s valuable, but it still doesn’t feel like a concrete plan.”
“I told you,” he said. “You’re not supposed to be able to plan anything at these things—no thefts, no murders, no business deals beyond purchasing the witch’s wares. You’ll be as much in the dark as Grandfather, if that’s any reassurance.”
Beyond the good work of irritating Cyrus Ironwood by forcing him to travel, the Belladonna was smart to pick a time and location where there might be witnesses, as a deterrent against bad or outlandish behavior from the travelers.
As they continued up the path, Etta began to take account of the stone markers, the lanterns, the small, open shrine-like structures with their slanting roofs and rich crimson paint. Their journey spent more and more minutes, their most precious currency, but it was a relief to see the lights were fading in the village below, like a hearth reduced to silent coals after burning through the last of its wood. In time, the only sound she could detect was the rustling of the forest’s night-dwelling creatures.
She breathed in the smell of the damp greens around her, comforted by the familiarity of the traces of woodsmoke. Her body ached, but it was a good hurt, an earned one. Etta had fought through these last weeks and felt no small amount of pride for surviving.
“We’re doing the right thing, aren’t we?” Etta whispered. “I’ve wanted it gone for so long that the thought of keeping the astrolabe intact feels unnatural. Maybe it’s cursed—it infects the lives of everyone who comes in contact with that same darkness.”
Julian sighed. “I don’t know. You’re the moral compass, you’re supposed to tell me that.”
She elbowed him lightly. Inside her pack, the gold coins sounded like heavy rain as they rubbed against each other.
“I guess in my mind, it’s like this, Linden-Hemlock-Spencer: the astrolabe itself has never been evil. For better or worse, it only answers to the heart of the person using it, but there isn’t a person alive unselfish enough not to take advantage of it in some way. If destroying it destroys us, then we have to…I don’t know, we have to hide it again once we straighten the timeline out.”
What Mom did years ago.
Etta had been so quick to blame this journey on Rose’s madness, her trauma, that she felt heartsick now just considering this. Rose might have known all along that destroying it would destroy the travelers’ way of life, and that was initially why she had only hidden it.
But it didn’t excuse her for keeping the truth from her daughter, it didn’t forgive what she had done to Alice, and it didn’t explain why she had become so bent on Etta destroying it.
Halfway up the mountain, her legs burning and her back aching from the weight of her pack, Etta saw a glimmer of light. The ring of it grew until she could make out the distinct shapes of lanterns twinkling in the trees above the path, and a young boy with golden hair sitting on a stool beside a large brass scale and several baskets. Behind him, a large white curtain had been hung to cover whatever lay beyond.
Julian slowed beside her.
The boy wore an oversize white robe, but had tugged it up when he’d crossed his legs, and she could see the fine stockings and velvet breeches underneath. At their approach, he merely flipped to the next page of the book in his lap.
Julian cleared his throat, but the boy held up a finger, still eyeing his book.
“Hello?” Etta tried.
Finally, the golden child lifted his gaze, and she almost laughed at the annoyance on his face. She knew what it was like to be interrupted in the middle of a particularly good page.
“It’s just the two of us in the bidding party,” Julian told him, finally sliding his backpack off his shoulders with a relieved sigh.
This only served to further irritate the boy, who slid from his stool and motioned to the scale. He stepped onto one side, leaving the other for them to pile their sacks on top of, and they began their prayers that they had not misjudged the weight.
“How do we know you weigh a hundred pounds?” Etta asked.
The boy glowered back, bobbing like a ship on a wave as the scale balanced. Etta caught herself holding her breath as their side dipped lower than the boy’s, only to straighten in triumph. They’d brought more than enough.
“Oh, thank goodness.” Julian rushed forward to remove some of the gold. “Would’ve been a shame to let all of this—”
“Welcome! Welcome, my young beasties.”
A woman pushed through the pale curtain, careful to close it again behind her before Etta could see what was there. Her long legs devoured the distance between them in two quick gulps, stopping uncomfortably close to Etta. She fought every natural instinct to take a step back and reclaim some semblance of comfort.
Instead, Etta looked up and met the woman’s dark gaze over the silver veil that covered the lower half of her face. Her full-figured body was dripping with black lace that looked as if its ornate floral patterns had been cut from the shadows themselves. And, as if she thought the occasion might call for it, she had added a silver-and-diamond diadem that sat on her head like a row of wolf’s teeth.
She exchanged a look with the golden-haired boy, who nodded some sort of confirmation.
Julian wobbled a bit on his feet with what Etta believed might have been a bow that he thought better of halfway through. “Good evening, madam. We’ve brought the requested entry fee.”
“And not much else,” she said, her catlike eyes flitting from his face to Etta’s.
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“It doesn’t matter,” Etta said, with what she dearly hoped was something resembling confidence, “when we have the secret we do.”
“Indeed.” The veil fluttered, as if she’d given a silent laugh. “Only two of you, when others have tried to bring in nearly a dozen.”
“I know your rules,” Julian said. “Only eight per party.”
She ignored him, her gaze still fixed on Etta. “How curious, beastie. Yours is a face I have seen before.”
She waved the other woman off. “Yeah. Been getting that a lot recently.”
“And such a pleasant temperament to match. Now, if you’ll each please take a robe and a mask from the basket and don them—yes, you’ll need to put the hood up as well. Safety in anonymity, as I always say.”
“A jolly good policy if I’ve ever heard one,” Julian said, placing the mask on his face and quickly knotting it behind his head. It covered the whole of his face, save for his eyes.
The woman cocked her head to the side. “Aren’t you—”
“The previously-believed-to-be-dead Julian Ironwood?” he said, with the eagerness of someone who’d been longing to be recognized.
“—going to close your robe?” the Belladonna finished, and without any sort of preamble, took up the task of knotting the series of ties that ran down its side. Etta quickly laced her own, and tried not to laugh when the woman ran her spindly fingers down Julian’s front.
“I believe you are our last bidding party. If you would follow me…You have set us back several precious moments. I cannot delay the start of the auction any further.”
The woman cut in front of Etta and pulled the curtain aside.
If Etta had been asked to guess what was behind it, she would not have gone with two dozen other white-robed, golden-masked travelers and guardians, all of whom remained facing forward, packed together like cattle in a stall. The Belladonna reached up for one of the silver lanterns hanging in the trees and held it in front of her as she pushed her way up through the ranks.
Julian started to follow her, but Etta held out an arm, shaking her head. It was better if no one took particular notice of them, and moving to the front would give everyone ample time to guess who might be under the robe. As it was, no one dared to utter a single word as the pack began to follow the Belladonna and her lantern up the rest of the path, toward the temple several hundred yards away.
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