“What happens if the future is changed?” Etta leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees.
Sophia sighed. “Tell me about travel in your era. What is it like on an aeroplane?”
Biting back her impatience, Etta told her, then waited for her answer, shifting uncomfortably on the hard seat.
Sophia folded her hands over her stomach as she stared up at the ceiling. “If someone did alter the past, and the consequences were large enough to shift the timeline, it would not erase you, a traveler outside of your natural era, from existence. You would go on, alive. It would, however, erase the world you know. You could return and find the circumstances of your life altered in such an enormous way, it would look unrecognizable to you. You wouldn’t know the same people, live in the same home, and so on. You would be a refugee from your original, natural time. The moment the timeline shifts to a new one, what we call a wrinkle is created. Time will attempt to correct and realign itself the best it can by dragging you, the traveler, out of whatever era you’re in and shoving you into the last common year between the old timeline and the new.”
It made some sense to her that she wouldn’t be erased from history by making a mistake. Erasing herself would also erase the initial mistake that caused it, making it impossible to have altered anything in the first place. But what Sophia was describing was terrifying. She could be returned to a time in which no one—not Alice, not Pierce, no one—would know her. It would void everything she’d accomplished with the violin, the name she’d worked so hard to establish.
“You’re considering this, aren’t you?” Sophia asked. “I can see it in your face. Before, you were afraid. Now you’re curious.”
“It doesn’t matter if I’m curious,” Etta said. “I’m going home.”
“You won’t be going back until Grandfather allows it, and if he’s demanding your presence, he must have a good reason for it. I’d like to know what that is.”
Etta forced her shoulders to relax. “You and me both.”
“Unlace me,” said Sophia. I’d like to rest now.”
But this game isn’t over. And her last question…Etta had spent so much of her life sorting through critiques and assessments of her playing, she felt fairly confident in her ability to pick out the truth from an exaggeration, a preference, or a lie. What Sophia said had been the truth, but not the whole truth.
“So now you won’t return the favor?” Sophia huffed. “I knew I should have brought a maid.”
Etta pushed herself up as the ship began to rock. Sophia turned green again as Etta’s nimble fingers worked down the row of tiny buttons.
The fabric, some kind of damask, was warm and damp from the girl’s sweat; the stays were heavy with it, the shift beneath translucent and reeking sourly. In spite of everything, an aching kind of sympathy made Etta turn and retrieve a fresh one from the nearby trunk. In the instant before she looked away, Etta saw the deep, angry grooves the corset had left behind in the girl’s skin. Sophia let out a small sigh of relief as she slipped into the fresh undergarment. If they were in agreement over one thing, it was the not-so-insignificant fact that this wasn’t a stellar era for women.
“How are we supposed to move in these?” Etta said, tossing the stays onto the desk.
“…They don’t expect women to do much of anything,” Sophia said. “Well,” she added, “at least not women of any station. I’m sure the peasants of this era are glad for some support when they’re hunched over cleaning their homes, or doing whatever it is peasants do. Makes running and fighting bloody hard, though.”
Etta rubbed her forehead, not sure where to start with that.
“For now, your role here is wallpaper,” Sophia said. “Decoration. Until we get to New York. And then it’ll be whatever Grandfather asks of you.”
Etta recoiled at the thought. If her mom had been here, the mere idea would have sent her on a tirade that blistered ears and scorched hearts across the entire ocean. Wallpaper. Decoration. Her whole life and person, whittled down to nothing.
“I don’t accept that,” Etta said. “I’m neither of those things. And, for the record, neither are you.”
At that, Sophia’s expression changed, and the softness of exhaustion was pulled back by keen interest. “You’ve been spoilt, you know. You and your voting, your schooling, your independence…it’s been wasted on you.”
Etta bristled, as Sophia clearly wanted. Like any girl, she still felt the echoes from earlier eras of repression. She’d been raised by a mother who’d fought hard to get a wage she deserved, to have access to education when she lacked every advantage, to travel on her own terms. The idea that she was being asked—that she was expected to simply play along—made the blood throb in her veins. She was already in the damn stays. Wasn’t that enough?
“Why stay here, if you can go anywhere in time?” Etta asked. “You can come back with me—I mean, travel forward again. Or go into the past and try to alter the laws—”
Sophia let out a single, flat laugh. “I’ve no choice. This is the year all travelers are forced to travel from, where our family is currently based. Grandfather chooses, and we follow. Regardless of where and when we’re born, we all meet there. We all offer our services to the head of the family. We play the roles each era demands of us, and we do not meddle with laws or society. At least not anymore.”
Wasn’t that convenient, thinking that this was some kind of role? That they were playing parts, like this was all one great big play and they’d been cast as the leads? It was an easy way to wash their hands of responsibility for fixing things, to sit back as wars were waged and people were oppressed. Etta was protective of her future, the life she’d known; but the idea of doing nothing when there was the power to act made her uncomfortable, and more than that, angry.
“What’s the purpose of traveling, then?” Etta demanded, impatient with all of these non-answers. “If you won’t try to fix anything, make the world a better place, why bother traveling?”
“To serve Grandfather’s will,” Sophia said, sounding tired by it all. “Protect the family’s interests. To tour what an era has to offer and enjoy it.”
Wonderful. They had the rarest, most bewildering power in the world, and how did her family choose to use this incredible gift? To line their pockets with cash and go sightseeing.
“That’s it?” Etta sputtered. “Seriously?”
“We protect our timeline. We defend it from attacks by enemies of our family—remnants of the other three traveling families that refused to be absorbed into our own.”
“You do have a choice, you know,” Etta told her after a moment. “There is always a choice. You know where the passage is to my time. You could choose to leave. But you don’t. So what’s really keeping you here, other than loyalty and fear?”
“Are you calling me a coward?” Sophia asked, her words chipped from ice.
The other girl had this power, too. So what was keeping her in check, Etta wondered, when clearly she wanted so much more than what her family was offering?
“I’m saying, you’re smart. You want something better. So take back the control of your life and go.”
And you can take me back with you. Etta wove her hands together again in her lap, watching for the shift in the other girl’s expression; it wasn’t exactly manipulation, per se, but an offer to ally herself. If she could convince Sophia she did deserve better than what the past had to offer, then the girl might bring her back to the passage they’d come through. Together, they could figure out how to get off this ship. Etta was almost positive, with some creative lying on both their parts, that her mom would be willing to help the girl get back on her feet.
Sophia shut her eyes and shook her head. When she opened them again, Etta felt scorched by the fury in them.
“Save your breath,” Sophia hissed. “Our life entails order. It requires rules, and the act of blending in to ensure our survival. You don’t understand, Etta. There are less than a hundred travelers aliv
e now. We are already dying out, without the risk of being captured or killed in an unforgiving era. We all observe the norms of the era, no matter how it might affect us.”
“Tell yourself that, if it makes you feel better about it,” Etta said.
Sophia rolled her eyes. “Could you imagine what kind of abuse we’d suffer if the right people found a way to force us into their service?”
Etta didn’t have to imagine anything. She saw the flicker of horror on the girl’s face.
“We protect ourselves by playing roles fit for the year we’re in.”
“What do you mean?” Etta asked.
“I mean exactly that—the future you know. Before Grandfather united the families, they were constantly trying to destroy each other’s natural timelines. There was no stability. Now there is. So cling to your rights, your beliefs, your future—but know that none of them will help you here. You haven’t been forced to survive in the same way as the centuries of women who came before you. You know nothing of the impossibly small weapons we must use to carve out knowledge and power.”
The many scattered scraps and pages of Sophia’s life began to assemble themselves in Etta’s mind. She felt them drawing together, saw the rigidity of the spine that held together someone seething, boiling with so much spite and cunning. Sophia’s own small weapon was finding other people’s vulnerabilities, chipping away at their fears and desires until they were exposed like raw nerves. What kind of life had her family given Sophia to make her so desperate for more, to force her to sharpen this skill?
Sophia’s voice was growing rougher the longer she spoke. “Now that our game is at an end, allow me to be perfectly clear. Society is always the same, regardless of the era. There are rules and standards, with seemingly no purpose. It’s a hateful, elaborate charade, equal parts flirtation and perceived naïveté. To men, we have the minds of children. And so you will not make eye contact with any man on this ship. You will eat slowly, carefully, and little; and, if not with me in my cabin, then alone. You will not leave your cabin unless I am there to accompany you. And you will do us both the favor and act the part of a mute, unless you have been asked a direct question and I am not there to answer it. And you will not, under any conditions, speak or associate with Carter beyond his capacity as our servant.”
Anger whipped fast and hot against her pulse; she was tired of Sophia acting as if every other living soul was beneath her. “Nicholas isn’t our servant.”
Sophia pushed herself up onto her elbows and repeated, “Nicholas?”
Etta realized her mistake a moment too late—even she knew that, in this time, it wasn’t proper to address anyone you weren’t close to, or related to, by their given name, least of all a person of the opposite sex.
“Mr. Carter,” she corrected herself. “You know what I mean. Don’t you dare treat him like—”
“Watch yourself,” Sophia cut in. “I know what you’re thinking, the conclusion you’ve just drawn, but know this: my mistrust is of a very personal nature. I have seen the rotten edges of his soul, and I know him for the deceitful swine he is.” There was no mockery, nothing false in her voice. “Stay away from him.”
Etta rose, gathering up her wet clothing to hide the way her hands shook.
I’m not wrong…I’m not. She’d bet on the person who had jumped into the ocean to save her, not the one who’d trapped her in the past against her will. Any day, any century.
“Unlike you,” she said when she reached the door, “I’ll make my own decisions.”
But as Etta gave in to the urge to look back over her shoulder, to see if her words had landed the way she’d hoped, Sophia was already on her back again, eyes closed.
“Go on,” Sophia said as the door creaked open. “Try.”
ETTA STEPPED INTO THE HALLWAY, SHUTTING THE DOOR. She leaned back against it, searching for the rhythm of the repairs happening on the deck above her, the voices drifting up from beneath her feet. A song of work, one that spoke of labor and skill. The notes floated through her ears, arranging themselves to match the tempo and drive—
Stop it, she thought, fingers tightening on the fabric in her arms.
A breeze escaped through the open hatch, and brushed by her on its way toward the forecastle at the other end of the ship. The curtains there were gone now, and she could make out hammocks, plus a small area where a few men sat scraping food off metal plates. One turned, and the whole left side of his face was covered with a blood-soaked bandage. She turned back to the other cabin door, ready to be alone.
Who’s the coward now?
She draped the damp gown and underpinnings over her own built-in bunk to finish drying. She brushed at the thin crust of white salt clinging to the stiffening fabric before turning her attention to Nicholas’s jacket.
Mr. Carter’s jacket.
Something in her snapped. Why was she staying here—because Sophia had ordered her to? She could go up on deck if she liked. She could escape the smell of sickness, the cramped confines of the cabin, take in the fresh sea air and look into the distance. She’d make her own choices in all of this, no matter what Sophia said.
Only…Etta deflated the moment her fingers brushed the handle. He had asked them to stay below while the ship was repaired—and to stay out of the forecastle. It didn’t matter that the request must be partially powered by his desire to keep Sophia away from him. While she wouldn’t take orders from the other girl, Etta couldn’t bring herself to ignore Nicholas’s wishes. Plus, the deck had been littered not only with bodies, but weapons, and shards of metal and glass. Until they cleared it completely, it wasn’t safe, and she wasn’t about to get in the way of their work.
How do I do this without her? Think, think, think.…
Etta breathed in the calming scent of soap and cedar as she sat on the edge of her bunk, and realized with surprise that she was still clutching the jacket. Her hands were still wrapped in its warmth, at odds with the toes freezing in her shoes. With as delicate a touch as she could manage, she polished the line of brass buttons that ran down the front, and draped the large expanse of the jacket over her legs to smooth out the creases she’d left in the fabric.
Her fingers brushed a small line of raised stitching, where someone had mended a tear just below the shoulder. She wondered what had made it—an accident? Carelessness? A weapon?
Ask him. The words rose again and again until she couldn’t ignore them. Ask him for help. They had a common enemy; maybe he wouldn’t be so willing to do Sophia’s bidding when it came down to it.
Nicholas—Mr. Carter—disliked Sophia, but would that be enough to compel him to put her back…where? She still didn’t know the location of the passage she’d come through to get here. But—she sat up straighter, the idea racing from her head to her heart. The crew in the hold—they would know where they’d sailed from, wouldn’t they? Everyone on this ship was bound to know where she and Sophia had boarded from.
I have seen the rotten edges of his soul.
I know him for the deceitful swine he is.
Etta shook her head. The crew members were the key, both the ones working above and the ones below. If they got to know her, knew that she’d essentially been kidnapped, would they help her get away from Sophia? Would they be willing to bring her back?
She could figure out a way to play the perfect eighteenth-century girl, on her own terms. It would just be a matter of convincing the crew to like her.
Which, given her track record of friends…might actually be the most difficult part of this. She had acquaintances on the competition circuit, but she knew more about their technical skills as violinists than about their personal lives. And then there had been Pierce.
Etta’s throat felt thick as something lodged in the base of it. The familiar sting of tears, the pressure behind her eyes—thinking of Pierce now only made her think of Alice.
I’m going to save her.
Her death wasn’t a conclusion. It wasn’t the end.
Etta blanked the thoughts out of her mind by sheer force of will and stood, setting the jacket beside the gown. Her hands itched with the need to be busy, to play the violin until her head emptied and she sank into music. Instead, she dug through the layers of blankets in the trunk, feeling for the silver hairbrush she’d seen somewhere at the bottom.
The bristles felt like they were made of some other, stiffer kind of hair. She examined the fine detailing of leaves and flowers on the silver back, surprised that Sophia had included something so beautiful and nice for her to use—not, say, a small rake that would tear out her hair by the roots.
By the time she’d worked one stroke through the nest of knots, Etta wasn’t so sure a rake would have been less painful. She worked with agonizing care, biting her lip to keep from crying. The hair spray she’d shellacked on before the concert hadn’t been washed out by the salt water, but had only hardened. It might have struck her as sort of impressive, if her scalp hadn’t been on fire, and what hair she could work through the brush hadn’t been standing straight out like a stretched cotton ball. Both the pitcher and the basin in this cabin were empty, and Etta was too proud to steal some water, even if Sophia was asleep.
There was a faint scratch and knock at the door. She held her breath and stayed quiet, hoping whoever it was would assume she was asleep. Instead, after another knock, the door cracked open, and a small face peered inside.
A young boy, the one she’d seen on his hands and knees scrubbing the deck, kept his face turned down, his hands folded in front of him. “Oh! I hate to trouble ye, but—”
His face was an explosion of freckles against pale pink skin, topped off by gorgeous red hair that seemed wasted on a boy. His eyes were a bright, clear blue, and as he looked up, they popped out wide.
Etta had the sudden painful realization that, while her hands had stopped working and returned to her lap, the brush had not made the journey with them. It dangled from the side of her head.
“Miss!” he gasped. “You didn’t—terribly sorry, I only—I just need the captain’s, that is, Mr. Carter’s jacket?”
Passenger Page 9