Wayfarer by Alexandra Bracken
Dead. Dying. Incinerated.
Gone.
Etta’s stomach turned, and she looked away, toward the heavy, dark curtain covering the shattered window. The movement must have finally caught the old woman’s attention, because Etta felt the pressure of her gaze like a chain jerking her head back up.
“My God—Rose—”
Etta jumped at the viciousness of the woman’s tone, less amused now to see yet another person all but cross themselves at a reminder of her mother.
“No, Nan,” Julian said, pressing her gently down onto the bed. “This is her daughter. Etta, this is the great Octavia Ironwood.”
This didn’t seem to improve the woman’s opinion in the slightest. Her breathing had become labored, to the point where even Julian shot a panicked look at a nearby oxygen tank. Etta took another step back, wondering if she should leave—Julian’s old nanny was so fragile right now, any sort of disturbance seemed capable of shattering what strength she had left.
“I never thought…I’d see you with the likes of a Linden, and her daughter, no less,” the woman coughed, hacking up something wet from her lungs. Julian’s face softened; he reached for a rag and a bowl of warm water from the nearby stand and dabbed the blood from the corner of her lips.
“Don’t…bother yourself….”
“It’s no bother at all,” he told her. “Just returning the favor for all the times you did it for me as a little prat.”
“You were never a prat,” Octavia told him, her voice severe despite the whistle of air in and out of her chest. “You were trying. You tested. But you were never”—she cut her eyes at Etta—“stupid.”
That one stung, Etta had to admit. Initially, hearing things like that had made Etta think of her mother like one of the paintings Rose restored at the Met—its true image obscured by layers of age and grime. Now, she wore the truth like a badge of shame. “You tried your best raising me,” Julian was saying, “but you know me—all style, no sense. I was bound to run with a rougher set sooner or later.”
The burned half of the woman’s face pulled into an agonizing smile. Etta couldn’t tell the difference between her choking and laughter.
“You’re a little love,” she informed him. “I might like you…even better…if you could find me a drink of the good stuff.”
“I’ll bring you a whole bottle of Scotch,” he vowed, “if I have to go to Scotland and bring it back, still cold from the distillery.”
“Tell me what’s…what’s happened,” she said. “This wasn’t what was meant to be.”
Julian began to explain what had happened, quietly, quickly.
“There’s a lot to be said about Cyrus Ironwood,” Octavia began. “There’s…much to be ashamed of. How he treats—how he treats his own family, for one. He was so hard on you…for not being what he meant you to be. For not fixing…your father.”
Etta’s hands curled around her biceps, squeezing the muscles. Nicholas and Julian’s father, Augustus, had been a vile piece of work; Etta had to wonder if he was what Cyrus had “meant for” Julian to be.
The shadow that passed over Julian’s face lifted again as the woman’s eyes flickered over to him, then to the room’s other sleeping occupants. She spoke so softly, Etta had to move closer to her bed to hear. “There is…madness in him. Oh, don’t look so surprised. Those of us…those of us closest to him have watched him step closer…closer…to the fire. But he did create a world better than what had…come before. None of this…none of this should have happened. But Rose Linden—she and her outcasts could never accept it.”
“This wasn’t part of the original timeline?” Julian clarified, just as softly. “I didn’t think so, but I couldn’t be sure. There were so many changes when Grandfather went to war with the families.”
“No,” Octavia said. “I wouldn’t have stayed. I wouldn’t have…let children…let anyone die…I wouldn’t have let this happen.”
Etta’s heart froze in her chest, seizing painfully. If Octavia thought—believed—that she could have prevented this, or at least saved herself, then that meant…
She’d had it wrong. Etta had assumed that guardians, unlike travelers, wouldn’t be able to recognize when the timeline shifted—that they would simply be carried forward, their lives and memories adjusted, blissfully unaware that their lives had ever been different. But that wasn’t the case at all. The Ironwood guardians, in service to the old man, would know how things were meant to play out. If they survived the changes, they would know the timeline had been altered, and live out its consequences. Etta was almost breathless with the unspeakable cruelty of it. These people were born into this hidden world, yet were as much at its mercy as a normal man or woman. Only, they would know when something was lost, and when there was a reason to be afraid.
“I know, Nan,” Julian said, cupping her hand between his. “You would have saved the whole damn city if you knew.”
“You didn’t know, either…so why…why come?” Octavia asked, turning her head to better look at him.
“Because I needed to find out a few things,” Julian said, lying just a little, “and you’re the only person I trust.”
Another painful smile as her burned skin pulled beneath her bandages. “Tell me. But—she goes.”
“Nan,” Julian cajoled. “Etta’s not like her mother. She wasn’t even told she was one of us until last month. If you hold her mother against her, you’ll have to hold my father against me.”
“Her mother was the reason for your father’s change…for his cruelty. She created it in him—”
“Let’s not—” Julian cut her off, then cringed. “She didn’t make him who he was, she only released what was already inside of him, waiting to be let out. Let’s just…I only meant that we’re trying to find out what’s been happening with the family. Grandfather has been trying to track down his old obsession again, and now we need to find him.”
The candlelight drew deep shadows across Julian’s face as he leaned forward, searching Octavia’s face. He shifted uncomfortably, and the creaking of the chair cut through the murmur of life and death in the makeshift ward.
She won’t talk until I leave, Etta realized. But she wasn’t about to step outside and rely solely on Julian relaying the complete picture to her.
“Easy, Nan,” Julian said. “This one’s all right. Vetted her myself, otherwise I wouldn’t have brought her to you.”
She clearly had some doubts about his judgment, but let this pass.
“Be careful…won’t you? He’s been…traveling again. Came here only days ago…called a family meeting. Don’t let him…find you,” Octavia said, fixing her gaze back on Julian.
“Him?” Julian repeated. “Grandpops? Why? The old man moves once every two decades at best.”
“If I tell you…” Octavia blew out a long, wheezing sigh. “What trouble…will you find yourself in?”
“The good kind,” Julian promised her. “The kind that makes you proud of me, even as you put me in the naughty corner.”
The sound that came out of her must have been a laugh, though it was painful to hear. “There’s…an auction. Came through…the family lines. He came to take…the gold from his vault here. Buy-in.”
“An auction?” Julian repeated, glancing at Etta. “Did he say what for?”
“Is there anything else…he could want…so desperately?”
The astrolabe.
“He doesn’t already have it?” Etta asked. Who had taken it from Kadir in the palace, then?
Julian must have had a similar thought, but arrived at an actual guess. “The Belladonna. I should have known the blasted thing would turn up with her. She must have sent one of her minions to steal it, or one of Grandpop’s men went rogue and brought it to her for a fee. Do you know the location of the auction? The year?”
Octavia shook her head, and Etta felt herself deflate. The old woman grabbed Julian’s hand, holding him in place. “Leave…go back. As far…back as you can.”
“I’ve got a few things to do first,” he told her, “but I will. In time.”
“No—Julian, the Shadows—even guardians hear whispers of such—of such things—murders—”
“Shadows?” Julian’s brow creased. “Are you trying to be funny with me, Nan?”
Despite her condition, she leveled him with a look perfected by years as a nanny.
“You also told me my hair was going to fall out if I didn’t stop eating sweets, so forgive me if I doubt the story about the creatures who snatch naughty traveler children in the night.”
“What are you talking about?” Etta asked, looking between them.
“You know, the one your mother gently traumatized you with from a young age—about people who live in shadows and steal little traveler children who don’t follow the rules?” He rubbed at the stubble on his chin, and Etta wondered why everything he ever did made it seem like he was posing. “Huh. You don’t know. Oh! Right. Your terror of a mother kept everything secret, et cetera. Have to say, this is the first time I’ve been jealous of you. From the shadows they come…”
It was only because he had mentioned her mother. It was only because the memory of the Winter Palace was still so close to the surface, blooming with renewed pain every few minutes. It was only because of those things that Rose’s words circled back to her then, and tentatively linked with what Julian said.
“You can say if I’m telling it wrong,” he told Octavia. “But there’s this old story, about a group that lives in the shadows and takes traveler children who stray from their families. I always thought it was made up to explain how kids got left behind in time periods or were orphaned. Is that not the case?”
“Killers—” Octavia let out a brutal cough, bringing blood to her lips. Julian leaned forward, gently dabbing them with the wet cloth.
“Easy now,” he told her.
“Murderers…the whole lot of them,” Octavia said. “We knew of them…Cyrus—he wants the same thing that—that they do. Destroyed all records of them. Never wanted…anyone to know about them…otherwise, they’d be too frightened…to help him search for it.”
It. The astrolabe.
You don’t know what’s coming, what’s been chasing me for years, her mother had said. I’ve kept them off your trail for weeks, from the moment you were taken, but the Shadows—
But the Shadows…
What had Henry told her about Rose’s delusions? That she’d become afraid of the darkness, that the delusion of the radiant man who’d haunted her had sent Shadows out after her?
“What do they look like?” she asked. Rose’s attention in the palace had been drawn away by attackers in black. She’d assumed they were Ironwoods, even palace guards, but—her mind was moving too quickly, strumming through possibilities. There was one more piece to this, something that would weave the truth together. It couldn’t be as simple as…no, it wasn’t.
Henry wasn’t wrong. Her mother needed help. She was a murderer who’d killed a member of her own family—her best and only friend.
“Don’t…know,” Octavia said. “I don’t—just stay away—”
“All right, it’s all right,” Julian said, glancing at Etta.
But the Shadows…
What’s been chasing me for years…
Octavia’s chest began to rise and fall, fluttering shallowly. When the old woman turned to him again, it was with a wide-eyed desperation, with wretched, gasping breaths. Julian stood from his stool, and Etta thought for one infuriating second that he was about to bolt for the exit—but he only slipped that same tattered notebook out of the fold of his clothing. He retrieved the stubby pencil secured to the back cover with string. The leather was so soft, the journal fell open on the bed, revealing an unfinished sketch of a street.
He’s an artist. Etta had forgotten that, somehow. Or maybe she’d just never been willing to see him as anything other than a coward and a flirt, because it would have been another complication when her entire world had become a series of them. If he had been one of her mother’s paintings, one of those at the Met she had worked so hard to restore, peeling back layers of age and patches, Etta wondered how bright his colors might be beneath.
“Do you remember the old house, Nan? The one we lived in just off the park, up on Sixtieth?” he asked her. His right hand held hers, but his left was already sketching on a blank page.
“With the…with the…”
“The columns and marble and carriage entry,” he continued softly. “Our little palace. Remember how I slid down the banister and cracked my head on the ground?”
She nodded. “Blood. Amelia…fainting. Butler moaning about…the damned vase…”
“That’s what you remember,” he told her. “What I remember is this.”
He held up the rough sketch for her to see, but the cover blocked it from Etta’s sight. It wasn’t meant for her, anyway.
“I remember you scooping me up, holding me, telling me that it would be all right, and that you were there and always would be, to take care of me,” Julian whispered.
Octavia touched the page with her finger. “Beautiful…”
“That’s right. I had a proper, beautiful life, thanks to you.” He kissed her bandaged hand. “And now I’ll do the same for you.”
“Don’t do…anything…foolish….”
“Nan,” he said, fighting for his smile. “You can bet on it.”
THE WOMAN SLIPPED INTO SLEEP AND ETTA MOVED AWAY, leaving Julian to keep vigil. Her head felt empty of real thought, even as her heart was clogged with everything threatening to burst out of it. What surprised her most, though, was the jealousy, burning just beneath the pity and fear.
He gets to be with her.
Julian would be there for Octavia when she died. Etta didn’t think she had much time left at all, but she knew with certainty that Julian would not leave her. It was more than she’d been able to give to Alice.
Henry had stayed with Alice.
And who had stayed with Henry?
Etta lost track of time, walking between the rows of cots, trying not to notice the new openings in the beds. It didn’t feel like nearly enough hours before Julian emerged and came straight toward her, shooting through the rows of the dead and dying like a fiery arrow. He took her arm and drew her forward, stopping only long enough to lift a pile of plain gray trousers and white shirts—the same thing the nurses had changed most of the wounded into.
“Here,” he said, motioning her toward a screen. “Change here.”
Etta slipped behind it, watching his silhouette move against the white fabric, pacing. “What happened…?”
She let her dress fall to the ground and tugged on the soft, oversize clothing.
“Nan’s finally at peace,” he told her quietly, coming closer. “I was waiting for it…for the timeline to shift. To be flung out of here. But it never came. And then I tried to remember—I tried to remember if any change had ever been caused by a guardian dying, or if time just sees them the way Grandfather does: disposable.”
“And?”
“And I couldn’t. I couldn’t. It feels like it should have shifted the whole world. A traveler can do one thing outside of his time and the whole of it can shift. I don’t like that—that it makes it seem like she wasn’t important.” He was talking quickly, almost too quickly for Etta’s tired mind to keep up with. “All done?”
Etta stepped out from behind the screen and let him pass her to start changing.
“Julian,” she said gently. “Are you all right? Take a minute if you have to….”
“I don’t think we have a minute, do you?” he said. “There’s an Ironwood message drop in this year just a ways upstate. The Belladonna will have flooded the drops with invitations to the auction, just to get as many bidders as possible. We can start looking there.”
“Who is the Belladonna?” Etta asked.
“She’s a collector and an agent of sale for rare artifacts,” he said, pulling his new shirt
“Destroying the astrolabe,” Etta said.
Julian leaned out from behind the screen. “Destroying it—what good is that going to accomplish? Shouldn’t we use it to try to save these people?”
One of the first things she’d learned about life as a traveler was that you couldn’t save the dead, not without consequences. But whatever fate the original timeline had intended for these people, this wasn’t it.
“It’ll reset everything,” she explained. “Bring it back to the original timeline. The one we knew…it’ll be gone.”
Julian turned away from surveying the cots, the weeping men and women by the survivor boards, and glanced back at her over his shoulder. “Then let’s go.”
NICHOLAS FELT HIMSELF NOD.
Nod as if to say, Yes, I expected this. I accept this. Because in truth, some part of him had. This was fate’s delight. To give him what he desired, or what he had not known he desired, only to viciously snatch it back again, just when it seemed as if he might seize it.
“What?” he heard Sophia say. “How?”
“A notice went out to all of the travelers and guardians,” Li Min said, struggling with each word, like her throat threatened to choke on them. She dug into her bag, retrieving a small slip of paper, and passed it to Sophia.
“‘Henry Hemlock demands satisfaction from Cyrus Ironwood for the unspeakably cruel murder of his daughter, Henrietta, who has lately passed into eternity from wounds sustained from an attack by his guardians, while she was already weakened’—oh my God. Date and place of death is listed as October 2, 1905, Texas.”
Something like bile or fire was rising in his throat. He couldn’t speak. Nicholas felt parts of himself begin to close off, as if to deny entry again to that now-familiar pain.
I wasn’t fast enough.
I couldn’t reach you.