Wayfarer by Alexandra Bracken
The maid blanched, but Etta didn’t care, she didn’t—she was shaking now with the full force of her fury, embarrassment, and resentment. She tried to quell the hurricane of emotions swirling in her chest as she finished dressing and was forced to sit at the vanity and have her hair braided. She avoided looking in the mirror, unwilling to see the throbbing red mark across her cheek.
“Hardly acceptable,” Winifred said, once the ordeal was over, “but follow me.”
Etta knew she needed to go with her if she wanted to confirm the Thorns had the astrolabe, but obeying this woman felt like swallowing seawater: it incinerated her throat, choking her.
“I think I’ll stay,” Etta said, crossing her arms over her chest.
The woman’s hand reached out, and Etta instinctively struck her arm out to block the hit—only, the woman wasn’t aiming for another slap. Her other hand came up and fisted into Etta’s braid, twisting so tightly that Etta yelped in pain. “Let me go!”
Instead, the woman dragged her across the room, never once breaking her stride as Etta kicked and scratched at her to release her grip. The door opened to the other guard’s wide-eyed shock, and, as he fumbled for his words, the woman continued on her path, letting Etta’s bare feet drag and burn across the carpet, down the stairs.
There really was some sort of party happening on the first floor. As Winifred hauled her across a gallery hallway, Etta could hear the excited chatter and laughter, even as a man poured himself into playing a jaunty tune on a piano. The smell of liquor and perfume permeated the air as they passed the door to the library, with Julian’s amused face peering out.
“Attagirl,” he called after them. “Keep fighting, kiddo!”
“Stop calling me that!” she snarled back, gritting her teeth as his laugher chased them down the hall.
And, finally, to another door, this one guarded by three men in fine suits. Winifred released her grip on Etta’s hair, and Etta righted herself. Two of the men blanched at the sight of her. The other twitched a heavy brow in her direction, struggling to swallow his laugh as he gave Etta a pitying look.
“Come now, Winnie. She’s just a girl. Have a care.”
“Her girl,” Winifred said, pounding on the door. “Never forget this.”
“Come in,” came the immediate reply.
Not an invitation, of course, but a command. Etta had arrived ready to fight, her pulse raging as she huffed. Calm down, calm down, remember the plan—she had to find out if they had the astrolabe, and try to figure out how to get it away from them to destroy it once and for all.
The guards fell back as Etta was pushed inside by the older woman, her hand twisted in the loose fabric of Etta’s blouse to ensure, she guessed, that she didn’t try to make one last run for it. Instead, she passed through the threshold at her full height, trying not to glare.
This office had been decorated in a similar style to the library—all masculine dark wood and jewel tones. It aimed to be impressive, and hit the mark. The window captured much the same view of the crippled landscape, along with the first hint of dawn brightening the sky.
There were already four people in the room, seated around the stately desk at its center. Etta’s eyes landed on the woman first, taking in her tailored skirt suit and the dark hair she’d curled and twisted into victory rolls. The older man beside her wore plain linen trousers and a tunic, both almost entirely hidden beneath his leather chest plate and sword belt. His long gray hair was slicked back from his bearded face, with small silver beads braided into several of the strands that grazed the fur pelt draped over his shoulders. To his right was a young Asian man, wearing a kimono in a shade of blue usually found only in the deepest heart of the ocean.
An incredulous laugh bubbled up inside of her at the sight of them.
Etta inhaled a deep breath through her nose, letting the smell of wax and wood polish settle her. Henry Hemlock sat behind the desk, his feet crossed and propped up on it.
The others turned to look at Etta and Winifred, and then back at Henry, shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Henry Hemlock, however, continued on with what he was saying. “I hear you, Elizabeth. I do. The last thing I want is for your children to go to sleep worrying you won’t be there in the morning. So many of us lived through that time and suffered for it. I’ll take another look at the postings and see if anyone is amenable to a switch.”
The woman’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Thank you. Thank you.”
“We shouldn’t delay in meeting them, sir, if the situation is as dire as the message seems to convey,” said the man with long silver hair. “We must help them and secure our advantage before making any changes to our personnel. In fact, I think I should go round up John and Abraham before meeting the rest of you there.”
Henry grinned. “Perhaps leaving the fur behind.”
The man laughed, stroking the tufts of it. “I think I’d make quite a statement stomping down the Seine.”
“And cause a disastrous change for a laugh, I suppose,” Winifred said, with ice in her voice.
Etta counted more than one set of eyes rolling in that room.
“You’d try to shoot a star down from the sky for shining too brightly,” the man groused back.
“All right,” Henry said, taking his feet off the desk and standing. Everyone in the room, except Etta, pivoted to follow his path back and forth as he began to pace. “That’s enough. You know how I feel about this sort of sniping. Remember there’s a true enemy out there to aim at.”
“Yes, of course,” Winifred breathed, the very essence of sweetness, even as her grip on Etta tightened.
“I don’t think we’ve considered the fact that he, too, could be dead, and that Ironwood might already have the astrolabe,” the Japanese man interjected, leaning over to poke at an open letter. “Who else could they mean by ‘shadows’? Who else has the resources to hunt the brothers the way he describes?”
What? Etta felt the moment tilt sharply beneath her feet, the realization its own earthquake.
“If it were so easy, we would have done so decades past,” Henry said, turning his gaze onto Etta. “You seem surprised. Almost as if, perhaps, you’d expected to find the astrolabe with us?”
Etta said nothing, only turned her face away, to stare at the place where the wood floors met the carpets. There was a kind of lure in his dark gaze; his focus tracked her every shift and breath. The weight of it registered so strongly, it felt as if he’d put his hands on her shoulders and was stubbornly trying to turn her back toward him. She didn’t want him to have easy access to her thoughts, not when her mind was racing like this, trying to keep pace with her thundering heart.
It had been two weeks since the two Thorns, along with Sophia, had wrested the astrolabe from her in Damascus. They should have been able to create a passage directly back to the rest of the Thorns here in San Francisco; but from what she’d understood of their conversation, not only had they not brought the astrolabe, they’d disappeared altogether. And there had been no word at all from Sophia, who’d gone with them.
“All we’ve seen are the Ironwoods he’s sent out to try to rewrite our changes in small ways,” Henry said. “Were it in his possession, Cyrus wouldn’t have hesitated to use it, to reset the timeline back to his own. It’s greed and greed alone that compels his family.”
“Let’s not forget,” the silver-haired man said with a chuckle, “we both have Ironwood on our mothers’ side.”
“No,” Henry said with a quick smile, “let’s. But my point stands. We must trust in Kadir’s ability to get to safety, and in our own to ensure we can get to him in time and retrieve the astrolabe from where he’s hidden it. I’m sorry to cut the celebrations short, but tell the others to make ready to travel in the morning. And we’ll need to leave at least some travelers to support the guardians staying here to watch the children.”
“A wise decision,” Winifred gushed.
Etta tried not to gag.
The others nodd
“Please have a seat, Henrietta. Winifred, thank you; that will be all. Ensure we’re not disturbed.”
The older woman bobbed a slight curtsey, giving Etta’s back a parting pinch, hard enough to make her jump forward a step. Etta waited until the woman had vanished through the door in a swirl of dark skirts before turning to Henry and spitting out, “She doesn’t travel through passages, does she? She sacrifices a puppy and flies through the centuries on her broom.”
He gave a sharp cough into his hand.
“I assure you, your great-aunt is quite loving,” Henry said, only to stop and reconsider. “That is, she’s quite loving in her own way…every other Sunday. In May. Won’t you sit?”
Great-aunt. No way in hell.
Etta didn’t sit; her hands curled around the back of the chair so tightly, its joints creaked.
“The first thing I want you to know is that you are safe here,” he said, not breaking his gaze. “You have nothing to fear from myself or anyone here. I’ve taken measures to ensure your safety from Ironwood, as well. Unless you choose to go looking for him, he will no longer concern himself with you.”
That seemed unlikely. Before she could press the point, Henry turned his attention to shuffling through the unruly stack of opened correspondence and parchment piled into small, unsteady mountains on his desk. He seemed to find what he was looking for; he pulled a black velvet sack out from under the mess and dumped something into his palm—a gold earring. A hoop decorated with a pearl, blue beads, and tiny gold leaves.
Mom’s earring. Etta’s whole self seemed to tense in belated panic. One hand rose to touch her ears, only to find both of them free of jewelry.
“Winifred found this in the folds of your clothing when you were brought to us,” he said, offering it to her. “I thought you might like it back.”
Just one? The question hung in her mind, quiet with devastation. In the grand scheme of everything that had happened, losing an earring was hardly the worst failure she’d endured, but it was another betrayal of trust, another way she had let her mother down.
She couldn’t add yet another notch to that tally by falling prey to this man’s lies. “You keep it. I found it in some junky old thrift shop.”
Henry’s lips compressed at that, and, when he did speak, there was a new edge to the words. “I realize you are out of your depth, and I am quite sympathetic to all that you’ve been through. But one thing I cannot tolerate is lying, and another is disrespecting your family. You did not find these earrings in a thrift store. I imagine they were a gift from your mother, as I know they were a cherished gift from her beloved uncle’s wife.”
He knows about Hasan.
That didn’t prove anything. He and the others had talked about having many sources out there; he could have easily learned about Hasan that way.
Even that his wife was the one who gave her the earrings?
Etta began to bite her lip, but forced herself to stop. She would not give in to the temptation to fill the uneasy silence between them with chatter. Not when Henry seemed so comfortable in it, and was watching her so closely.
“Who did you bribe for that information?” she asked, taking the earring from him.
One corner of his mouth kicked up, and he opened the same drawer, retrieving a long velvet case. Resting inside was a strand of glistening pearls, each slightly irregular in shape. Every third pearl was nestled between breathtaking sapphires. “Samarah made them to match this necklace I commissioned upon our engagement. Is that proof enough for you?”
At that, Etta did sit down. Henry placed the jewelry case between them.
Engagement. Engagement.
Memory clouded her mind, dulling all of the certainties with which she had walked into the office.
But, darling, who’s your father? Alice had asked her in London. Henrietta…is it…is it possibly Henry?
“I’ll have another earring made to match,” he told her. “Or we might adjust it to be worn as a necklace. Whichever you’d prefer.”
Etta felt like she was barreling down a road at night without a brake pedal. This wasn’t right—it wasn’t him. This man couldn’t be her father.
“I don’t want anything from you,” she said.
“And yet, it’s my duty to provide for you,” Henry said. “At least grant me that much. I’m nearly eighteen years behind on the matter.”
“I can take care of things myself,” Etta said.
“Yes,” he said with a faint laugh. “That seems likely, given your mother. It’s rather remarkable, you know, the resemblance between the two of you. Uncanny, even.”
“Yeah, I didn’t miss the folks in the hall who crossed themselves when they saw me,” Etta said dryly.
Henry didn’t seem to hear her. He was carefully studying her face, his hand absently ruffling his dark hair. “But she gave you my name….”
Is it possibly Henry?
There seemed to be a question buried in the words, but his voice trailed off; he looked away, focusing on the empty bookshelves on the other side of the room. It gave Etta the opportunity to study him again—to prove to herself, and that small, chiming part of her heart, that there was no resemblance there to be found.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” she admitted.
“‘He who dares not grasp the thorn should never crave the rose,’ as Brontë said.” There was a wry expression on Henry’s face as he continued. “She has always been fiercely intelligent and determined, but she held herself apart from most others, for her own protection, to give herself distance if she ever needed to run. Capturing her heart was like wrestling a bear. I still have the scars to show for it.”
Etta, not for the first time, or even the twentieth, wished she had a better grip on the timeline of her mother’s life—when she had left the Thorns, when she had gone to infiltrate the Ironwoods, and when she had ultimately betrayed both by hiding the astrolabe and disappearing into the future. But it fit. All of this fit.
Is it possibly Henry?
More than possible. Etta brought her hand to her face, pressing her fingers hard to her temples, as if that could ease the pounding there. Her shoulder complained each time she shifted, but the pain only chiseled down her thoughts to their bare truths. Each small argument, each scrap of evidence, was beginning to form an undeniable picture.
She wanted Nicholas—she wanted to see his face, and measure his thoughts against her own until they made sense. Etta hadn’t understood how she’d used his steady resolve as a shelter until it was gone, and she was raw and exposed and trapped. When she’d been orphaned, she’d left the braver parts of herself with him, and what was left of her now was too cowardly to admit what she already knew to be true.
“It was for her as it was for me,” Henry said, eyes back on hers. “Truthfully…I don’t know that she named you for me, so much as for a moment in time. I suppose you are a tribute, a kind of memory to who we were. It’s—well, it’s unexpected, given the way she left us.”
Etta didn’t trust her voice enough to speak.
Her whole life, all eighteen years of it, her father had lingered as a kind of question mark in the background. A ghost that came around haunting now and then in her thoughts to remind her of the loss—to expand that gap in her family portraits. But there had been many ghosts, and many gaps, on both sides of her family, and Etta had never let herself dwell on any of them in particular, because it seemed ungrateful in the face of everything and everyone she did have.
Father. A word from a vocabulary of love she’d never learned. Etta couldn’t make any more sense of it than she could of the way she felt. An involuntary, panicked elation that left her feeling like she needed to run to him or away from him.
“What am I doing here?” Etta asked finally.
“At first, we only wanted to protect and heal you—you were almost dead when Julian Ironwood brought you back to us. From here on out…well,” he said, “I should like to hope you will aid us against Ironwood, considering all he’s done to you. And if I’m lucky, you might tell me a little about yourself, beyond what I know.”
“Which is what?” she asked, shocked by the eagerness in his voice.
“That you were born and raised in Manhattan. That you enjoy reading, and were homeschooled from a young age. I know that you have performed across the world in many competitions, and that you feel very strongly about Bach over Beethoven.”
“You read the Times article,” she said quietly.
“I read everything I could find from this…Internet…creation,” he admitted. He said Internet like he was testing the word in his mouth for the first time. “Not nearly enough. There’s one question in particular I’ve had for weeks now, and I desperately wish you’d consider answering it—but only if you are comfortable.”
The way he framed it satisfied her pride and appealed to her curiosity, but there was one weight she needed to remove before she could continue.
“I need you to answer a question for me first,” Etta said. “But I don’t know if I can even trust your answer….”
“Ask and see.”
She took a pacifying breath, waiting until the pain in her throat eased enough to speak normally. “The night of the concert…were you or any of your Thorns involved in a shooting?”
There. A flicker of something in his face. Henry’s lips compressed and she heard the harsh breath leave his nose. “Do you mean Alice?”
Etta had expected a quick dismissal, an annoyed defense. But that softness in his expression rubbed at the fragile shield she’d constructed around her heart, and the heaviness in his words nearly cracked it altogether.
She swallowed again. Nodded.
It was a long while before he spoke again, and the whole time, he never broke his gaze away from her. Etta could see his mind working, as if deciding how best to continue—or was he deciding what she could handle?
“Never,” he told her. “I would never harm Alice, though I’m not sure she felt the same about me. I believed her when she said she tried to stop you from traveling. To protect you.”