THE MAN IN THE DARKNESS stepped closer, his footsteps muffled by nearby insects and a cloud of disturbed birds launching into the night sky.

“That’s quite far enough,” Nicholas said, raising the sword so that its tip rested at the man’s throat.

His eyes bulged at the implicit threat, but he did as he was told. Nicholas took careful stock of him. He was stooped at the shoulders, like a man who’d spent his life out in the fields, toiling over a plow. His red tunic was threadbare, nearly as weathered as the deep-set wrinkles in his ragged, dark skin. All of this was offset by a shock of white hair; his thick beard and brows looked as though they’d been left out to gather frost.

“What business do you have here, travelers?” the man demanded. “How did you find us?”

What Nicholas could see of the man’s legs looked thin, almost knobby-kneed, and that general unsteadiness likely accounted for his slight limp and his reliance on a tall walking stick.

“My name is Nicholas Carter,” he said. “We’ve come to trade information, nothing more.”

“No, child, all you’ve done is bring the Shadows, disturb our peace,” he said hoarsely, his gaze darting around the courtyard, as if expecting to find someone else there.

There was that word again, Shadows, and always whispered, as if to avoid summoning them.

Sophia snorted at the word peace. “It’s not about Ironwood. We want a true trade—we have information we could share, but we’ve also got food”—she held up her sack of elephant feed—“food we’d be willing to part with for answers to a few questions that would stay between us. Which one are you, Remus or Fitzhugh?”

“Remus.” The old man muttered something else to himself, one hand rubbing the other as he looped the bow over his shoulder. His gaze drifted away, his breath coming in quick, urgent bursts.

“Sir? Time is of the essence in this matter,” Nicholas tried. The man leaped back as if struck.

“All right, yes, come with me,” he said, voice strained. “Yes, follow me. Quickly now. It will be all right.”

“We’ll see about that,” Sophia said, and her words leeched the rest of the color from the man’s face.

His senses were piqued, his attention snared and drawn back toward the stables. Voices were rising, and the sound of the elephants’ cries had ceased altogether. It seemed their diversion had run its course.

“It is lucky you survived,” the man told them as they moved through the night, “but far luckier indeed that you did not cause a change to the timeline with that elephant stunt.”

Fair point. Nicholas knew that his luck was bound to run out, but having received so little of it in his life, he was willing to push on to find its limits. Still, he couldn’t release the last few tremors of doubt as he followed the man’s unsteady steps any more than he could take his eyes from him. It was unfair, perhaps, given that the man had saved them when he could just as easily have left them to die on the attacker’s blade, but he couldn’t change his nature in a night.

“Ease up and unclench, will you?” Sophia muttered, taking notice. “He’s ancient. And he’ll have a pot to boil whatever it is we just stole from the elephants.”

“You’re thinking with your stomach, not with your head,” he sniped back quietly.

“Didn’t you catch what he said about the Shadows?” she whispered. “He knows who they are—”

Remus spun around, his voice low. “For the love of Christ, do you want someone to hear you speaking another language and assume you’ve snuck in? I won’t be saving you then, believe you me!”

Nicholas and Sophia kept their mouths shut. A good thing, because as they rounded onto the next street, Nicholas had to take a generous step back to avoid crossing into the path of several women heading the opposite way, toward the homes they had passed, where candles were lit and waiting for them. The ladies’ dresses were longer and somehow more elegantly draped than the simple tunics of the men, their gauzy hems swirling around their sandaled feet. One nodded as Nicholas passed her, with dark hair shorn shorter than even Sophia’s.

“Lice?” Sophia asked Remus cautiously, once they were clear of the street and onto a far smaller and quieter one.

He shook his head. “They cut their hair to give to the soldiers for their bows. Do you know nothing, child?”

Sophia made an insolent face behind his back.

“Why would they need to?” Nicholas asked. “I thought they were renowned for their military?”

“They are a fierce people,” Remus said, his voice sounding steadier the farther they walked from the city’s center, away from anyone who might overhear them. “Every man, woman, and child is or will be armed and expected to fight. Each home is a fortress in and of itself. They are rebuilding their arsenal.”

“What happened to their original weapons?” Nicholas asked.

“When the Romans landed on these shores, they demanded hostages and the whole of the city’s arms, which they were given. But that was not enough—they wished for the complete surrender of the city. The Carthaginians defied them, taunted them, even tortured Roman prisoners in full sight of the Roman army. And so it goes.”

“The Romans are building something out in the harbor, aren’t they?”

Remus gave him an exasperated look. “A mole, yes.”

As he’d suspected—moles were massive structures, built from rock, stone, or wood, to be used as a kind of pier or breakwater. In this instance, it would seal up all of the warships he’d seen in the military harbor.

As the sun started to climb, they began their ascent up the hill toward the citadel that overlooked the harbor—Byrsa, the old man called it.

Nicholas kept his head down as they moved; the men and women here wouldn’t be alarmed or find his dark skin particularly noteworthy, but he knew from long experience that men were unlikely to remember someone who didn’t meet their gaze. His sandals shuffled along the worn stone, his thoughts dwindling to merely left, right, left, right, to order himself to keep going. He didn’t look up until he was met with the sight of feet less than half the size of his own, bare and covered in cuts and sores.

The dark-skinned boy stepped aside quickly, allowing Remus, who was building speed like a churning storm, to hobble past. Sophia slid around Nicholas, shooting him an irritated look as she continued on ahead.

The boy couldn’t have been more than eight or nine, Nicholas decided—too small, and wasted to the very bone. His tunic hung off his shoulders in tatters, knotted here and there in awkward lumps to keep it on him. The boy met his gaze from beneath his mass of matted hair. His dark eyes were bold with pride, in absolute defiance of his dismal state.

Nicholas knew that look well; the pride meant going hungry in silence, rather than lowering oneself to asking for charity, to begging. He’d been the same way, even as a slave, even once he was freed by the kindness of the Halls. If the captain hadn’t force-fed him the first few nights, Nicholas wouldn’t have eaten at all.

You’ve the pride of Lucifer, Hall had informed him. It’s the only thing that family gave you, and believe me, you don’t need that inheritance. Unbidden, his mind drew up the image of the child he and Sophia had seen earlier in the night, dead and wasted away from disease and hunger, left in the street like a common animal.

Nicholas gave the boy a tentative smile and lifted his bag from his shoulder, carefully removing the few things he might need from it, leaving only the food. The leather bag’s design was simple enough to pass for something created in this time—and he doubted the boy would take care to notice it much at all. Careful not to say anything, he held it out toward him.

The boy stared at him, and Nicholas knew the moment he’d understood the gift. He snatched the strap of the bag from Nicholas’s hands. Nicholas let out a faint laugh, but as he turned away, a small hand caught his wrist, forcing him to turn back around. The boy’s fingers disappeared inside of his shirt, and he tugged off a thin strand of leather Nicholas hadn’t noticed before. Dangling from it was a small pendant, just smaller than Nicholas’s little finger. The boy held it up, gazing at him with fierce, dark eyes until Nicholas took it.

A trade, then. Nicholas nodded in thanks, and the boy turned and ran, never once looking back. He studied the unexpected gift, holding it up to the light. It was a face—glass that had been painted or colored somehow, and shaped to resemble a man with a curling row of hair, dark brows, large eyes, and a rather magnificent beard that extended from his chin in ringlets. An amulet, perhaps?

He shifted the objects he’d retrieved from his bag in his arms, and, with enough care that his hands shook from it, slid the glass bead onto the leather cord around his neck, next to Etta’s earring.

“Carter!” Sophia barked.

Nicholas’s long legs devoured the distance between him and Sophia and Remus, who had watched the exchange with suspicious eyes. He didn’t look back—didn’t want to give the boy the opportunity to refuse his gift.

Stay alive, he thought. Stay alive. Escape.

“You are ridiculous,” Sophia said in a low voice. “How will you continue to play the hero if you don’t eat?”

“I’ll find something else,” he said. I’ve gone longer without.

Hunger was tolerable. The alternative was to be haunted by those eyes, by the bitterest sort of regret that wouldn’t ever dissolve, no matter how much sweetness the years brought. It wasn’t a weakness to have those thoughts, to feel that need to help another, to save lives. It made one human. He couldn’t help but think that the travelers had fallen too deep into the practice of being silent witnesses. It drained the empathy from them, allowed them to build a wall of glass between themselves and suffering.

Sophia looked at him, making a strained sound. “All you’re doing is prolonging the inevitable. Isn’t it better to go this way than suffer what the Romans have in store for him?”

I’m not heartless, she’d said. And so she wasn’t. Their hearts were made of different fibers, and perhaps her heart was more durable for that sort of decision than his own.

He was too exhausted to argue with her. Sophia’s feet, much like his own, were dragging across the stones. Even her words lacked their usual venom and conviction.

“Is Fitzhugh at home now?” Nicholas asked the old man instead.

Remus shook his head. “No. My husband’s a physician, you see. He is out making his rounds to visit the ill. It was left to me to investigate who came through the passage.”

“You heard it from all the way up here?” Nicholas asked, glancing back over his shoulder at the city spread out below. The pale hue of the limestone was all the more breathtaking in the early morning with the tint of violet spread over it.

He’d lost the sound of the passage as they’d slipped further into the city. All he could hear now was the distant banging of the blacksmiths, who had woken with the dawn.

“We’re near the other passage,” Remus said. “It resonates with its brother in the water. Dreadful noise, but useful in knowing when to expect company.”

Nicholas nodded.

“Satisfied, detective?” Sophia asked. “Might we try for a bit of shutting up now? Tonight’s given me a crashing headache.”

Remus’s pace slowed as they reached the next door. He turned one last time to press his fingers against his lips before pushing it open. It creaked painfully, scraping the uneven stone. Nicholas ducked beneath the low arch and stepped into a small, shady courtyard, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

“This way,” Remus whispered. Nicholas cast one last look around, searching for any potential entrances. Piles of bows, swords, shields, and spears rested beside brooms and other simple household tools, waiting. A prickle of anxiety fizzed in his blood; there was one way in, yes, which meant it would be easier to keep watch for trouble, but it also meant there was only one way out if trouble did actually arrive.

The three of them went up a steep stack of steps to the second level, where a second door waited. Remus cast one last nervous glance around before opening it and ushering them inside.

The smell of earth and greens had bled into the dry air, giving the open room a musty, medicinal smell that instantly put Nicholas back in a place of unease. Physicians in his time were often no better than butchers, their tools as dull as their skills.

On the left side of the room was a bed pressed against the wall, with strands of greens left to dry over it. The opposite wall was dedicated to Fitzhugh’s work—more drying herbs and plants, along with small vials and ceramic pots, a grinding stone, and a rudimentary scale. Across the room, below the windows, was a carefully arranged living area; there was a low table, a rug to cover the polished stone floor, a chair, and pillows on which to sit. At the center of it all was a hearth, with a pot boiling over, spitting bubbling water into the hissing fire below.

It was a comfortable home, but nothing like he would have expected for two travelers. To their credit, at least there were no outward hints that they weren’t native to this era—most travelers, as he’d seen even with Etta’s great-grandfather, couldn’t resist the temptation to cobble together small stashes of trinkets and souvenirs. Instead, there were just a few small statues and stone figurines of foreign, ancient gods.

“We can eat and discuss whatever it is you’re here for after I finish my rest, and you’ve had some yourself,” Remus said, sitting on the bed and removing his battered shoes. “At a decent hour.”

“Time is not on our side,” Nicholas began, even as Sophia made herself a small bed from the pillows near the hearth and table.

“When is it ever, my lad,” the man said, as the feather mattress and rope frame settled beneath him. “When is it ever?”

“How can you be sure the attackers will not bother us?” Nicholas asked. “That they haven’t tracked us here?”

“They move in darkness,” the man said, blowing out the candle on the table beside the bed. “We are safe. For now.”

Nicholas released his frustration in a harsh breath, but found a place to stretch out on the rug. The uneven ground beneath him was as unforgiving as it was in every other century he’d recently visited. He took the opportunity to assess his aches and cuts, as well as the new, hot spikes of pain in his right hand. Holding it up, he examined the pattern etched into the ring in the soft morning light.

He tried tugging it off again.

Failed.

With another snort, he crossed his arms and turned his back to the wall, closing his dry eyes. But he did not sleep. His mind did not relent in trying to chase the ghost of Etta’s face, remembering how sweetly her body had curved against his own. Nor did it allow him to ignore the familiar pressure of someone’s gaze taking the measure of him.

But hours later, when Nicholas finally turned over to confirm his suspicions of being observed, Remus had dipped deeply into his dreams, and the only thing that moved beyond the door was the lonely wind.

HOURS LATER, AS THE SUN SWEPT INTO THE ROOM AND THE fire warmed its confines, Nicholas propped himself up against the table on the floor and attempted to stay awake. Or at least alert. Sophia, who had slept without a second thought, drummed her fingers on the low table, impatient for the man to finish brewing his tea and cooking the oats.

“Here you are,” Remus said, offering a cup of the former to Sophia, wincing as the hot tea splashed out of the small wooden cup and onto his trembling hands. Without any sort of prompting, he pressed another cup into Nicholas’s hands, turning back to fill one of his own.

“We need to agree to secrecy, before we begin,” Nicholas said. “What we discuss here cannot leave this room.”

Remus’s brows rose. “Who do you think I would tell, beyond Fitzhugh? We don’t exactly receive guests, and even if we wanted to, Cyrus has forbidden contact. I cannot contact my Jacaranda family any more than Fitz could his immediate Ironwood family. He would have us killed for disobeying his explicit orders.”

Nicholas should have known that—he himself had been exiled, confined to his natural time. But the man’s words did not sound promising for the information they needed.

“Let’s get on with this business, then, my new friends,” Remus said. “Ask me your questions. I have a few of my own.”

Sophia blew on her cup of tea, then took a deep gulp. Her face screwed up, lips puckering. “Why does it taste like I’m drinking dirt?”

“It’s green tea,” Remus said indignantly. “It tastes of the pure earth. It’s not readily available in this era and continent, so have some respect for my hospitality.”

“Whatever you say.”

Nicholas had always been one for coffee over tea, the bitterest, darkest coffee available, but he was willing to try any sort of stimulant to keep his thoughts sharp.

He raised his own cup to his mouth, letting it wet his lips. It smelled of wet grass, and what taste he got was sour, not at all fortifying or refreshing. Setting it on the ground beside him, he leaned forward against the table. “We’re hoping to discover the last common years of the two most recent timeline shifts. Have you received any notices about them?”

The man looked stunned. “Oh, I’m afraid you’ve gravely overestimated how much contact we have with the outside world. In case it wasn’t clear: none. We don’t receive notices from the messengers anymore because we are not allowed to travel, and therefore any dangers the shifts present don’t affect us. We’ve been trapped in this era for years, with no communication—no food, no assurances we’ll ever be allowed to leave.”

Damn it all, Nicholas thought, weary and frustrated down to his soul. But of course.

“You were stupid enough to think he’d forgive you if you came back groveling,” Sophia said, one brow arched.

“I wished he’d just gone and executed us then, with all the others. The bastard put us here because he knew it would be our tomb, and that we’d think every day of what we did to spite him, and regret it,” Remus said. “Now, Fitz and I only regret the cowardice of leaving the Thorns. It was rough living, especially when it seemed as if Ironwood had massacred half their ranks. But tell me—with everything going on, is he sufficiently distracted now for Fitz and I to make our leave to another era undetected? He told us there were men posted at the entrances to both passages to ensure we could not leave.”

“There was no one at the one we came through,” Sophia admitted. “Did you really not even check? Ever?”

“No. His rage is absolute, and we were foolish enough to think we might earn our forgiveness eventually, with good service to him.” Remus laughed darkly. “What a fool I’ve been. Well, no more. Fitz and I will accompany you to the other passage out of the city when he returns. We’ll disappear this time.”

Nicholas approved of the manner in which the old man’s words vibrated with fuming resentment. Rubbing his tingling hand, he watched Remus for any signs of deceit, and found only the portrait of a man hardened by the bitter taste of disappointment.

“I thought for sure you came because of the work I’d done on the Shadows—the research Cyrus had me conduct,” Remus said, rising to stir the oats. Testing their consistency, he scooped out two steaming bowls to serve to his guests. “Ancient traveler lore, yes, I can assist you with. It’s very likely the only thing I’m good for these days. The rest is beyond my sight and knowledge.”

Nicholas was momentarily distracted by how hard he had to grip the wooden spoon in his hand to feel it. Batting down the fear pawing at his heart, he turned the whole of his attention to the food. The oats were plain and burned his tongue, but Nicholas was sure neither he nor Sophia had ever consumed a meal with more speed.

“Is there anyone who might be willing to help us discover the last common year without it getting back to Ironwood?” Nicholas asked, setting his empty bowl aside.

Remus considered this. “Most of his large alterations were made in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. You might try asking a guardian named Isabella Moore, in Boston. Ironwood had her son killed around the same time Fitzhugh and I left to join the Thorns, and I know her to be well connected, but with no love of the man. Try her any time after 1916 and before 1940.”

Another lead. Which might go just as far as this one did in answering their question: nowhere. He forced his good hand to release the edge of the table he’d been gripping.

“What did you mean when you said you thought we were coming because of the…Shadows?” Sophia asked, blowing on the surface of her tea before taking a deep gulp of it. “What do you know of them?”

Remus looked offended when she let out what was either a small hiccup, belch, or some charming combination of the two.

“First, I think you ought to be honest about what you’re truly searching for,” he said, “for I’ve only ever known them to hunt one thing: the astrolabe.”

Nicholas felt the skin on the back of his neck start to crawl. Even Sophia choked on the last sip of her tea.

“Surprised?” Remus said. “Cyrus never changes, not even in the most dangerous of times. But then of course, knowledge is power—all the more reason for him to hoard the truth about its history and nature.”

That, Nicholas could not dispute. “And you know of it how?”

“Before Ironwood did away with the position, I was a record-keeper for the families for longer than you’ve been alive,” Remus explained. “I know things that would slow the blood in your veins. It’s one of the reasons he was so irate that we left, you see. He did not want anyone else to have that knowledge, least of all Henry Hemlock. But he cannot execute me, either, for the old records were burned and I might have one last detail or piece of knowledge he needs. I know that, to create a passage, legend holds that you must have the astrolabe, but you must also have something from the time and year you wish to go. I know the songs all others have forgotten.”

Sophia gave Nicholas a nod, confirming all of these things.

“What do you know of alchemy?” Remus began. “Of its principles?”

“I know it’s a load of garbage,” Sophia said. “Outdated hogwash that has spurred on countless pitiful idiots to waste their time trying to turn lead to gold, look for a cure for all ailments, and find a way toward immortality.”

“Sophia,” Nicholas said, his tone warning. He didn’t want to scold her, but he wanted to get what information they could and leave this place as quickly as possible.

“You’ve covered some of it, yes, but the principles of alchemy extend far beyond the tangible. You might say that it is the search for understanding about the true nature of life, and how energy can be manipulated: a careful study of the beautiful mysteries of life, death, and perhaps resurrection. ‘As above, so below, as within, so without, as the universe, so the soul.’”

That might explain some of the odd symbols he had seen in the Belladonna’s store and workshop, then. It was as much a belief system as a craft or profession.

“There once lived a man who achieved this perfect knowledge by broadening his understanding of how immortality might be accomplished—what better way to conquer life than to destroy that which limits it?”

“Time,” Nicholas finished. “You mean to say…”

“This man, the originator of our line,” Remus continued, “harnessed these energies, transmuted them into something new, something tied to the earthly influence of his own blood. It was contained within a device, a key that allowed him to control it. Three copies of this master key were made for his three children, but each copy was weaker than the next. His children fought viciously for control of the original version, each with what they thought was the true path for it, until one day, two of the children turned on the youngest, who they felt was the alchemist’s favorite. When the alchemist attempted to intervene, both he and the youngest child were killed in the fray.”

“There’s the Ironwood in them,” Sophia muttered.

“In the chaos, the master key was stolen by a fourth child, an illegitimate bastard, a by-blow of some poor wench.”

Sophia straightened at that, her top lip peeling back in a snarl at the word bastard. And, for the first time in a long while, Nicholas realized he had never quite considered her own parentage in this context—the same context as his own.

“Having lived and worked in the shadows of his legitimate brothers and sister, having been the alchemist’s apprentice, he knew how to harness the power of the master key—the master astrolabe—and he knew well that the others would never let him possess it. And so the apprentice ran for centuries, weaving in and out of time until his trail became too muddied for the others to follow with the lesser astrolabes,” Remus said. “Years passed, and he began to release his fears, fathering families across the continents. But the continued use of the astrolabe had altered the composition of his body, with curious results. His life was extended a century beyond what was natural, and the children he sired inherited the ability to travel through the passages he had created without needing to be in possession of the astrolabe. Almost as if, by using it, he had absorbed some of its essence into himself, and had become an extension of it. The same proved true of his remaining half siblings, and the eldest finally succeeded in finding his bastard brother, by then old and decrepit, and killing him.”

“How, if their lives were prolonged?” Sophia asked.

“Their lives were prolonged and they aged and aged and aged, but only so long as they were not unnaturally interrupted by, say, foul murder,” Remus said. “Though our bloodlines have been diluted, and we no longer live beyond the normal years of men, some small spark of the astrolabe remains, allowing us to travel.”

Nicholas shook his head. The talk of alchemy, this kind of immortality outside of heaven, was almost too heathen to believe.

And yet…he thought again grimly.

There was a kernel of pure, primal truth in Remus’s tale—fear, even more so than greed, was a powerful motivator, especially when coupled with the determination to survive. However the story may have been embellished, there was some validity to it.

“The daughter fell to history’s mercy, and no record of her remains, other than that her elder brother stole her astrolabe and used it in some unnatural way. The record is unclear, only that the copies disappeared. There is only one left now—the master astrolabe—and, if Cyrus’s wild beliefs are true, the eldest son still hunts for it.”

“I thought each of the four families had their own astrolabe?” Nicholas said. The Lindens, then, had held the master copy in their family for generations.

“Perhaps they possessed them for a time, but all were stolen back. The eldest son has quite the force behind him—travelers taken from their families, who have had their lives stolen and shaped to serve only him. For lack of a better, proper term, they were noted only as Shadows in our histories.” Nicholas’s mouth tightened at that, a small flinch that Remus caught. The old man chuckled before he continued. “I can sense the disbelief in you both. I realize how it all sounds, of course.”

“Like bullshit you’re trying to sell us,” Sophia snarled.

“There are things in our forgotten history that are so ancient, one must search for the few clues embedded in our lore, our shared nightmares. Generations ago, the old records vault was burned in what was said to be the fault of a single candle, and now, so little proof remains of the alchemist and the Shadows that many travelers simply refuse to believe in their existence. Missing children are explained away as having been orphaned by the timeline, or that they simply wandered off into passages, never to be seen again. The mind can dream up any number of explanations for dark things, of course.”

Nicholas shook his head, rubbing at his eyes once more. “What is the role these Shadows play, then?”

“It is said they work on behalf of the alchemist’s surviving son, carrying out his wishes and stealing traveler children to continue a cycle of service to him and his mission to find the master astrolabe,” Remus said, as if this were not absurd. “Though their story itself has been lost, and fewer and fewer children are lost, the fear is still taught to traveler children to this very day, however unwittingly. Tell me, girl, that you don’t recall the old song: From the shadows they come, to give you a fright…”

Sophia surprised Nicholas by easily finishing the rhyme. “From the shadows they come, to steal you this night.” She looked unimpressed, to say the least. “You don’t need to shill bad poetry.”

“Finish it, girl,” Remus said. “How does the rhyme end?”

She gazed at the man in defiance, but softly sang, “Mind the hour, mind the date…and find that path which does not run straight.”

“These Shadows are the ones who hunt you now,” Remus said. “The shadows of his glorious sun. They will stop at nothing to prevent you from taking possession of the astrolabe, should you find it. Your paths have crossed, unfortunately, and now there is no way to disentangle them.”

“Is there really nothing to be done about it?” Nicholas asked. “You read nothing else about their methods in your time as a record-keeper?”

The old man shrugged the question away as he stood and went back to the hearth, this time for his own meal. In the silence that followed, he was absorbed in the simple, hypnotic task of stirring, and stirring, and stirring. A spark of instinct began to tug at Nicholas’s ear, begging an audience.

Sophia, in deep contemplation of this information, pressed her face into her hands, breathing deeply. But Nicholas felt too anxious to remain seated, too full of absurd stories to sit idly by. He began to do laps around the cramped room, stopping occasionally to study a small piece of decorative tile, a bust, small wooden boxes. One of which yielded a solid, rectangular object wrapped in burlap: a harmonica.

It was one of those painful moments when need was at odds with morality. His fingers ran over the cool, shining surface, and he leaned over, far enough to see the reflection of his haggard face. He’d stolen as a child—scraps of food, affection, his own freedom for a time—and the thought of doing so now stirred a poisonous self-loathing inside of him. Nicholas shut the box and turned to the spot where Fitzhugh Jacaranda ground his medicines and did whatever it was physicians or ship surgeons or healers did when they weren’t pulling rotten teeth or sawing off limbs.

Below the wooden bench, tucked nearly out of sight, was a stiff, cylindrical leather bag with a long strap, its drawstring opening just wide enough to look into. Glancing back to ensure the man was busy with the pot on the hearth, he nudged it open the rest of the way with his toe. It was filled to the brim, nearly spilling over with sachets, neatly wound bandages, and those same small vials he saw on the table. Beneath that was a layer of tools, primed and ready for use.

That nagging feeling was back, until realization lit Nicholas’s mind like a blast of gunpowder, blowing him back off his feet. Studying the man out of the corner of his eye, he forced his voice to remain even, and took a deep breath before asking, “Why, if Fitzhugh is making his rounds as a healer, has he left his bag here?”

Remus stopped stirring, his shoulders bunching up as he froze in place. Nicholas’s heart made the dive from his chest to the very pit of his stomach, and his hand came to rest on the hilt of his sword.

In the breath of silence that passed between them, Remus reached for one of the nearby knives, his hand shaking as it closed around the hilt and he brandished it.

“Don’t run. You’ll only make it worse for yourself,” Remus said. “And you won’t get far at all.”