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 through 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.
“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.
Only one figure, bringing up the rear of the first group, risked a look back at them. He or she was the only one who allowed themselves to break from the quick march of the others, moving slowly, with an almost labored gait. Hurt, or old, maybe. Etta narrowed her eyes, wishing it wasn’t so dark. Because it looked like, it seemed like…
That person is slowing down. Drifting back intentionally. Etta felt for the small dagger she’d plucked off a knight in Jerusalem, dread combing its cold, clammy hands through her hair, down her neck. She was so wholly focused on the figure that she did not see the movement in the forest just to the left of Julian, until something lashed out, hooking a black-cloaked arm around his neck. His shout of alarm was smothered by the gloved hand smashing against his face.
Etta dove into the forest after them, the dagger in her hand. It was just like the attack in Russia. The attacker was shrouded in black, and the blade was pressed against Julian’s throat, even as he struggled to disentangle himself from the powerful grip. She was a step behind the attacker, and drew her blade back to stab—
The weight hit Etta’s back and brought her down before she could catch Julian’s attacker, but it was the mountain itself, its sharp decline, that sent her rolling, spinning over the soft earth and ferns, until finally her back collided with a tree big enough to catch her weight. The blow knocked the dizziness from her mind, enough that she ignored the bruising she’d taken and climbed back onto her knees, searching for Julian in the darkness above her. A short distance away, tangled in the ferns and obscured by the small stone marker, were the twisted, white-robed legs of her own attacker.
Etta scrambled up the hill on hands and feet, the blade of her dagger clenched between her teeth until the ground flattened out enough for her to stand. She swung around the edge of the stone marker, her gasping breaths steaming the inside of her mask. At the very last second, rather than stab with her right hand, she threw her left fist forward, smashing into the attacker’s mask and knocking them flat on their back just as they made to rise. She dropped to her knees on their chest, ripping their mask off and bringing the blade up to their jugular.
She knew this face.
She loved this face.
“Oh my God,” Etta gasped, flying back, pulling her own mask up. “Oh my God—”
His eyes widened, equally stunned by the sight of her.
Her hands sank into the dirt, shaking. She pulled up leaves and roots, trying to ground herself in that moment, to make it feel real to her. That valley between them that had devastated her with his absence, the one she hadn’t let herself fall into, opened up again.
One single, soft word reached her: “Hi.”
Etta’s heart broke open, and the relief was as painful as it was necessary. The way he looked at her now, like she was a pearl in the darkness; the way his hand reached for her, waiting for her hand, its twin—she crashed into him just as he sat up, her lips on his, stealing his breath, his surprised laughter. Stealing him back into herself.
“Hi,” she managed, her hands cupping his face, kissing him, kissing him—
“Where…have you been?” he asked when he could.
“Where have you been?” she demanded back, feeling his hands sink into her braid, weaving sweetness into it.
“I’ve been quite occupied…with looking for you,” he said. “Had a…damned time of it. I might have known you’d find me first.”
“Saw you—the beach—” She tasted blood from his split lip, but she didn’t care, she didn’t care—
“I know, I know—thought you were—”
“I know, I’m sorry—why did you chase me now? Why are you here?” Etta forced herself to stop, to pull back and wrap her arms around him so he’d have the opportunity to answer. His arm came up to lock around her waist, and his forehead rested against her shoulder; he was breathing hard.
“Are we incapable of meeting under remotely typical circumstances?” Etta heard him wonder. The damp ground was soaking through her robe, straight to her skin, but she hardly felt it. Nicholas’s pulse was fluttering against her cheek, nothing at all like the steady, driving beat she remembered from even their most desperate moments.
It was the darkness, she was sure of it—it was only the hunger, the exhaustion, and the shadows that made him look so frail. But when her hands skimmed over his back, she felt each knob of his spine. The ridges of his ribs. Etta leaned back so she could brush a half-open kiss against his lips, his labored breathing mingling with hers.
“I can’t even hold you,” he whispered. “It’s too much, it’s all too fast—I wasn’t afraid before, but I find myself—I find myself just that slightest bit afraid now.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked, trying to shift so she could study him, see his face. He only held her tighter, his arm shaking with the effort. Her hands came up to slide through his tufts of hair, and his scalp was warm against her palms. Nicholas strained to kiss her again, his mouth grazing the soft corner of her lips.
“—I was just going for whoever looked to be about my—” Sophia’s voice said behind them.
“I am not your size!” That was Julian.
“Well, would you prefer I said I went for whoever looked easiest to take down?”
She heard Sophia and Julian approach, felt the moment they were seen. The silence that followed was its own century.
“What are you still doing here?” Sophia aimed the words at Nicholas, coating them with anger. “He’s going to notice you’re gone if you don’t hurry back.”
“Thought she—that Etta was—someone who could—hurt you—”
It was difficult to piece together the soft fragments of his words. Her mind did the best it could: Sophia had unwittingly snared Julian to steal his robes for the auction, and, seeing a disguised Etta pursue them, Nicholas had panicked, worrying that Sophia wouldn’t be able to fight two people at once.
“Why are you—?” Etta asked. “Tell me what’s happening—Nicholas!”
The cold wash of fear as he sagged against her was nothing compared to the hurricane that came with Sophia’s sharp oath. She leaped over the fallen tree that stood between them and seized Nicholas’s shoulders, giving him a hard, jaw-snapping shake.
“Damn you, Carter,” she said, “not now, damn you—”
“Nicholas?” Etta couldn’t stop saying his name, as if that would be enough to pull him back to consciousness. “Tell me what’s happening!”
“We’re running out of time, that’s what’s bloody happening,” Sophia said, and with no other warning, slapped him across the face.