Wayfarer

“You’re joking.”

“Sophia called it the most breathtaking display of stupidity she’s ever witnessed—and passes along her regards,” he said.

“So you tracked down Sophia,” Etta said, understanding. “And Li Min?”

“We separated only so she could search for her on her own.” His hand hovered above her face for a moment, tracing the shape of it into the air. His throat jumped as he swallowed hard, bringing the tips of his fingers to brush the loose hairs back out of Etta’s face.

Etta wanted to always remember the look on his face as she kissed his smiling mouth, kissed his jaw, kissed his cheek, whatever part of him she could reach, until she felt like she could dissolve into scattered, incandescent light.

“It was my turn,” she said at last. “To find you.”

“I consider us remarkably even on that score,” he said with a soft laugh. “But I thought, perhaps, you might like to accompany me to find the others who might be in need of rescue?”

Etta took a small step back, feeling hope shimmer around her like a trembling note.

“You’re opening them all,” she breathed out.

He nodded. “At least, trying to bridge those gaps between what was, what is, and what should be. I think we’ll try again. The families. I think we ought to make a life of it, and if there’s a better way, I think I should very much like for you to help me find it, Miss Spencer.”

She stroked the scarred skin of his palm again, letting her fingers slide down to interlace with his. A thread of doubt wove through the swirling mass of joy. Nicholas ducked his head to meet her gaze, and she saw the question in his eyes.

“Miss Spencer,” she said softly. “Is that who I am?”

Over the last year, she’d tried to piece together her old life, only to find that most of its pieces no longer existed, and the ones that did exist felt like they might choke her if she tried to wear them again.

“You could be a Hemlock, as I could be an Ironwood; or you could sign your name with Linden, as I might sign mine with Hall. Or perhaps you are Miss Spencer, and always will be,” he told her, his thumb skating over her cheek. “Or you could choose, one day, to be a Carter. Or we might be nothing beyond you and I, and be done with this business of names once and for all, for they have never once had a true bearing on who we are or who we intend to be.”

And with that, the tension bled from her limbs, and the knot of confusion in her heart finally loosened.

“Then, yes, I think I should like that very much, too,” she said, mimicking the formality of his tone. “But first…there’s someone we need to see.”

He nodded, plainly curious. “Name the horizon, and it’s ours.”

By the time the auditorium doors opened, they were gone.

THERE WAS A MAN IN THE GARDEN, hidden behind Mama’s rosebush. She noticed him only because the sun was setting, but the gold of his long robe caught the light and seemed to burn behind the branches and bramble like a sunrise. And because she, too, was hiding in the garden; only, she was the one smart enough to choose to crouch behind the hedge.

There were always travelers arriving without warning, and never dressed properly. Fewer now, and soon none, if Grandpapa had his way.

You’re in the twentieth century, she wanted to whisper to him. But when he turned, she did not recognize the stranger’s face—not from memory, and not from any of the books of photographs her parents had compiled of the Ironwoods, Jacarandas, and Hemlocks for her to memorize.

The only reason to hide was for fear of being discovered, and the only reason to fear being discovered was if you’d arrived with bad intentions.

Rose drew herself deeper into the hedge, but the man heard the subtle shift of the leaves. He slowly turned his head toward her, revealing himself through the flowers. Her Mama had declared her brave so many times, but Rose found she could not move, not with his eyes locked on her face, glimmering like gold coins.

It was painful to look anywhere else. She saw only pieces of him. A long, thin nose. The skin over the curve of his forehead; tight, the way a snake’s might be. Neither handsome nor hideous. Something else entirely.

“Hello, child,” he called softly. “Are you frightened? I have only come to help you.”

Rose knew the response to this was to run back into the house and call for Grandpapa. But she could not look away from him, the way his skin glimmered with light as he came toward her. His footsteps made no sound as they passed over the stones and grass.

Rose crossed her arms over her chest, shrinking back against the high wall that separated their town house from the neighbor’s.

“S-stay back!” she ordered, reaching down to pick up a stone to throw.

The man’s gliding path came to a halt in front of her. He towered, taller than any man she had ever seen, but he cast no shadow over her. Standing there, staring into his eyes, Rose felt only…warm. The hungry parts of her were suddenly full, calm. For a moment, she could not remember the reason she had come into the garden at all.

“I would never harm you,” he told her, his voice drifting between her ears, soothing like an ointment over a cut. “There is such sorrow in your heart. Tell me, have you lost someone?”

She hesitated, but felt herself nod. “Mama. Papa.”

“Death is an enemy few defeat,” he said, coming closer. “But there is a way to save them, child. They should never have died.”

Rose felt her eyes sting with the truth of his words. Her voice wobbled as she asked, “How?”