Wayfarer

“There is a special object your family possesses. It is the key to saving not only your dear Mama and Papa, but all those around you.”

Rose shook her head, trying to bring her hands up to cover her ears. Her arms would not move, not while the man’s words wove around her, coiling and coiling around her until her chest was too tight to breathe.

No matter how hard she squeezed her eyes shut, Rose could not shut out images of the things he spoke of. Each word painted the images inside of her mind. Smoke, not the smell of wet grass, filled her lungs. Something hot and metallic-tasting filled her mouth and nearly choked her.

A cool hand closed around her wrist softly, leading her. It was only when Rose heard the distant honk of a horn that she realized she was standing at the open gate, the edge of the darkened street. She tried to tug her hand free, but there was a fever in her, painful and cloudy. His face was blotted out in her vision, a smear of ivory and gold.

Grandpapa.

“All I need is that special gift your family was given. Only that, and you can save everyone. You.”

The images raged through her now, flickering like colored film. Mama, Papa, the blood, a great city shuddering with flames, an explosion, bodies charred to bone and piled as high as mountains, her hands spilling over with tar, a rising dark river of drowning animals, children, blades flashing, tearing through skin and bone—they burned their way through her, searing her mind. The pain slammed into her, plucking and pawing and tugging at her until blackness rose in her vision and she felt hands cupping her back, her legs—

The astrolabe. The golden disc. Grandpapa had drawn it for her to see, but she had never touched it, never seen it pass through the house.

She realized she had been saying all of these words aloud when the man, at the end of a long tunnel, nodded.

“Rose!”

That voice…

“Rose!”

That was…Rose tried to think of whom the voice belonged to, but nothing existed outside of the man’s face, the long, elegant fingers that stroked her cheek.

“Rose! Where are you?”

Afraid.

There is a place where you will never feel hurt. Where you will become strong.

The words slithered through her, unstoppable. When she opened her eyes again, the street was gliding past her, streaked with night.

“Rosie! Rosie! Come out, Rosie, this isn’t funny!”

Alice. Why did she sound so far away? Why did she sound so frightened? Who is hurting Alice?

The man’s face came into focus, glowing against the darkening sky. It felt good. So easy. So very safe here. He would protect her. He would make her strong, like Mama.

But who would protect Alice?

Rose struggled, squirming to break from his grip. He did not put her down. If anything, his grip tightened and, all at once, the soft blanket of contentment he’d wrapped around her was stripped off. Rose, suddenly, was fighting. Kicking, clawing, slapping, screaming. The images of death and destruction slammed into her again, tearing through her mind, but she did not stop. Rose screamed until her throat turned raw and she fell to the ground on her hands and knees. The darkness swelled up around her, over her head, crashing down the way she’d seen the tides of fire break over an unfamiliar city.

“Rosie!”

“Rose!”

Alice. Grandpapa. Someone—anyone—please—

Help me.

WHEN ROSE WOKE, IT WAS TO SUNLIGHT AND JASMINE, on a bed of cushions and silk, centuries and continents away. She remembered Grandpapa easing her up, carrying her through the passage, but her mind had been soft with sleep.

Her heart began to beat madly when she saw that neither Nanny nor Grandpapa were with her. This was a room she’d never seen before.

He took me. The words were like claws in her mind. Rose flew to the corner of the room, crouching down, her arms above her head. He’s come back for me.

The breath whistled out between her chattering teeth. For a moment, Rose could not move at all, not even to swallow.

But then she remembered.

Grandpapa’s worn face as he’d told her again and again, Hush, darling, nothing happened, you gave yourself a fright.

“It wasn’t real,” she told herself, the way Grandpapa had barked at her when she’d tried to describe the man. “Not. Real.”

But then, why could she still feel the sharp press of the man’s fingers on her wrist? Why, every time she shut her eyes, did she see that same burning world?

“Stop it,” she ordered herself, hating the tremor in her voice. She scrubbed her fists over her eyes. She’d only upset Grandpapa; he’d been so angry at her for wandering away from the house. He’d thought she’d run intentionally, because…yes, they were leaving London. He had bought them a new home, far from her mama’s garden. She wouldn’t upset Grandpapa anymore by crying and hiding like a baby.

He was all she had left.

Rose stood, breathing in through her nose, and ventured outside of her room, exploring the house. She called for her grandfather, for her nanny, but the rainbow of tiles in the enclosed courtyard only echoed her voice back to her.

Safe.

But alone.

Rose returned to the room she had awakened in, searching through the trunks at the far end of the room for books. Instead, she found her small easel and a neat stack of canvases and paint. Nanny had remembered to pack them.

She set everything up, but before she could begin to think of what she would paint, she heard voices on the street below. Pulling back the bedroom shutters, she leaned out. Down the dust-filled alley, the other children were playing some sort of game with a ball, women in rainbow veils and tunics hovering over them, clucking like chickens. Rose scoffed at the sight.