Wayfarer

He studied her carefully, frowning. Being compassionate was at odds with her natural disposition, and she was so entirely resistant to niceties that he couldn’t stop the trickle of suspicion inside him—that she was arguing this point for more than what she was letting him see.

“He doesn’t necessarily know what happened—” Nicholas started.

“Don’t be ridiculous. By now, he knows what’s happened. We have the small advantage of him being more interested in finding those Thorns than finding us, and we need to use it. So, ticktock. Let’s go.”

As loath as he was to concede it, she did have a point. Over the last few days, it had become clear to him that he was the only one willing to play this game with any decency, and he’d begun to wonder if decency was merely the trade of fools.

“Where do we begin to look for her?” Nicholas heard himself ask. “How do we go about ascertaining the last common year without turning to another traveler?”

Any Ironwood or Ironwood ally would immediately report them to the old man for the reward. Without Rose’s information, searching for Etta would feel like a dead reckoning. He did not enjoy navigating a ship blindly, and the same could be said of his life.

“We go find Remus and Fitzhugh Jacaranda, like I’ve been telling you,” Sophia said. “Grandfather gave them the worst posting imaginable when they came crawling back into the fold after they betrayed him and joined the Thorns. I would bet anything there’s no love lost between them and Grandfather, and they might be willing to share what they know for a price. Or you can just tell them your tragic tale, let slip a manly, heroic tear.”

Pity. Wonderful. His patience finally slipped its leash. “If they have such a terrible, remote posting, who’s to say they’ll even have heard about the shift in the timeline?”

“If they haven’t heard anything, they’ll be able to point us to someone who might know. It won’t be a wasted trip either way.”

Nicholas released a harsh breath through his nose, considering this.

Sophia, possibly for the first time in her life, was being reasonable. They were losing time. He was bloody well tired of Rose’s games. If the Jacarandas could aid in making quick work of finding Etta, then that was the way forward. If they couldn’t help him, at least he could console himself with the knowledge that he was actually moving forward, that he’d broken out of the gaol of inaction in which Rose had locked him.

“All right,” he said, relenting. “We will try it your way, then. If nothing comes of searching for Etta, then…we’ll proceed with finding the astrolabe on our own. I promise you.”

Sophia rolled her eyes, moving ahead of him again. “Saints and losers, remember?”

And if Sophia truly was after the astrolabe for her own gain, as he was now doubly certain, then their weak truce would conclude and he would do anything in his power to keep it from her. Anything necessary.

“Being good on your word is a core tenet of honor,” he called.

“Honor.” She looked disgusted. “Good thing I don’t have much of the stuff left.”

NOON ARRIVED, BRINGING WITH IT A MISERABLE HEAT THAT sagged against him, and seemed unjust for October. They passed their walk back to the camp in blessed silence, Sophia stalking forward, Nicholas staying several steps behind, not just because he didn’t want to encourage any words between them, but because he knew that the white men and women they passed would expect it of a servant, a slave—Nicholas shook his head, rolled his shoulders back, as if he could fling it off. The charade sapped what little good mood he’d managed to eke out of the day. And an hour later, when they finally reached the deserted stretch of beach where they’d set up camp, the last lingering traces of goodwill between them evaporated altogether.

“Bloody hell!” Sophia snarled, and would have charged forward had Nicholas not gripped her by the collar of her tattered coat.

Their blankets had been carelessly thrown around, and the hammocks they’d stretched between palm trees had been dug up and left in tangled heaps. Their single cooking pot, the one he’d disguised among the lush greenery to collect rainwater, had been overturned, thereby catching nothing that they could boil and drink.

But it hadn’t been the storm that had turned the earth over and washed up what was left of their possessions for anyone to steal: it was a small figure sitting cross-legged in front of the rain-filled fire pit, eating the last few pieces of their jerky, playing with a light Sophia had insisted on bringing, despite the fact that it wouldn’t be invented until the next century.

“Drop that at once, sir!” Nicholas demanded.

The small man looked up, a piece of jerky dangling from his lips. His dark eyes were strikingly distinct. Two thick, dark brows were angled over them, as if someone had taken ink and thumbed the shapes across. A surprisingly delicate nose and high cheekbones were sunburned—the only flaw in otherwise clear, fair skin.

His mouth stretched into a shameless smile around the jerky clenched between his teeth. A weathered navy coat rustled as he brought a gloved hand up, fingers dancing in a little wave.

Thief.

IT WAS SEVERAL OUTRAGED MOMENTS before Nicholas was able to collect himself enough to speak. “What is your name, sir? And what business do you have with us?”

The man cocked his head to the side, studying him. After a moment he answered, his voice higher than Nicholas might have expected, speaking a language he’d never heard before. The grating laughter, however, did not need translation.