Wayfarer

Meant to be. He kept using that same phrase. “Do you believe in destiny, then? That something deserves to exist, just because it once was?”

“I believe in humanity, in peace, and the natural order of things,” he said. “I believe that the only way to balance the power of what we can do is with sacrifice. Accepting that we cannot possess the things and people not meant for us, we cannot control every outcome; we cannot cheat death. Otherwise there’s no meaning to any of it.”

“There’s one more thing I don’t really understand,” Etta said. “If my future changed, if my life isn’t what it was, then wouldn’t I have been prevented from going back in the first place? Wouldn’t it have invalidated finding the astrolabe and losing it?”

The information was offered freely, patiently. Etta was so grateful, she almost smiled.

“We live outside time’s natural laws; that’s why you remember your old life, even as it no longer exists. But time has its own sentience in a way, and it despises inconsistencies. To avoid them, it maintains or restores as many of our actions as possible, even in the face of great change. So, in your future, you still travel back from when you did, but perhaps you weren’t performing at a concert; perhaps you were only at the museum visiting.”

And perhaps Alice might still be alive, her mind whispered.

That sweet spark of hope lit her from her scalp to her toes.

The astrolabe had to be destroyed. That was nonnegotiable to her. It was more power than any one person should have, by far, and she could sacrifice her future knowing that at least any future damage could be somewhat contained. But she liked this, what Henry claimed. That they thought not just about themselves, but of how their actions would affect the true victims of Ironwood’s meddling: the regular people who were at the mercy of his whims and wants.

Her time, the future she’d grown up in, had come at the cost of untold lives and damage: not just to the travelers, but to the world. Returning the timeline to its original state spoke to the part of her that had struggled so badly with the notion that travelers could inflict positive change, but chose not to. It could be a return to a moral center, a new beginning to build stronger rules for the travelers to adhere to.

She needed to finish what she’d begun, and soon.

But…Nicholas.

Nicholas, who was waiting for her; who rose in her memory like the lavender sunrise stretched out before them. She let the thought of both wash over her, steady, brightening, beautiful.

I can spare him this. He never should have been involved in this mess to begin with. If she could keep him safely out of it, until the astrolabe was destroyed, maybe then she could begin to make up for the havoc her family had wrought on his life.

“Can I come with you?” she asked. The wind picked up around them, tugging at the coat, her hair, as if trying to move her more firmly onto this path. “To Russia?”

Henry looked as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “You’re sure? If you need a few days more of rest—”

“No, I need to see this for myself,” she said. “Don’t think about leaving me behind for ‘my own good,’ either.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, and it took Etta a moment to process that the unfamiliar tone in his voice was pride. She became just a tiny bit hungry to hear it again. “Let’s go back, shall we?”

The guards formed their protective shell around them again, and they walked in companionable silence back up to the magnificent home that overlooked the city that had been spared by time. Inside, Etta started toward the stairs, but Henry nudged her to the left, into what looked to be a large, formal dining room. Piano music no longer sang out, but there was chatter and the heavy steps of people milling around.

Packing up, as it turned out. Several people attacked the last of the drinks and food left out on the tables. Others swept up any and all messes as men rolled up the sleeping pads and bedding at their feet; even more were laying out the contents of their packs, counting supplies or trading what they had with others.

Although many people were dressed in the severe style of the era, there were equally as many in a rainbow of silk or chiffon ball gowns and stately military uniforms. Women in the corner were helping one another arrange their hair in artful piles, every now and then reaching out to snag the few small children running loops around everyone’s legs. Their laughter struck a chord in her, resonated even in her battered heart.

It was a liminal space, where dawn met night, and the past met the present. These people had gathered here to conduct their work in hiding, but, more than that, it was a secret, special place that created its own warmth and light, even as the fire was smothered and the candles were doused.

Etta tried to step back, but Henry led her forward. He did not have to say a word for silence to fall like a curtain.

Even the children turned to him, eyes wide, small pearly teeth flashing as they grinned. One held out an open palm, to the obvious, fond embarrassment of his mother. Beside her, Henry dug into his pockets, screwing his face up as if struggling to dig through all of the imaginary things there. A small wrapped piece of candy finally emerged, and the boy snatched it and ran back behind his mother’s skirts with a shriek of giggles.

But not even that could distract the others from their fixation on Etta’s face. The way panic gripped her entire chest made her feel like that little girl performing under the bright stage lights for the first time.

I’m not that girl anymore. Not after everything she’d faced.