Wayfarer

“The similarities end with the face and hair,” she managed to say, vaguely gesturing there with her hand.

There was a moment where the expressions of bald hostility turned to confusion. And then the woman, the same mother, began to laugh. The others around her caught the sound, relaxing into their own rueful chuckles. And like the timeline changes Henry had spoken of, the laughter rippled out, until the entire room settled into it.

“We have much to discuss tonight about our path forward,” Henry said, placing a hand on her shoulder, “but would you all allow me the pleasure of introducing my daughter, Etta, to you?”

“Well, hey!” a man shouted from the back, cutting through the quiet din of surprise. “Another Hemlock to add to the ranks—it’s high time for us to finally outnumber you Jacarandas for once! Congrats, old boy! And welcome, doll!”

Henry rolled his eyes but was smiling so hard he was nearly pink with it.

Once their surprise melted away, all that was left were the whistles and shouts that left Etta stunned in turn. The wave of women washed up to her, and warm hands clasped her own, touched her shoulder beneath Henry’s coat, where the bandage was just visible. They were talking over each other, so fast Etta couldn’t keep up with them.

“—kept you up there—”

“—was wondering where he’d gotten off to—”

“—aren’t you a sight—”

But there was one cool voice that seemed to unfailingly climb over the others. Winifred came up behind them, touching Henry’s shoulder. He turned away from the men who were slapping his back and giving him handshake after handshake.

“That creature you insist on working with is here to make her report,” she informed him. “Would you like me to tell her to wait?”

Henry’s brows rose. Interested. “No—no, I’ve been waiting for her report for days. Is she in the hall?”

The women were urging Etta deeper into the throng of Thorns, eagerly absorbing her, peppering the air with questions. She turned, searching for Henry’s dark hair, and found him passing through the door, back into the hall.

With the morning light coming through the high windows, she could see the small figure waiting there in the entryway. Julian was out there as well, chattering away beside her. He gave her a playful punch to the shoulder, and whoever it was returned it in earnest, socking him hard enough in the solar plexus to send him staggering back, choking on his laughter.

As Henry approached, she pushed Julian aside altogether and straightened, flicking her long, jet-black braid back over her shoulder. She wore a cornflower-blue silk tunic buttoned at the throat, its wide sleeves embroidered with an intricate pattern. She tucked up her hands inside of the sleeves as Henry began to speak. Her loose matching trousers shone as she moved, heading toward the stairs. Just before she took the first step, the girl looked around Henry’s shoulder into the room and caught Etta’s gaze. Her lips parted, as if in disbelief. Etta wondered what the woman had that Henry wanted.

Julian hesitated at the door, watching the others, until one of the guards—Jenkins—shooed him away. Only the Ironwoods, it seemed, were unwelcome where the Thorns were concerned.

Etta turned back to the men and women around her and, for once, silenced the questions, the doubt that had chased her through the centuries. She fell deeper into the hands that reached out to greet her, and let herself find relief in their elation.

A family.

Meant to be, she thought. This is what was meant to be.

But in the back of her mind, there was a face: Nicholas.

Nicholas alone, the desert blowing hot and blinding around him.

I’m coming, she thought. Stay alive. I’ll find you.

But not yet.

 

JULIAN HAD ONCE SAID SOMETHING to him that struck Nicholas now, as he breathed in the fog and cold mist: All cities are jealous of Paris, but Prague is the envy of Paris.

Tucked into the alcove of the building where the passage had released them, he had only been able to see the busy market in the open courtyard before him. As the weather turned and night crept in, the stalls rapidly emptied. Footsteps and cart wheels clattered over the cobblestones as all manner of people, in all manner of simple, colorful dress, fled the rain, carried off by surprised laughter and shouts.

Though he’d hoped his breeches and shirtsleeves would be unremarkable enough for him to pass among the century’s occupants unnoticed, Nicholas was rather dismayed to find that it was not the case, unless he wanted to commit to the part of a peasant and rend his clothing. The men of this time wore doublets and jerkins, in the sort of style that made them appear to be strutting around with their chests puffed out like pigeons. Or, in the case of the paler fabrics, enormous eggs with limbs.

He turned to Sophia, only to find that she had shed her jacket, pulled the shirt out of the waist of her breeches, and affixed her belt over both, in a close approximation of a tunic. Perhaps not exactly correct, but perhaps not quite so incorrect, either. At least they’d both managed to keep their hose from ripping. Whatever small consolation that was.

Although he felt less aware of the color of his skin than he had in the eras they had passed through to arrive here, Nicholas now was struck by the first stirrings of doubt that the residents of the city might explain his presence away as a Moor or Turkish merchant. It was a blessing, then, to have the soaked, darkened city streets to themselves for a short time, and he meant to make the most of it.

Of course, that was before he stepped out from under their shelter and truly took stock of the place.