Wayfarer

“Come now,” she said, “would it be so terrible? Have you forgotten that he kept you as property? That you are the issue of a vile man who forced himself upon a helpless woman? That he sold your mother to a man in Georgia who used her, who beat her, until the sickness finally freed her?”

Nicholas pressed a fist against his mouth, and would have turned his back to her to collect himself, had he trusted her not to stick a dagger through his back.

“He resides in the old house of your childhood,” she said. “You haven’t much time. He travels soon. I imagine I will see you back here soon as well.”

“Madam,” he said, “I will see you in hell.”

There was a tugging on his arm, and he did not realize he was moving toward the passage until Sophia dug her nails through his shirt, into his skin. “Don’t look back at her,” she muttered, “don’t give her that.”

He did not. He held his breath as they stepped through the passage, and then released his scream into its thunder. The smell of the air changed as they emerged on the other side. That same stench of wet earth her clothing seemed to breathe out as she moved.

“Carter—wait—damn—!” She had to catch his arm to stop his path, swing him around to prompt his gaze. Nicholas had the oddest feeling that he was back on his deathbed, a fever wracking his brain. There was a haze about her, an unreal quality.

Fool—bloody fool! Christ!

Rose Linden had led him like a lamb to the slaughter, but he’d only himself to blame. He’d been rash, hadn’t thought his calculations through, and now he was—

A slap across the face snapped his head to the left. Sophia raised her hand again, prepared to issue another blow.

“You looked like you were going to pass out,” she explained. “And you’re too bloody big for me to drag you.”

“Thank you…my apologies…my…thanks…” He had no idea what he meant to say. But the hit had blown the dust off an old thought, one he hadn’t dared to court in years.

Kill the old man and be free.

Of vows. Of guilt. Of this unbearable heaviness anchoring his heart to his guts—No. He’d sold his soul, but he wasn’t about to damn it.

He held his hands to his face, trying to smother the bellow that tore out of him. The gold ring pressed a hot kiss to his cheek. Nicholas tried to yank it off again, with no luck.

He needed to find Etta, he wanted to find Etta, there was only Etta—

“Forget what the old bat said,” Sophia said fiercely, her voice ringing like steel. “She doesn’t have a hold on you. She only wants you to think she does. Show her you’re above it! Show her you aren’t afraid, damn it!”

“Are you saying that because you believe it,” he asked bitterly, “or because you need Ironwood alive, so you can bring the astrolabe back to him?”

Sophia recoiled. It had been some time since he was on the receiving end of her murderous glare, and he was almost comforted by its familiarity. “You think I won’t gut that man the first chance I get?”

“I think you’re in this for your own ends,” he told her. “I think a rather large part of you, the very same part that prevented you for years from lowering yourself into even conversation with me, loves seeing me bested by circumstances.”

“Of course I’m in it to serve myself, you fool, and so are you!” she hissed. “We’ve derailed our search for the one thing that matters to find someone who ultimately really doesn’t. But if you think I’d go back to the same family that wanted me just about as much as they wanted you, then you need to pull your head out of your ass before I do it for you!”

Orphanage. Pickpocketing. The past she’d kept hidden beneath the layers of silk and lace. She had worked hard to polish herself into something shining, gleaming, and what had it gotten her? Not the heir, or even being named it once the heir was gone.

As if he would ever let either of us truly forget our origins, he thought with a pang.

Anger, however, was easier to live inside than unwelcome sympathy. “Isn’t that why you kept that blade hidden? Because you intended to use it?”

Her eyebrows flew up. “Is that what this is about? Yes, I picked that blade up when we were in Nassau. I might have told you about it, except I knew you wouldn’t believe I hadn’t had it on me the entire time. I just wanted to be able to study it without you snatching it away like I’m a child.”

“You should have told me,” he insisted.

“Because you’ve shown me so much trust? You’ve listened to me so well, such as ten bloody minutes ago, when I told you not to take that deal?” she said, throwing a finger in his face. “But you did take it, and now we have to live with it. So stop making that pitiful face and buck up. We’ll go to Carthage, all right? Ironwood sends out notices about major changes to the timeline to all of the guardians and travelers posted throughout the centuries. By the time we arrive, the two Jacarandas will likely have the answer we need, or they can point us to someone who can tell us. Rose Linden can go take a long walk off a cliff and drag the Belladonna to hell with her!”

She’d mauled him with the truth—he had not, in fact, trusted her. Not even for a moment, because he’d been so certain she hadn’t given him a reason to. They could not continue this way, but they could not seem to break out of this cycle of loathing, either.

“She said it’d be useless to talk to the Jacarandas—”