He was an able seaman, skilled in his trade, but here, he might as well have been one of those rats clinging to a poorly made raft.

“Who are these travelers?” he asked. “You said they were Jacarandas, and that they were being punished by the old man for something?”

“Remus and Fitzhugh Jacaranda,” Sophia said. “They were both close friends of Ironwood’s for decades, some of his most trusted advisors. Julian said the day he discovered they had defected to the Thorns, he went into such a rage that he burned all of their belongings, landholdings, and records. When they realized the Thorns weren’t all they were cracked up to be, they tried to come crawling back to ask for forgiveness. Rather than kill them, he sent them to Carthage during the Roman siege as punishment to prove their loyalty. They’re assigned to watch the passages there.”

Roman siege. The Third Punic War, then.

“I’m sure it gave them plenty of time to consider their crimes,” Nicholas said. “I can’t imagine this is, or ever was, a popular destination for travel. What is there to observe?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. The guardians and travelers assigned to watch passages aren’t just there to track comings and goings in and out of them,” Sophia said, to his surprise. “They ensure the passages remain stable and aren’t in danger of collapsing.”

Nicholas nodded. Julian had told him a passage became unstable—or collapsed—under two circumstances: with the death of a nearby traveler who was outside of their natural time, or, Ironwood believed, simply from overuse and age. As if they became worn-out and flimsy, like old fabric that had been turned too many times.

“More passages than ever have been collapsing and closing altogether,” Sophia said, her profile outlined by the rough sea below. “That’s why I believed him, you know. That he wanted the astrolabe to examine newly discovered passages, for their destinations and stability. I’m not gullible. I didn’t believe everything he told me, and I didn’t want everything he wanted.”

Once the words were out, he saw her shoulders slump, as if relieved of the weight of them. He recalled his accusation in Prague, and wondered at how long she had let her temper simmer without exploding.

I know, he wanted to say. No one who believed Ironwood so fully would have survived this long.

He tried to picture her then, in her native time, in that orphanage. Small, filthy, and hungry enough to risk being caught stealing. That, at least, he understood. A child faced with the raw desperation of survival had it imprinted on their soul. They were never able to shake the sense that one day, everything good in their life might again vanish—not fully.

“Maybe that’s the real reason he never made me heir.” Her mouth twisted in a cruel little smile.

“He didn’t make you heir because you’re a woman and he’s a bloody fool,” Nicholas said. “And because there was Julian, in all of his shining glory.”

Sophia glanced up, brows raised ever so slightly as she let out a tsk. “Speaking ill of the dead now, Carter?”

“He didn’t—” Nicholas caught the word before it could escape.

“He didn’t what?”

Damn it all.

He hadn’t told her yet about the conversation he’d had with Rose about Julian likely surviving…not because she didn’t deserve to know, but because Nicholas couldn’t tell how she might react. While it might improve her view of him, it might just as easily throw off the uneasy balance between them they’d managed to obtain. No need to rock a boat already struggling in stormy waters.

Sophia seemed to be careening from unpredictable highs to surly lows, her moods like errant breezes, and he needed her steady and focused on finding Etta, not changing her mind and disappearing to search out Julian—it was callous of him, he knew this, and hideously selfish. It took him buffeting his heart with years of memories of her vile insults and cutting dismissals before the notion sat well with him.

The end here justified the deceitful means. He could lie, if Etta was there to later absolve him of the guilt of it. There could be no side trips to find Julian or learn where he might have been all of these years, or even what might have become of him in the meantime. If he knew his half brother at all, he had commandeered some palatial island retreat to hide away in. Julian always landed right side up.

“‘Shining glory,’” she muttered. “How can you not see it? He never liked Julian. Hated everything Julian loved. Gambling and drinking and painting. Wasn’t shy about telling him how worthless he was on any given day. He was a resounding disappointment, no matter what he did.”

Nicholas’s brow furrowed. He’d known the old man hadn’t outwardly mourned the “loss” of his heir, but he’d assumed that was because any sign of weakness, any crack in his veneer, would have been taken as an invitation to his enemies to try and seize his throne. That, and his heart had calcified long ago. “Was it truly as bad as all that?”

“Worse, probably. Ironwood was ashamed and plagued by him. He was convinced Julian would ruin his empire. If Julian hadn’t died…”

“What?”

“He probably would have done it himself,” she finished slowly, eyes forward.

“And yet, you didn’t believe us when we told you in Palmyra he desired new heirs,” Nicholas said coolly.

For once, Sophia had no response to that.

“Was he a disappointment to you?” he countered. He’d always wondered about this: Julian chased every skirt he saw, knowing Sophia was at home, waiting for their wedding day. He’d spoken of his intended with a kind of affection that, having met and known Etta, Nicholas saw now wasn’t the sweet fire of love so much as the cool balm of friendship. But Sophia had mourned him—genuinely mourned, with all the black crepe and seclusion it required.