Wayfarer

“Apologies,” he told Sophia as he slid her down off his shoulder.

“—what—”

He tossed her like a basket, wincing as she struck the solid roof. He reached back, gritting his teeth, and snapped off the long end of the arrow, ignoring the warmth soaking through his tunic. There was only about a yard of distance between the two buildings, and he crossed it without trouble. Li Min met him there, kneeling to help him pick Sophia back up.

“Ma’am, are you here to help for your own mysterious reasons, or are you here to kill her for stealing your money?” he asked, his face serious. “Because I haven’t the time for the latter, and your competition is arriving shortly.”

Li Min looked up from her study of Sophia’s ashen face. “What has she been given?”

“Hemlock.” Saying the word aloud made the immense danger of it tangible, gave the threat new life.

“Quickly, then,” Li Min said. “We haven’t much time.”

Out of other options, his body fast approaching that murky line of uselessness, Nicholas followed her over to the next roof.

“Drop,” she told him, eyes flickering to something just over his shoulder.

He barely had time to take a knee before she flung a small knife from the depths of her hooded cloak, striking the first man at the dead center of his heart. The weight of his body sent the others tumbling back down the stairs. The one who managed to remain on his feet found another knife lodged directly in his throat.

Nicholas turned back to Li Min, only to find her already making her way down the stairs winding around the back of the building.

“This way, this way,” she called. “Keep up!”

“Keep up, she says,” he muttered, trying to pick up his pace without sending both himself and Sophia into a tragic tumble.

Li Min was incredibly light on her feet, not difficult for her diminutive size; still, he felt like an inelegant beast lurching along behind her. He was beginning to lose feeling in his left arm, where he felt the tip of the arrow scraping against the bone. Nicholas couldn’t focus on that thought without feeling like he was about to retch; instead, he turned what remained of his drifting attention to maintaining his grip on Sophia. The voices shouting in English were still so close, tearing through the unpleasant stillness of the besieged city.

He was grateful when his feet were back on solid ground, but there was no time to stop and clear the darkness edging into his vision. His eyes tracked Li Min as she wove in and out of the startled crowds around her like a dolphin leaping through waves. Someone—a woman—put a concerned hand on his arm as he passed, but Nicholas brushed it off and kept going, his stomach tightening as they continued up the hill to the buildings crowning the Byrsa.

Just before they reached the apex of the hill, Li Min took a sharp turn and ducked between the last two homes, kicking open a gate that stood in her way. There, just beyond a shaft of light pouring into the narrow alley, was the shimmering entrance to the passage.

As if sensing them, the pitch of its voice grew higher. Nicholas felt himself faltering, choking on dust and the metallic tang of blood, but he gave himself one last shove forward and felt himself vanish like a passing breeze.

ALICE HAD TOLD ETTA ONCE that in order to become a concert violinist, she would need to protect four things above all else: her heart, from criticism; her mind, from dullness; her hands, so she would never falter in eking out the notes; and her ears, so that she could always judge the quality of the sound she was producing.

But in that moment, Etta couldn’t hear anything over the sharp, painful ringing that jabbed like knives into her head. The weight of the world pressed down on her chest and shoulders, smothering her next few breaths.

She forced her eyes open, gagging on the thick air.

The cloud of smoke masked everything, creating a dreamlike haze, even as fire raced up the silk panels hanging from the wall, scorching the plaster. The chandelier above the table had shattered, glass raining down like ice on the wreckage below. And the table…the table and a section of the floor beneath it had caved in, leaving a jagged, gaping hole. Etta’s eyes stung as she blinked, searching for the others through the embers rising up.

They were gone—the tsar, Winifred, Jenkins. The waiter. They’d gotten out, then—rescuers had already taken them to get help—

No.

A chill of sudden certainty crept over her, stifling the scream in her throat.

No.

They hadn’t gotten out. There would have been no time to move away from the blast. Which meant that…

They fell through the floor. Or they…their bodies had…the blast…

Etta gagged again, her chest too tight to breathe. There was a stabbing in her side that seemed to drive deeper and deeper each time she shifted, trying to push the crushing weight off her chest and bring air into her lungs. One hand was pinned beneath her back, the other between her chest and the warm mass on top of her.

Henry.

“Henry…” Etta felt the word leave her throat, but couldn’t hear it above the ringing in her ears. “Henry! Henry!”

He’d managed to throw himself over her, covering her almost completely. Her heart began to ricochet around her rib cage, beating so fast, so hard, she was terrified it might burst.

His face was turned away from her, one arm drawn up over it protectively. But he wasn’t moving. He wasn’t moving.

Etta dragged her hand out from where it was trapped between them, her still-healing shoulder screaming in protest. Without the benefit of her hearing, with the smoke still churning around them like waves, Etta felt like she was moving underwater, watching the distorted images of life beyond the surface. Her hand flopped around, touching the exposed, raw skin of Henry’s back; he’d been burned by the blast. She began to tremble as she felt up his neck, searching for a pulse.