Wayfarer

Julian stopped, backing up a few steps. “Wait—” He looked at his journal, checking something. “Ah. This is my stop. Yours is three doors down, just at the entrance to the apartments.”

He pushed the door to the small chapel open.

“Are you not coming with me?” Etta asked. “You could do real good.”

He threw her one last smirk over his shoulder. “Where’s the fun in that, when I could go to Florence instead?”

She blew out a harsh breath from her nose and let her expression tell him what she thought of that. The idea of him slipping away from facing the consequences of his actions sparked that same helpless anger she’d felt while listening to Nicholas confess his pain and shame and doubt over what had happened on the mountain.

“Godspeed, Linden-Hemlock-Spencer,” he said, stepping into the small chapel. “Here is my final benediction: wherever your road takes you, may it never cross with Grandfather’s.”

She heard the passage’s tempestuous language bang on through the wall.

“A-hole,” Etta muttered, blowing her hair out of her eyes. She had turned to continue down the hall when a sound like a gunshot bit the silence. Something heavy smacked into the door with a grunt of pain.

She fumbled with the latch and opened it. Julian spilled out at her feet, blinking up at her. After a moment, he pressed his hands against his face and let out a frustrated holler.

“What…just happened?” Etta asked, alarmed.

He pushed himself upright and began the impossible work of patting down his unruly hair. “I got bounced out of the passage. Crossed paths with myself. Some version of me is already there.”

Whoa. “Didn’t you check your notebook?”

“I did,” Julian said, smacking a hand against the stone. “Which means it’s the future me, and I haven’t gone yet. Damn!”

Etta stared. “Does this…happen a lot?”

“To me more than others, apparently. Once or twice it’s kept me out of a bad scrape, but I cannot even begin to explain how obnoxious it is to be babysat and scolded by your future conscience. I can’t believe Future Me is such a…a wurp. A chuffing bluenose!”

What he was saying seemed possible and impossible all at once—but it was time travel, and the usual rules never did apply.

“You’re sure you didn’t just get completely drunk and forget to note your visit?” Etta asked, leaning over him.

“I love that you know me so well, Linden-Hemlock-Spencer, but I assure you, no. Say what you will about changing the timeline, but my whole life has been a lesson in self-fulfillment. I can’t know what’s ahead, but Future Me knows what’s behind, and he’s a humorless fool about letting me have my fun.”

To her, it sounded like Julian’s future self was pretty skilled in keeping himself alive, but Etta kept her mouth shut and moved away, so he could stand up and brush himself off.

“Maybe Future Julian wants you to be a better person?” she suggested.

He pulled a horrified face.

“All right, kid, let’s go to the Big Apple, then. We’ll split up in Little Italy. I’ve a hankering for good pasta, anyway,” he whispered as he stood. “Oh boy, 1939 means that my old nanny will be there—she retired to her natural time once she was finished with me and Soph. I like to think we were the ultimate cosmic test, and she didn’t dare risk getting worse little demons—”

“Shhh,” Etta begged, her head pounding, as they walked. “Shh…”

“I wonder what the old bird is up to? I could give her the fright of her life and drop in,” Julian said, his voice low. “You know, I think I’ll do just that. She can keep a secret, especially now that Grandfather no longer controls her purse strings. Or I’ll just play it off as past Julian, rather than present Julian…. Hmm…”

Etta gave up and let him talk, let him fill her head with his memories until they pushed away her own painful ones for a time. She tried to bring up Nicholas’s face, to imagine finding him after she saw this mess through to its end, but seeing its bold lines, the curve of his contemplative smile, brought no relief—it only made her feel desperately alone.

THE PASSAGE SHOVED THEM OUT TOGETHER, SENDING JULIAN to his knees and throwing Etta on top of him. Black ringed her vision at the jarring impact, and it took her longer than she would have liked to recover enough to stand.

“That was a definite ouch,” Julian said, staggering up. “You sure your head isn’t made out of marble?”

Etta held her throbbing arm close to her chest, waiting until the pain passed before saying, “Sorry.”

They’d landed in the middle of a rocky, fog-smothered path. Etta could hardly see a few inches in front of her, let alone take in what was supposed to have been the city’s skyline.

“Manhattan, huh?” she said, turning to Julian with an arched brow. “What was that about having excellent records?”

But Julian was rooted to the spot, one hand twisting the front of his shirt.

“No, Etta,” he said. “This is New York City.”

“In prehistoric times?”

The terrain was wild—craggy hills shadowed by thick, silky fog. Etta could just make out the shape of other mounds in the distance. Someone nearby had lit a fire; the smell of charred wood bloomed in the air.

The silence breathed thickly around them, as if trying to get her attention. To tell her something. Listen.