Wayfarer (Passenger 2)

“Come on,” she whispered. “Move it, Spencer.”

Her lip began to bleed as she dug her teeth into it, trying to keep from crying out in pain each time she dropped down and overextended her hurt shoulder. Gripping the beam she’d been sitting on, as if she were on the monkey bars, she stretched her toes out and felt a tremor of panic deep in her gut as they barely scraped the beam below.

Too far. Her arms strained under her weight as she looked to her right, her left, trying to judge how far she’d have to shift and scoot over to reach the nearest vertical support and slide down it. No—she wasn’t going to make it, not with her shoulder on fire and her entire body shaking.

Not going to make it. She looked down again, this time to the ground below, the slant of the street, and tried not to picture what she’d look like lying there in a broken heap of gauzy white fabric and blood. If she could drop softly enough, she might be able to balance, catch herself—

A sudden movement at the window in front of her snapped her attention forward again. A bemused face stared at her through the glass. She blinked rapidly, her breath locked inside of her throat. The window creaked open, out toward her.

“Well, that’s a bit of trouble you’ve gotten yourself into, old girl—”

Arms reached for her, and Etta didn’t think, didn’t speak, just kicked. Her heel connected with something hard, and she took some satisfaction in the surprised “Cripes!” laced with pain in response.

“That was uncalled for!” came the same voice, now muffled as he clutched his nose.

The pain in her shoulder and left arm stabbed straight through her fear, and her fingers spasmed and relaxed their grip on the beam. A gasp tore out of her as she dangled there by one arm. Her jagged fingernails dug into the wood as she frantically tried to line up her footing below before she lost what grip she had.

“Take my hands—come on, don’t be a fool about this,” the young man was saying. Etta leaned back out of his reach, struggling to pull far enough away, as he climbed onto the frame. “Really? You think the better option is breaking your neck? I’m hurt.”

The wind picked up, tossing her loose hair into her eyes, lifting the hem of her nightgown.

“I can admire the intent here, but you should know that all it would take is one shout from me and you’ll be swarmed by unhappy Thorns having to climb down to fetch you. I doubt you want to die, either, so let’s have it, then—I’ll help you back inside, as easy as pie.”

“Thorns?” Etta’s brows knitted together. Not Ironwoods?

She didn’t recognize the sounds at first, the odd rumbles and creaks, but the vibrations under her hand—those, she understood. The whole structure of scaffolding was being shoved to the left by the wind, leaning, until she heard a snap and felt something clip her bad shoulder as it fell behind her.

Then she was falling, too.

IT HAPPENED TOO FAST FOR ETTA TO EVEN SCREAM. One moment she was falling; the next, her arm was caught and yanked in its socket as two hands closed around her wrist and dragged her toward the pale exterior of the house. Her cheek slammed against the rough stone, and she squeezed her eyes shut as the scaffolding began to shudder, folding in on itself and collapsing down onto the old-fashioned cars parked on the street below.

“Reach up, will you?” the young man said, the words strained. Etta shook her head. Her wounded shoulder was too stiff, and the whole length of it, from neck to fingertip, felt like it was filled with scorching, sunbaked sand.

Instead, he released her wrist with one hand and reached down to grab her nightgown. There was a loud grunt overhead as he heaved her up. Etta’s feet scrabbled against the wall. She didn’t breathe again until her elbows were braced on the windowsill. Then she was spilling through it, onto the young man and the carpet below.

She rolled off him and onto her back as soon as she landed. Her whole body sang with pain and adrenaline, and it was several long moments before her heart steadied enough for Etta to hear anything over its frantic rhythm.

“Well, that was exciting. I’ve always wanted to rescue a damsel in distress, and you’ve given me twice the fun on that front.”

Etta cracked open an eye, turning her head toward the voice. Next to her, propped up on his elbow, the young man was making an appraising, appreciative study of her. She pushed herself upright and scooted back against the desk to put some much-needed distance between them.

He was young—her age, or a few years older, with short, chestnut-colored dark hair brightened by streaks of red. It was mussed to the point of standing on end, and Etta had the horrifying realization that she really had gripped it for leverage when she’d tumbled back into the house. His shirt was open at the collar and inside out, as if he’d picked it up and thrown it on without a second look. He scratched at the shadow of scruff along his jaw, studying her with piercing light blue eyes that warmed with some unspoken joke.

His voice…those eyes.

Ironwood.

Etta pulled herself to her feet, but her path was blocked by the desk. He’d claimed they were with the Thorns, which could only be true if he’d defected from Cyrus Ironwood’s ranks and joined theirs. Or if he was a prisoner, same as her.

Or it would make him a liar. But if this was the truth, then…Etta was exactly where she needed to be.

With the people who had stolen the astrolabe from her.

“I suppose you gave me a bit of a fright, I can be man enough to admit that—”