Wayfarer (Passenger 2)

WINIFRED—WHO, IT SEEMED, HAD BEEN LISTENING AT THE DOOR—handed her a pair of shoes as soon as Etta emerged from the office. By the time Henry appeared at her side, a light coat over his suit jacket, the woman had faded back down the shadows of the hallway like the ghoul she was.

“No coat?” he asked, eyeing her up and down.

“Darling Winifred didn’t think I needed one, apparently,” she said. One of the guards chuckled into his fist, earning him a swat across the chest from the other.

Henry looked mildly startled. “Your mother called her that as well.”

“My mother met that woman and they both survived it?”

One corner of his mouth twitched, and the parts of her that were still raw, and awkward—and, worse—unsure, eased. “I never said they emerged unscathed.”

“I always wondered how she got the scar on her chin,” Etta said, trying to squeeze the smallest traces of humor from this.

“That was me, I’m afraid,” Henry said. “We were rather ruthless fencing partners when we were much younger. It was another scar in her extensive collection, but, once she returned the favor”—he pointed to the pale, thin mark above his left brow—“the matter was settled.”

Etta tried not to grimace at that. Blood for blood. How very Rose Linden.

The thought was drawn away by Henry placing his overcoat around her shoulders.

“Is that all right?” he asked. “The Octobers here are mild, it likely won’t be too cold—”

It was the anxious look he gave her that made Etta keep the coat around her, clutching it closed between her hands. “Thanks.”

“We’ll be taking a quick walk down the street, Jenkins,” Henry said, turning to the guard who’d laughed. The other man gave a curt nod, and when Etta and Henry started down the hallway, he and the other guard fell into step behind them. Etta turned, confused, only to be drawn back around by the offer of Henry’s arm.

Rather than take the grand stairway down, he led her to a smaller staircase, one so thoroughly plain and serviceable that Etta assumed it was meant for staff. They made their way down two levels, emerging in a large, echoing entryway.

A portrait of a beautiful young woman, as regal as any queen in her velvet gown and diamonds, kept watch over the comings and goings of the foyer, lit by an enormous crystal chandelier that had somehow survived the quake by only molting a few of its feather-shaped ornaments.

Jenkins stood off to the side, next to the massive front door, and was soon joined by two other men, all roughly the same height, all with the same dark hair, some dusted with gray, others not. Etta stopped to examine the portrait for a moment, rubbing her sore shoulder.

“Are you in pain, Miss Hemlock? Would you like something for it?” Jenkins asked.

“Oh—um, no, thank you,” Etta said, letting her hand fall. It did hurt, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to be under the influence of any medication—she needed to be as focused as possible. “And it’s actually Spencer, not Hemlock.”

“You’re a Hemlock through and through,” Henry said with a faint chuckle. “Suffering in silence because of indomitable pride. Get her the medicine, Jenkins.”

“That does sound familiar,” Jenkins said with a wink. The friendliness of it, like a shared private joke, startled her all over again.

Henry offered her his arm again, but Etta breezed past him, still preoccupied with those six words. You’re a Hemlock through and through. That would be easy, wouldn’t it? To accept that, to give in to the comfort of fitting into those qualities, to have that place offered to her?

He removed two white tablets from a silver pillbox in his coat pocket.

“Aspirin,” Jenkins reassured her with a small smile.

“I’m all right,” she said, trying to keep the wariness out of her voice. “Really. Thank you.”

Henry looked like he wanted to push the matter, but when he saw her face—which Etta was sure must have looked swollen and red after her crying jag—he decided against it.

“Shall we, gentlemen?”

Standing next to them, the resemblance between Henry and the others was overwhelming, so much so that Etta wondered if they were all related. All Hemlocks.

If they were security, were they also decoys? The thought moved through her mind like a lance. The four men, including Jenkins, stepped into a tight unit around her and Henry, cocooning them on all sides before they even stepped outside. Etta waited for them to step farther away, to break up the human shield as they stepped into the crisp night air, but they never did, even as they began down the steep path. Their movements had the practiced precision of a military maneuver, and she had to wonder what Henry was being shielded from.

But she already knew. Ironwoods. This man, just as much as her mother, was the sworn enemy of Cyrus Ironwood, and had been working to undermine him for decades.

They came to a turn in the road and stopped short. It was only then that Henry gave a small signal with his hands to send the other men back a few feet. They went with reluctant, shuffling feet.

“Now,” he said, turning his attention back to her. “Tell me what you see.”

Etta caught herself looking up at him again, studying the crooked bridge of his nose, the gruesome scar at the base of his left ear where it looked like someone had begun to forcibly cut it off. He’d attempted to tame his hair beneath his hat, but it was already rebelling, curling up to greet the moisture in the air.