Wayfarer (Passenger 2)

I’m not heartless, she’d said. And so she wasn’t. Their hearts were made of different fibers, and perhaps her heart was more durable for that sort of decision than his own.

He was too exhausted to argue with her. Sophia’s feet, much like his own, were dragging across the stones. Even her words lacked their usual venom and conviction.

“Is Fitzhugh at home now?” Nicholas asked the old man instead.

Remus shook his head. “No. My husband’s a physician, you see. He is out making his rounds to visit the ill. It was left to me to investigate who came through the passage.”

“You heard it from all the way up here?” Nicholas asked, glancing back over his shoulder at the city spread out below. The pale hue of the limestone was all the more breathtaking in the early morning with the tint of violet spread over it.

He’d lost the sound of the passage as they’d slipped further into the city. All he could hear now was the distant banging of the blacksmiths, who had woken with the dawn.

“We’re near the other passage,” Remus said. “It resonates with its brother in the water. Dreadful noise, but useful in knowing when to expect company.”

Nicholas nodded.

“Satisfied, detective?” Sophia asked. “Might we try for a bit of shutting up now? Tonight’s given me a crashing headache.”

Remus’s pace slowed as they reached the next door. He turned one last time to press his fingers against his lips before pushing it open. It creaked painfully, scraping the uneven stone. Nicholas ducked beneath the low arch and stepped into a small, shady courtyard, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

“This way,” Remus whispered. Nicholas cast one last look around, searching for any potential entrances. Piles of bows, swords, shields, and spears rested beside brooms and other simple household tools, waiting. A prickle of anxiety fizzed in his blood; there was one way in, yes, which meant it would be easier to keep watch for trouble, but it also meant there was only one way out if trouble did actually arrive.

The three of them went up a steep stack of steps to the second level, where a second door waited. Remus cast one last nervous glance around before opening it and ushering them inside.

The smell of earth and greens had bled into the dry air, giving the open room a musty, medicinal smell that instantly put Nicholas back in a place of unease. Physicians in his time were often no better than butchers, their tools as dull as their skills.

On the left side of the room was a bed pressed against the wall, with strands of greens left to dry over it. The opposite wall was dedicated to Fitzhugh’s work—more drying herbs and plants, along with small vials and ceramic pots, a grinding stone, and a rudimentary scale. Across the room, below the windows, was a carefully arranged living area; there was a low table, a rug to cover the polished stone floor, a chair, and pillows on which to sit. At the center of it all was a hearth, with a pot boiling over, spitting bubbling water into the hissing fire below.

It was a comfortable home, but nothing like he would have expected for two travelers. To their credit, at least there were no outward hints that they weren’t native to this era—most travelers, as he’d seen even with Etta’s great-grandfather, couldn’t resist the temptation to cobble together small stashes of trinkets and souvenirs. Instead, there were just a few small statues and stone figurines of foreign, ancient gods.

“We can eat and discuss whatever it is you’re here for after I finish my rest, and you’ve had some yourself,” Remus said, sitting on the bed and removing his battered shoes. “At a decent hour.”

“Time is not on our side,” Nicholas began, even as Sophia made herself a small bed from the pillows near the hearth and table.

“When is it ever, my lad,” the man said, as the feather mattress and rope frame settled beneath him. “When is it ever?”

“How can you be sure the attackers will not bother us?” Nicholas asked. “That they haven’t tracked us here?”

“They move in darkness,” the man said, blowing out the candle on the table beside the bed. “We are safe. For now.”

Nicholas released his frustration in a harsh breath, but found a place to stretch out on the rug. The uneven ground beneath him was as unforgiving as it was in every other century he’d recently visited. He took the opportunity to assess his aches and cuts, as well as the new, hot spikes of pain in his right hand. Holding it up, he examined the pattern etched into the ring in the soft morning light.

He tried tugging it off again.

Failed.

With another snort, he crossed his arms and turned his back to the wall, closing his dry eyes. But he did not sleep. His mind did not relent in trying to chase the ghost of Etta’s face, remembering how sweetly her body had curved against his own. Nor did it allow him to ignore the familiar pressure of someone’s gaze taking the measure of him.

But hours later, when Nicholas finally turned over to confirm his suspicions of being observed, Remus had dipped deeply into his dreams, and the only thing that moved beyond the door was the lonely wind.

HOURS LATER, AS THE SUN SWEPT INTO THE ROOM AND THE fire warmed its confines, Nicholas propped himself up against the table on the floor and attempted to stay awake. Or at least alert. Sophia, who had slept without a second thought, drummed her fingers on the low table, impatient for the man to finish brewing his tea and cooking the oats.

“Here you are,” Remus said, offering a cup of the former to Sophia, wincing as the hot tea splashed out of the small wooden cup and onto his trembling hands. Without any sort of prompting, he pressed another cup into Nicholas’s hands, turning back to fill one of his own.