Wayfarer (Passenger 2)

Etta’s brow furrowed. “What is this? Why would this Belladonna person pick a place where we’d be more likely to bump into the people of this time?”

“To your first question, a festival of some sort, clearly,” Julian said, turning to the task of trying to pick the dirt out from under his nails. “In deference to whatever spirit or god is enshrined at the temple. To answer your second, it’s best not to dwell on the dark, spider-infested maze of the Belladonna’s mind, but I assume the festival will be ending soon.”

She blinked. “That was…surprisingly useful.”

“As I like to say, always aim to disappoint in life,” Julian said. “That way you’ll never fail to be a delightful surprise when you don’t.”

Etta snorted. “All right, let’s go.”

They began their climb through the trees, up and over the rocks, until at last they saw that more villagers were flowing down the mountain than up it. Soon that number sputtered to a few, and finally, none.

They moved onto the cleared trail without a word between them, shuffling through the black ash left behind by the fires. Etta caught a glimpse of Julian in a narrow pocket of moonlight—the smear of dirt across his cheek, the stains on his hands and knees, the way the waves of his hair seemed to stand on end. She already knew she looked like she’d been nearly trampled by horses in a street of melted manure and mud…because she had been.

“I’m worried you’re not going to be enough of a distraction,” Etta said quietly, “for me to get behind this Belladonna woman and grab the astrolabe. I might get out, but you won’t.”

“I am a very fast runner,” he told her, “when sufficiently motivated.”

“I was thinking…maybe I should just make a bid. Win it legitimately.” She glanced over at him in the darkness.

“She only takes favors and secrets,” Julian said, stopping to adjust the weight of his backpack. “Do you think you have something Grandfather doesn’t?”

Etta had one thing none of the others did: she had grown up in a distant future, whereas no other traveler still alive had been born after 1945. But that future was gone, and any information from her future was worthless now. Which left one secret—one she wasn’t sure the woman didn’t already know. “We know the real reason why Ironwood wants the astrolabe. If the woman knows that, then she can use it against him. I think it’s valuable, but it still doesn’t feel like a concrete plan.”

“I told you,” he said. “You’re not supposed to be able to plan anything at these things—no thefts, no murders, no business deals beyond purchasing the witch’s wares. You’ll be as much in the dark as Grandfather, if that’s any reassurance.”

Beyond the good work of irritating Cyrus Ironwood by forcing him to travel, the Belladonna was smart to pick a time and location where there might be witnesses, as a deterrent against bad or outlandish behavior from the travelers.

As they continued up the path, Etta began to take account of the stone markers, the lanterns, the small, open shrine-like structures with their slanting roofs and rich crimson paint. Their journey spent more and more minutes, their most precious currency, but it was a relief to see the lights were fading in the village below, like a hearth reduced to silent coals after burning through the last of its wood. In time, the only sound she could detect was the rustling of the forest’s night-dwelling creatures.

She breathed in the smell of the damp greens around her, comforted by the familiarity of the traces of woodsmoke. Her body ached, but it was a good hurt, an earned one. Etta had fought through these last weeks and felt no small amount of pride for surviving.

“We’re doing the right thing, aren’t we?” Etta whispered. “I’ve wanted it gone for so long that the thought of keeping the astrolabe intact feels unnatural. Maybe it’s cursed—it infects the lives of everyone who comes in contact with that same darkness.”

Julian sighed. “I don’t know. You’re the moral compass, you’re supposed to tell me that.”

She elbowed him lightly. Inside her pack, the gold coins sounded like heavy rain as they rubbed against each other.

“I guess in my mind, it’s like this, Linden-Hemlock-Spencer: the astrolabe itself has never been evil. For better or worse, it only answers to the heart of the person using it, but there isn’t a person alive unselfish enough not to take advantage of it in some way. If destroying it destroys us, then we have to…I don’t know, we have to hide it again once we straighten the timeline out.”

What Mom did years ago.

Etta had been so quick to blame this journey on Rose’s madness, her trauma, that she felt heartsick now just considering this. Rose might have known all along that destroying it would destroy the travelers’ way of life, and that was initially why she had only hidden it.

But it didn’t excuse her for keeping the truth from her daughter, it didn’t forgive what she had done to Alice, and it didn’t explain why she had become so bent on Etta destroying it.

Halfway up the mountain, her legs burning and her back aching from the weight of her pack, Etta saw a glimmer of light. The ring of it grew until she could make out the distinct shapes of lanterns twinkling in the trees above the path, and a young boy with golden hair sitting on a stool beside a large brass scale and several baskets. Behind him, a large white curtain had been hung to cover whatever lay beyond.