Passenger (Passenger 1)

“It depends on who you ask—the British seem to think it was one of Washington’s spies. That some mongrel set it when the army was forced to flee the city.”

Nearly everything seemed to be made of wood in this time period—all it would take was a single spark. Etta rubbed at her forehead, glancing at Nicholas. He’d untied his neck cloth and let it hang over his shoulders, his shirt parted at the front to reveal a span of warm skin. His clothes were well-worn, rumpled from days of work and travel, and he seemed unbothered by it even as Sophia fussed with her gown and beat the road dust from the skirt. She had patted on more perfume of some kind, but Etta focused on the scent of him—it was cool breezes and sunshine and rum.

While Sophia’s anxiety was manifesting in the way she kept folding and unfolding her hands in her lap, and in the impatient jumping of her legs under her skirt, Nicholas seemed to be retreating inside himself. The worry she’d seen on his face when they’d come ashore felt very different from this; there had been some anger knotted into his exasperation for Ironwood, when he’d warned her. His finger was currently worrying his upper lip; his gaze was cast out over the landscape rolling by, but he didn’t seem to be focusing on any one thing.

Etta thought that Nicholas could likely count the things that unnerved him on one hand, maybe even one finger. He could manage Sophia, and he seemed prepared for Ironwood; so, then, what was left to put such ice in his expression?

Rather than sit in the unbearable silence of not knowing, she asked, “Did you get to see New York before the fire?”

Idiot question. She knew he’d been to New York; that he’d even lived there for a time. Jack had told her as much during her fact-finding mission.

It was amazing how small you could feel when someone wouldn’t so much as look at you. For a second, Etta was sure he wasn’t going to answer at all, just keep his gaze fixed out of the window. Then, she got a single word: “Once.”

“What did you think of it?” Etta pressed, focusing on her irritation, so she wouldn’t have to acknowledge the creeping feeling of being hurt.

“Filthy.”

To her surprise, Sophia said, “The only point on which we agree. They throw the slop and garbage out into the streets hoping the animals and vermin will eat it, and whatever’s left washes out to the rivers with the rain. You can smell the city for miles before it comes into view. Fire smoke will only improve it.”

Here was the truth about the past, as Etta was coming to realize: it was startlingly quiet at times, the pace of life moved slower than a crawl, and the smell of the people and places was actually unbelievable. Her nose still hadn’t adjusted to it.

By the time they rolled to a stop, and the carriage rocked as the driver stepped off his perch to open their door, Etta would have tried splitting her skull open against the ground to relieve the pressure of her headache. Sophia stumbled out on unsteady legs behind her, using her shoulders for support. Nicholas brought up the rear, handing over a small bag of what looked like money to the driver, who went to tend to his horses.

Smoke clogged the air, a steady breeze carrying it across the bobbing water of the East River. Etta could taste it now at the back of her throat. Buried beneath the overpowering smell of charred wood was a rotting sweetness and hot manure, but Etta wasn’t sure if it was coming from the burning garbage or the smell of the soldiers moving around her.

The first time she’d seen the pops of vivid scarlet scattered across the rolling green landscape of Long Island, she was shocked. She recognized the famous red coats at once—the uniforms the British soldiers wore as they made their way through the towns, patrolled the roads, stopped and read the papers the driver handed them at each checkpoint.

Up close, Etta could see the careful white-and-gold detailing on the lapels, the shine of the buttons running down the cream-colored vests they wore underneath. Most of their breeches and stockings were splattered with dust from the road, and each wore a different version of the same exhaustion as they milled around the ferry landing, ushering crowds to and from the flat barges, away from the burning New York City.

“—would burn it to the ground before they’d let us have it, would they?”

“—deliberate, the fire’s taken it all from Broad Way to the Hudson, going north and west and taking the only decent taverns with it—”

Etta turned as two soldiers strode around her, heads bent closely together. Seeing her, they both nodded politely and went on their way with nothing more than, “Evenin’, ma’am.” The faces beneath the black hats were surprisingly young—why was she always assuming everyone in the past was so much older than she was? In the whole course of history, war had always fallen on the shoulders of the young.

After some negotiation, the ferryman agreed to make one last trip over the river before night fell and he was due home. Sophia charged forward like a gunshot, practically pushing her way onto the low, flat boat. A hand appeared in the corner of Etta’s eye—Nicholas, offering to help her step down. After his earlier aloofness, Etta didn’t feel much like validating his chivalry, and instead fixed her gaze on the forest of masts and sails drifting along the river.

The nonexistent skyline of this Manhattan made it impossible to figure out exactly where they were; somehow, not even being able to orient herself in the city she’d grown up in made something twist sharply deep inside her. The distance from the very tip of the island, what she knew as Battery Park, the view of it…She closed her eyes, picturing Brooklyn Bridge stretching over her head, the fanned-out cables, the sturdy stone arches. But when she opened her eyes again, there were no glossy-windowed skyscrapers scratching at the violet evening sky. The smoke wasn’t drifting around the faces of luxury high-rise apartments. None of the buildings seemed taller than a few stories.