Wayfarer (Passenger 2)

“Where am I?” she asked, interrupting him.

He seemed startled by her ability to speak, but he stood and retrieved a glass of some amber liquid from a corner table for her. “You sound as terrible as you look, kiddo. Have a sip.”

She stared at it.

“Oh, you’re no fun,” he said with a little pout. “I suppose you’ll want water instead. Wait here and be quiet—can’t raise the alarm just yet, can we?”

Etta wasn’t sure what that meant, but she complied all the same, watching as the young man walked to the door and stuck his head out into the hall.

“You, there—yes, you—bring me a glass of water. And don’t bloody well spit in it this time—you honestly think I’m not well versed enough in that fine art to notice?”

The response was immediate and irritated. “I’m not your damned servant.”

So there are guards after all. The only question was whether they were protecting him, or protecting themselves from him.

“I do believe the official decree from your master and commander was, ‘Give the dear boy what he wants.’ This dear boy wants water. And make it snappy. Pep in your step and all that. Thanks, old chum.”

Etta’s lip curled back. Definitely an Ironwood. And, by the sound of it, definitely working with the Thorns.

“I’m not your—” The young man shut the door on the response and leaned back against it with a pleased little smirk.

“They’re such a serious bunch that it’s all too easy to rile them up,” he whispered to her with a wink. “You and I will have the best fun together now that you’re here.”

She glared back. Unlikely.

After a moment the door popped open and a hand thrust itself in with a glass of cloudy-looking water. The instant the young man took it, the door slammed shut. This time, Etta heard the lock click from the outside.

“You use your old bathwater?” the young man shouted through the wood.

“You’d be so lucky!” came the reply.

He was still muttering as he crossed the room again and handed it to her. It was tinged a putrid brown, with a few suspicious particles floating in it.

Seeing her face, he said, “Sorry, the water situation is none too good after the earthquake, as you can imagine. No one’s gotten sick from it.” And then, after she’d already taken a sip, he added, “Yet.”

The water did have an odd taste—a little metallic, maybe, a little dirty too—but she downed it in two quick gulps. Her hands and arms were still trembling as they tried to recover from the strain.

“Where am I?” she demanded. “When?”

“San Francisco,” he said. “October 12, 1906. You’ve been out a number of days….”

Etta’s heels seemed to sink further into the rug as the weight of his words slammed into her. Thirteen days. She’d lost thirteen days. Nicholas could be anywhere. Sophia could be anywhere. And the astrolabe…

“We were briefly acquainted in the middle of the Texas desert, just after you were spat out by a passage. You might remember?”

“Are you looking for a thank-you?” Etta asked.

“Don’t I deserve one? You are damn lucky we were orphaned through the same passage. I saved you from both the nearby guardian and the coyotes circling nearby, waiting for you to croak. In fact, I’d like to think that if it weren’t for me, the boss man would be lowering your tattered remains into the ground.”

That confirmed her suspicion, at least. Some change must have been made to the timeline that orphaned all the travelers born after that time. Etta closed her eyes. Took a steadying breath through her nose.

“What changed?”

“What changed—oh, you mean the timeline? Judging by the party they neglected to invite me to, the timeline’s shifted the way they were hoping it would. The dimwits running this joint said something about Russia losing but winning. Drunken nonsense. Why we’re still in scenic post-earthquake San Francisco is anyone’s guess, though. Stay with these people long enough and, believe me, they’ll show you the armpit of every century.”

“You haven’t even tried asking them, have you?” Etta asked, unimpressed. “What year?”

His look was lightly scolding. “I told you. 1906.”

She swallowed her noise of irritation. “No, I mean, what year was it in Texas?”

“I’m not entirely sure I should say—”

Etta lunged forward, barely catching the words burning the tip of her tongue before they had the chance to singe him. He wasn’t going to keep the last common year from her—that was the only way she could figure out how to retrace her steps to Damascus, and to Palmyra.

“Oh ho—!” He stood and backed away from her. “You’ve got that wild look in your eyes like you did just before you bopped me on the nose. Believe me, they’ve removed everything that can be used as a weapon.”

Etta looked down at the glass in her hand, then back at him, one brow arching. “I’ve gotten pretty creative over the past few weeks. I think I can handle one minor Ironwood.”

“Minor?” he shot back, his voice wavering between incredulity and outrage. “Don’t you know who I am?”

“No. You were so busy congratulating yourself, you never got around to making introductions,” Etta said. “Though I take it you know who I am?”

“Everyone knows who you are,” he muttered, sounding annoyed. “How far I’ve fallen that I actually have to introduce myself.”