Wayfarer (Passenger 2)

But instead of appreciating it, all Etta could think of was the last time she had been in Russia, for the International Tchaikovsky Competition. With Alice. Competing. Winning it all. The Times article. “Classical Music’s Best-Kept Secret.”

All of it had melted away from her life like the snow in the palace’s courtyard, leaving her nothing but pockets of glistening memories that felt like they could disappear completely at any time.

My future isn’t the real future, she reminded herself. It only existed because of one man’s greed.

Etta shook off the thought, reaching up to smooth back a loose strand of hair. Julian walked with the easy nonchalance of someone who had no idea he was being led into the mouth of a wolf. And that soft part of her she had hated so much, the one that now set her apart from her mother, ached a little at the thought. Standing in Ironwood’s presence for less than an hour had been a triumph of courage. She could only imagine what growing up with the man had been like.

“You know…” she began, “you’ll be able to pay him some compliments about it directly. Soon, if I had to guess.”

“Pay him some…” Julian’s words trailed off at the exact moment his eyes widened slightly. He turned away from her, coughing into his fist. “Please. You think…that is, I’m sure you think you’re warning me, but I already know. Of course I do. My best skill is knowing when to leave a party before the fun’s gone.”

“I’m sure that’s been incredibly useful—”

“Etta?” She looked up to find Henry had stopped and was extending his arm to her. “May I escort you in?”

With one last glance at Julian, she crossed that last bit of distance and took Henry’s arm. The courier moved ahead, signaling to the two guards posted at an imposing set of doors to open them. As they stepped into the next room, Etta felt unsteady on her small heels.

“Have they found your man yet?” she asked. “Kadir?”

Henry shook his head, but gave her hand a reassuring pat. “He mentioned in his note that if he did not feel it safe to stay, he would hide the astrolabe somewhere in the palace. It may take days of searching yet, but I haven’t any doubt we’ll find it here as he promised. The others will begin their search immediately, but I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine first. There are a few things I need to discuss with him to secure this timeline.”

The ceiling stretched high above, a dome beautifully painted in the colors of sky and earth, framed—of course—with gold. The black-and-white-checked tile was a quiet design touch compared to the stone figurines of women and angels carved into the arches where the gray granite columns met the roof. Around them, two layers of windows brought in a flood of moonlight to aid the glowing golden sconces. The walls were a pristine white where they weren’t covered with panels of silk or art or gold, most of those embellished to within an inch of their lives with meticulously crafted vines, leaves, and flowers.

The party went up one staircase; on the next landing, steps led left and right, winding up to the same high point overlooking the room.

“This is the Jordan Staircase,” Henry said by way of explanation. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Etta said. “I think it could do with a touch more gold.”

“More gold—” He turned toward her, brows furrowed, before his face broke into a wide smile. “Oh. Sarcasm. That’s a most unattractive trait in a young lady, you know.”

“Yes, sarcasm; one of the many services I have to offer,” Etta said, her voice even more dry, “along with driving Winifred insane.”

He gave her a knowing look. “She’ll soften, given time.”

“The way a fruit softens as it rots away?” she guessed.

He struggled to summon a stern look. “That was unkind.”

But not untrue.

They walked for seemingly forever, until Etta, an experienced city walker, felt like she might want to sit down and take her shoes off, just to spare her toes the agony of being pinched for a few minutes. The rooms blurred together in a rainbow stream—edged, of course, with gold. Blue rooms. Green rooms. Red rooms. Great halls with chandeliers the size of modern trucks. Ballrooms waiting to be filled with flowers and dancers. Parquet floors whose swirling designs were made up of a dozen types of wood. Marble floors so very glossy Etta could see her reflection as she moved over them.

And still, it took another ten minutes before a crisply dressed servant met them at the base of another grand staircase and said, in accented English, “He’ll see you in his study before dinner. Shall I show your guests into a drawing room?”

“I think we all shall wait—” Winifred began.

“I’ll be bringing this young lady with me,” Henry said. “The rest are to have free range of the rooms to conduct their search.”

Etta’s gaze slid over to Julian’s, just as Winifred drew herself to her full height with a huff and curled a thin hand over his shoulder.

Don’t leave me, he mouthed as the woman dragged him away, following another servant back down the hall. Jenkins moved to follow Henry and Etta, but was waved off.

“Sir—” he began.

“We’re safe here,” Henry reassured him. “Lock the Ironwood child in a room and go see to the search. Inform Julian that if he throws a temper tantrum or breaks anything, we’ll certainly break something of his.”