Wayfarer (Passenger 2)

“We need to agree to secrecy, before we begin,” Nicholas said. “What we discuss here cannot leave this room.”

Remus’s brows rose. “Who do you think I would tell, beyond Fitzhugh? We don’t exactly receive guests, and even if we wanted to, Cyrus has forbidden contact. I cannot contact my Jacaranda family any more than Fitz could his immediate Ironwood family. He would have us killed for disobeying his explicit orders.”

Nicholas should have known that—he himself had been exiled, confined to his natural time. But the man’s words did not sound promising for the information they needed.

“Let’s get on with this business, then, my new friends,” Remus said. “Ask me your questions. I have a few of my own.”

Sophia blew on her cup of tea, then took a deep gulp. Her face screwed up, lips puckering. “Why does it taste like I’m drinking dirt?”

“It’s green tea,” Remus said indignantly. “It tastes of the pure earth. It’s not readily available in this era and continent, so have some respect for my hospitality.”

“Whatever you say.”

Nicholas had always been one for coffee over tea, the bitterest, darkest coffee available, but he was willing to try any sort of stimulant to keep his thoughts sharp.

He raised his own cup to his mouth, letting it wet his lips. It smelled of wet grass, and what taste he got was sour, not at all fortifying or refreshing. Setting it on the ground beside him, he leaned forward against the table. “We’re hoping to discover the last common years of the two most recent timeline shifts. Have you received any notices about them?”

The man looked stunned. “Oh, I’m afraid you’ve gravely overestimated how much contact we have with the outside world. In case it wasn’t clear: none. We don’t receive notices from the messengers anymore because we are not allowed to travel, and therefore any dangers the shifts present don’t affect us. We’ve been trapped in this era for years, with no communication—no food, no assurances we’ll ever be allowed to leave.”

Damn it all, Nicholas thought, weary and frustrated down to his soul. But of course.

“You were stupid enough to think he’d forgive you if you came back groveling,” Sophia said, one brow arched.

“I wished he’d just gone and executed us then, with all the others. The bastard put us here because he knew it would be our tomb, and that we’d think every day of what we did to spite him, and regret it,” Remus said. “Now, Fitz and I only regret the cowardice of leaving the Thorns. It was rough living, especially when it seemed as if Ironwood had massacred half their ranks. But tell me—with everything going on, is he sufficiently distracted now for Fitz and I to make our leave to another era undetected? He told us there were men posted at the entrances to both passages to ensure we could not leave.”

“There was no one at the one we came through,” Sophia admitted. “Did you really not even check? Ever?”

“No. His rage is absolute, and we were foolish enough to think we might earn our forgiveness eventually, with good service to him.” Remus laughed darkly. “What a fool I’ve been. Well, no more. Fitz and I will accompany you to the other passage out of the city when he returns. We’ll disappear this time.”

Nicholas approved of the manner in which the old man’s words vibrated with fuming resentment. Rubbing his tingling hand, he watched Remus for any signs of deceit, and found only the portrait of a man hardened by the bitter taste of disappointment.

“I thought for sure you came because of the work I’d done on the Shadows—the research Cyrus had me conduct,” Remus said, rising to stir the oats. Testing their consistency, he scooped out two steaming bowls to serve to his guests. “Ancient traveler lore, yes, I can assist you with. It’s very likely the only thing I’m good for these days. The rest is beyond my sight and knowledge.”

Nicholas was momentarily distracted by how hard he had to grip the wooden spoon in his hand to feel it. Batting down the fear pawing at his heart, he turned the whole of his attention to the food. The oats were plain and burned his tongue, but Nicholas was sure neither he nor Sophia had ever consumed a meal with more speed.

“Is there anyone who might be willing to help us discover the last common year without it getting back to Ironwood?” Nicholas asked, setting his empty bowl aside.

Remus considered this. “Most of his large alterations were made in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. You might try asking a guardian named Isabella Moore, in Boston. Ironwood had her son killed around the same time Fitzhugh and I left to join the Thorns, and I know her to be well connected, but with no love of the man. Try her any time after 1916 and before 1940.”

Another lead. Which might go just as far as this one did in answering their question: nowhere. He forced his good hand to release the edge of the table he’d been gripping.

“What did you mean when you said you thought we were coming because of the…Shadows?” Sophia asked, blowing on the surface of her tea before taking a deep gulp of it. “What do you know of them?”

Remus looked offended when she let out what was either a small hiccup, belch, or some charming combination of the two.

“First, I think you ought to be honest about what you’re truly searching for,” he said, “for I’ve only ever known them to hunt one thing: the astrolabe.”

Nicholas felt the skin on the back of his neck start to crawl. Even Sophia choked on the last sip of her tea.