“When you told me I couldn’t save Alice, you spoke from experience.”
“I should have told you the whole of it,” he murmured.
This memory was clearly something he kept buried deep, a dagger he kept wrapped in layer upon layer of distraction, to avoid cutting himself by brushing up against it. She understood and respected that.
“That’s an easy fix, though,” Etta said. “Before, you didn’t have the astrolabe.”
He sat up, pulling away. She’d managed to shock him again. “Etta—”
“No—don’t shake your head like it’s impossible. It isn’t. We could take the time to create a passage for you, before we…”
“Before we give it to Ironwood?” he prompted, with obvious suspicion in his eyes.
She nodded, hating the lie. “This is all simpler than you want to think it is.”
His lips compressed into a tight, unhappy line. Why couldn’t he believe that this was a true possibility, that he could have everything he wanted? Why was he reluctant? Nicholas didn’t want to continue traveling; but one last trip to see his mother, to be with her and ease his mind—wouldn’t that be worth it?
“Regardless, we need to find the bloody thing first, which means that it’s especially lucky that I’ve figured out the clue.” Nicholas spread his hand out on the stone banister that ran along the water’s edge. “You brought us right to it.”
“You mean…” Etta followed his gaze back to the fountain. “Bring a coin to the widowed queen.”
“This is the Medici Fountain, built by Marie de Medici, the widow of Henry the Fourth of France, isn’t it?” Nicholas gestured to the fountain. “Julian brought me here to chase the skirt of some girl he’d seen on the street. If there’s one thing that’s true of all Ironwoods, they love to lecture and give unsolicited history lessons.”
Etta nodded. The stone on the fountain had been carefully worked; two figures sat atop columns that were interspersed with more sculptures. At the very center were three more statues: Polyphemus Surprising Acis and Galatea, with the hulking bronze cyclops, Polyphemus, peering over a boulder, and the ill-fated lovers carved out of white marble. Her mother loved and specialized in the conservation of works from the Italian Renaissance, and this fountain had used elements of that in its classic grotto style. To Etta, it was an obvious connection.
Nicholas blew out another ragged breath, burying his face in his palms. Etta reached over, stroking his hair in reassurance. She wasn’t sure what was upsetting him more: that he had drawn so much unwanted attention to himself, or that he’d let himself get his hopes up. When he still seemed distraught, his muscles tensed, she took his hand and threaded their fingers together. He returned her soft squeeze with one of his own.
“Bring a coin.…” she muttered. Of course—you brought coins to fountains to make a wish. “I think you’re right.”
She pulled the harmonica out of the bag again with her free hand and brought it to her lips. Her shoulders locked as she braced herself for the deafening ripple of noise to wash over them.
“Wait,” he said before she could blow into it, his hand closing over her wrist. “Etta, I need to tell you something—”
The sudden crack of the passage sent them both to their feet. The harmonica skidded to the edge of the water, forcing Etta to dive in order to save it. Nicholas’s arm lashed out as she started to rise, keeping her down as he craned his neck around.
“I didn’t—” she started to say. I didn’t play the chord. But if the passage was letting out its usual blistering cry, then—
Two figures stepped out from behind the fountain, dropping bags and shrugging out of black tuxedo jackets. One, a tall chestnut-haired man, clawed at the bow tie around his neck, laughing deeply at something the shorter, blond young man beside him was saying. Both were handsome, and there was something familiar about them—Etta couldn’t place it, not until the one with dark hair looked up, and his icy blue gaze fixed on her.
In that moment, she wasn’t sure who was more shocked: Nicholas, who sucked in a sharp, alarmed breath; her, as she realized that this man had the same eyes as Cyrus; or the man himself, as he went chalk white and called out, “Rose?”
Nicholas hauled her up from the ground and said a single word: “Run.”
Nicholas’s longer legs ate up the ground with ease, forcing her to double her speed just to keep up with him. The men and women taking in the sunset scattered.
“Rose!” the man shouted. “Rose!”
“Damn it all,” Nicholas swore.
The gunshot sent the Parisians scattering in every direction like a colorful array of feathers. Another shot rang out, blistering the skin of the tree beside Nicholas and sending down a shower of leaves and bark.
Before she could think about why it was a bad idea, Etta reached across Nicholas into the leather bag. She closed her fingers around the handle of the gun and whipped it out. The back of the gun’s body had a kind of hook—Her thumb caught it, pulled it back, and with the slightest pressure on the trigger, a bullet exploded from the gun.
The reverberation shot up through her bones; her eardrums winced at the deafening sound. But it had the desired effect. The travelers broke off from behind them.
“Bloody hell!” Nicholas swore, spinning to look at her. “You liked that, didn’t you?”
She shrugged. Maybe a little. Enough to want to try again, and actually aim this time. Wisdom, however, prevailed, and she surrendered the gun to the more experienced marksman as they ran.
Nicholas led them across the garden’s green lawn and through the trees, until they were outside of the park and darting across the street. He followed the curve of the road, shouldering through startled onlookers, and ducked into a tight alley. When he crouched down behind some stacked crates, she followed, her chest burning so fiercely she was afraid she’d be sick.
“Bloody hell,” he said again, shaking harder than before as he touched a cut on his shoulder. Had the bullet actually grazed him?
“Who?” she panted, leaning forward, trying to see around the crates.
Nicholas leaned his head back against the dank stone wall behind them. “My father. Augustus Ironwood.”
Etta had suspected—she’d seen those eyes and recognized the look of Cyrus, his nose, his brows, on the younger man. But more than that, she’d seen the flash of anguish cut across his face as he’d called her by her mother’s name.
“Are you all right?” she asked, touching his arm.
“Not the first time that man’s nearly killed me,” he said offhandedly, “but hopefully it will be the last. Christ, I didn’t think I’d ever see him again. Bloody time travel, bloody—”
Oh my God—Etta thought she’d understood this before—that, even after a traveler died, there was still the chance of bumping into them again at some point in history. Each passage was fixed to a specific year and location, but not a date. What were the chances that they’d managed to land on the exact time that a past version of his father had decided to show up?
“The irony of seeing him…” Nicholas shook his head, accepting her touch as she ran the backs of her fingers down his face. He caught them, twining them between his own. His gaze was on the opposite wall, but she saw the emotions storming within him.