Passenger (Passenger, #1)(106)

“You know the name Rose Linden, don’t you?” Etta asked.

He shrank back from the hand she’d offered to help him up. Etta sensed she’d committed some kind of offense.

“What about Benjamin Linden?” she asked, wondering if Nicholas had knocked him hard enough to make his ears ring. The pulse of insects outside swamped the room in sound; she wished she had opened just one of the shutters to let the rich floral scent in, to fill the air with something other than fear and sweat.

The young man closed his eyes, dragging in a wheezing breath. When he spoke, Etta had to lean forward to hear him.

“Abbi,” he said. “Father.”


THE YOUNG MAN, HASAN, WOULDN’T ALLOW HER TO HELP HIM clean his face—he wouldn’t even allow her to follow him out to collect clean cloths and water, so a reluctant Nicholas was forced to trail after him to keep an eye on him—but surrendered the sword to Etta as a show of good faith. The few minutes they were gone gave her a chance to consider something that still seemed impossible.

Time was relative and all that, but…how insane, to think that her great-grandfather had a son who was her age. He was technically her mother’s uncle, which made him Etta’s…great-uncle? Or…no, a first cousin twice removed?

“You look like her,” Hasan said as he brought one of the damp cloths to his face. “Sweet Rose.”

“That’s probably because she’s my mother,” Etta said. “You know her?”

He nodded, his eyes flicking over to where Nicholas stood glowering behind her.

“Abbi…he and Rose lived here for a time before he left it to Ummi—my mother—and then myself, when she died.” Hasan shook his head. “You said you were told to come? But…this does not make sense, for Rose has come and she has gone, only days ago.”

Her stomach rolled. “What do you mean?”

Rose had escaped from Ironwood’s men? She was safe—but they’d already missed her?

Nicholas put a calming hand on her wrist and asked Hasan, “Rose—was she young, or was she older than you remember her?”

Oh.

“Young,” Hasan said, suspicion edging back into his voice. “Too young to have had a child your age. She had come here with a special purpose, but she would not tell me what this was.”

Nicholas glanced at her, clearly taking in her startled reaction. It wasn’t her mother—the mother who had raised her. Because of the way the passages worked, they’d nearly bumped into the younger Rose as she’d come here to hide the astrolabe in the first place.

“Why didn’t you go with her?” Etta asked, curious.

“Because I cannot. Some would call me a…a guardian, but I do not perform a duty beyond the care and keeping of this home,” Hasan said. “I do not answer to the Grand Master’s call. I will not be an Ironwood.”

“Did Rose leave something here?” Etta asked, her words toppling over each other.

Until that moment, Etta hadn’t thought to anticipate this problem. Had her mom or Benjamin Linden warned Hasan of the other families, or told him to only trust Rose with the location of the astrolabe?

Nicholas grabbed the collar of Hasan’s robe, tightening his grip.

Because, yes, obviously what they needed was more violence.

Hasan wet his lips, his eyes flickering around the room. The water from the cloth ran down the side of his face like sweat.

“Answer the lady,” Nicholas grated out.

“I vowed on my life,” Hasan said, dropping the cloth back into the basin. “I cannot simply take your word. You may not be who you say you are. There are many who would trick me—who would trick those of us still sworn to the Linden family and to its secrets.”

Etta’s mind reached for that one last, real chance.…

“The only reason I knew to come here was because my mom told me a story.…She told me many stories about her travels that were true and false at the same time. The last one I heard from her was about a woman who sold her these earrings in a marketplace here in Damascus.” Etta unhooked one from her ear and handed it to him. “She said a woman named Samarah sold them to her.”

Hasan’s hand was shaking as he took it from her, running a light finger over the curve of the hoop. The silence between them seemed to stretch into an hour, until he finally said, “Samarah did not sell them to her. She gave them to her. I know this, for Samarah is my wife, my love, and I was there to see it.”

Hasan moved to the desk. Reaching into the open neck of his robe, he gripped a long, silver chain, brandishing the thin silver key dangling from it.

“We could have just broken it open,” Nicholas muttered, staring at the drawer, but Hasan slid the key not into the lock on the face of the drawer, but beneath it—into a lock they hadn’t seen at all.

The drawer gave a satisfying click as the tumblers turned, and it slid open on its track.

Nicholas immediately tried to use his height to lean over Hasan and see what was inside. Hasan gave him a cold glance before rifling through its contents. Finding whatever it was, he stood and slammed the drawer shut with his foot.

“You remind me…” He held out a small, cream-colored envelope. She unfolded its flap, letting its contents spill out in her hand. The first thing was another black-and-white photograph, again of her mother, only so much younger. She had a sweet smile on her face, and was dressed in some kind of school uniform; her hair was curled and pinned back, her hands resting in her lap. There was a secret tucked into her smile.