Passenger (Passenger, #1)(50)

Hopefully.

The tension that wrapped around her stomach spread through her veins like spiderwebs, too sticky to dislodge completely. Etta tried to picture what this “Grandfather” would look like, what he would think of her, but she’d only had Sophia’s and Nicholas’s descriptions to go on; together they had painted a rather vivid image in her mind of a man with a bloody sword, guided by a shriveled lump of ash and ice for a heart, in possession of actual fangs and claws.

Breathe, she thought a bit desperately, breathe. What else could she do? Whatever information she might squeeze out of him would only help her to get away, to figure out how to get back to Alice.

The Dove Tavern was farther uptown than she’d expected. She spent most of the ride trying to use the position of the East River to figure out where they were on the island—toward the east, but still close to the center—maybe what she knew as Lexington, or Third Avenue?

“What is that?” she asked, leaning forward to get a better look at the constellation of small campfires on the ground up ahead.

Nicholas leaned closer to see, his warm arm pressing against hers. “The Royal Artillery Park, if I had to guess.”

The guess was a good one. As they drew closer, the torches and lanterns in the camp blazed; the evidence of war gleamed. Beyond the impressive row of cannons were lines of wagons, carts, stables, white tents. What plain buildings Etta saw were flanked by the few trees that hadn’t been hacked to pieces for firewood and stacked nearby.

The Dove stood directly across from the park, hugging the dirt road. The candles in its windows warmed its plain wooden face, and it looked more like a large colonial house to Etta’s eyes than a tavern. A two-story house, in fact, not including the attic, and one that seemed to lean ever so slightly to the right. Someone had tried to add a bit of charm with red paint on the shutters. A wooden sign hung over the street, swaying as Sophia passed it. In the dark, the soaring bird carved onto it looked more like a crow than a dove.

“Come along,” Sophia said, after the driver had lifted her down from the carriage.

Etta trailed behind her, trapped between the thorns of anticipation and trepidation; no matter which way her heart swung, she felt stung by the intensity of the feeling. Her own lingering excitement at being brought into the fold of this secret history sickened her, twisting her insides so much more than the dread of what Ironwood really wanted from her.

This is it.

She could go home.

This is it.

Find a way to save Alice.

This is it.

Etta just needed to breathe.

Nicholas stepped up beside her, gazing up at the tavern’s windows. It was dark, but the light from the lanterns reflected warmly against his skin. Etta looked away quickly; she knew he could read her anxious expression as easily as she had read his, and she couldn’t stand the thought of him seeing her weak and out of her depth again.

“The only way out is through,” he said.

Etta nodded, squaring her shoulders.

The noise from the tavern burst out onto the road like a tangled chord as a patron, a soldier who’d only managed to get one arm through his uniform coat, staggered out. He patted at his wig, swinging around unsteadily to stare first at Sophia, then Etta.

“Hullo, girls.…” he began softly.

Etta stepped back, bumping into a solid warmth. Nicholas’s hands closed lightly around her elbows, and she was lifted that last step up past the soldier, to the door.

“Good night, sir,” Nicholas said firmly. When he opened the door, he released the muggy air trapped inside.

“Don’t look at them,” he said. Etta barely heard him over the roar of conversation. It was minutes past midnight, but there were more than enough soldiers and common men circling the tables, hauling themselves up out of their seats to stagger toward the bar. She sucked in a deep breath; the air was flavored with wax from the dripping candles, sour body odor, and the hoppy tinge of ale.

The skirt of her dress caught on something, yanking Etta hard enough to stumble into Nicholas again. She reached down to unhook it, and jumped when her hand brushed warm, damp flesh. Nicholas let out a sharp breath and reached down to push away the meaty hand. The soldier seemed to be sweating out every ounce of alcohol that went into him; his shirt was drenched at the pits and all along his back.

“Keep going,” Nicholas murmured. Etta tried to turn back, to cut the man with a glare, but Nicholas guided her toward the stairs at the back of the room.

“I could have handled that,” Etta muttered.

“I know,” he said, his breath on her skin. “I did him an undeserved favor. But if you demand blood, I’ll give him a scar to remember on my way out.”

The words rocketed through her. Etta turned so quickly on the bottom step, and the bulk of her gown threw her so off-balance, that he had to reach up to steady her. The weight and warmth of his hands bled through the gown, the stays, the shift, but she hardly noticed. They were finally standing eye to eye.

He quirked a brow in response.

“You’re leaving tonight?” Etta asked.

“For Connecticut? No, not until the morning. But I’ll need to find an inn.”

“You can’t stay here?”

His expression softened, and Etta could have sworn, just for an instant, his grip on her tightened. “No, Miss Spencer. I cannot.”

“Come on, Etta,” Sophia called. “He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”