Passenger (Passenger, #1)(57)

“She’ll be fine,” Cyrus interrupted. “I’ve waited long enough. Here are my terms, Miss Linden. Decipher this letter and the clues it contains about where to find the necessary passages to connect through; travel through them; and bring the astrolabe back to me. Then your mother will be freed, and you’ll be returned to your home.”

Etta held his gaze for as long as she could stand it. Exhaustion bled into her, and the weight of her thoughts began to feel like too much to carry. She worked through the necessary points as quickly as she could:

Cyrus would not reveal the location of the passage back to the Met, and her time, if she didn’t do as he asked. And maybe not even then. Which might mean never saving Alice’s life.

Nicholas would not necessarily take her back, as her life was not technically in danger.

Her mother had lied to her, reshaping the truth, omitting huge chunks of the rest, inserting little riddles and clues into her life for Etta to maybe piece together one day as she tried to fend for herself. Which, wonderful parenting right there. And all to…to keep this astrolabe in the family? To give it another protector who would find it and hide it again if any other traveler should stumble upon it? Then why not train her, prepare her for this—so it wasn’t—so it wasn’t so overwhelming—so impossible—

No wonder Alice had argued she wasn’t ready—she wasn’t. But her mom believed she could do this, and she wasn’t about to let either of them down. Etta closed her eyes, breathing in deeply through her nose until her heart calmed to a steady roll of thunder in her ears.

Home.

Alice.

Mom.

And, soon enough, her debut. All of those things, waiting for her.

Was there a way to rewrite Alice’s fate? To make sure her mother was safe—to not give the old man what he wanted, but still save her life?

“You cannot be considering this.…” Nicholas said incredulously. “Think, Miss Spencer. This is no simple task he’s asking of you.”

“I do not recall asking you to weigh in with your opinion,” Cyrus thundered.

“What is there to consider?” Etta asked coldly, looking directly at the old man. “You’ll kill her if I don’t bring it back, won’t you?”

He smirked. “With pleasure. You should know that you’ll need to return no later than September thirtieth. If not, the deal is void.”

The thirtieth? As in…nine days away? No—eight.

“That’s not nearly enough time!” Nicholas cried. “Julian and I spent years searching. What does it matter if it takes her eighteen days instead of eight? What’s a few more days when you have the whole of time at your fingertips?”

“My reasons are my own,” Cyrus said. “She will return by the thirtieth or she will lose everything.”

Etta folded her hands in front of her, choking off the supply of blood to her fingers. Being made to work for the man who’d hurt her mother, who’d invaded their lives and stolen Alice’s…Etta felt sick.

What do I do?

The answer came to her, ruthless and simple, a blade that sliced through her doubts: find the astrolabe, use it to find the passage in Nassau, and go find her mother. All without Cyrus Ironwood catching on to what she was doing. She and Rose could go back and save Alice, and then disappear—

And what kind of life would that be? One without a spotlight, playing the violin professionally; everything she’d worked for would be sacrificed, to stay hidden.

But if Alice and her mom were safe, it would be worth it.

“I’ll do it,” Etta said, pushing through the uneasiness; then, with a desperate hope Cyrus wouldn’t sniff out the lie, added, “It might take me some time to figure out how she coded the letter. I’ll need more than tonight.”

She’d need less than two minutes, but that wasn’t for him to know, was it?

Nicholas shook his head, muttering something beneath his breath as he swung away from her, bracing an arm against the fireplace’s mantelpiece.

“Excellent,” Cyrus said, clapping his hands together. “You may keep the original copy to decipher, and you will resume in the morning. You and Sophia will share the room beside mine.”

Etta didn’t fight her grimace. After the electric, hissing fury she’d seen on the girl’s face when she’d been sent out, sleeping on the roof during a thunderstorm would be safer. Realizing she’d been dismissed, she turned toward the door.

“Miss Linden?” Cyrus called, just as her hand gripped the knob. “Know that I have a copy of that letter, should you try to destroy it. Know, too, that it is unwise to test me.”

“I understand,” said Etta.

But I’m not afraid of you.

The noise from the tavern floated up to her on a cloud of tobacco smoke, leather, and wet dog; just before she closed the door, she took one final look at Nicholas’s profile as he stared into the glowing fire, despondent.

That would have to be enough. As soon as the tavern cleared out and its occupants wound themselves down to sleep, she would follow the lingering rattle of the passage to its entrance, the way she had in the Met. For the first time in days, she felt in control of her life again, not just an unwilling passenger at someone else’s mercy.

A hand latched onto her arm, wheeling her around. The man posted on guard raised a single black brow as Sophia hauled her the last few steps toward the next door down the hall. Once inside, she shut it gently behind them and went to stand beside the wall separating the bedchamber from the old man’s.