Passenger (Passenger, #1)(61)

Cyrus slammed his fist down on the table, and Nicholas jumped at the bang. “I gave him to you to protect—I live with the consequences of your failure every day.”

Hardly. Nicholas’s bitterness turned inward, until it frosted his heart. He often dreamt of it: the last look of trust on Julian’s face before the glove slipped off his hand and he fell through the curtain of rain to the rocks below; the bursts of light reflected in the white haze; the cracking boom from the nearby passage, as it absorbed the surge of power that marked the end of a traveler’s life. He dreamt of it in rushes of panic and ice, just as he thought Cyrus must only dream in fire and blood.

The last time he’d stood before this man, he’d been weak with hunger and exhaustion, burdened by guilt. He’d been made to stand there for hours and report what had happened. Julian’s death collapsed the passage they had taken to Bhutan, forcing Nicholas to use his brother’s rambling travel journal to find another passage in that year to use, and connect to another one, and then another, until he finally found his way back to the year the old man was residing in. It had taken months, and, even if he’d had the strength left in him, Nicholas hadn’t had the heart to stop the words and fists that knocked him around until he was mute and suffocating on his apologies.

He wouldn’t be silent again.

“Miss Spencer is my passenger. I’m honor-bound to ensure her safety.”

“You’re honor-bound to me,” Cyrus reminded him, “and me alone.”

“I answer to no one but myself,” Nicholas said sharply.

This man would not take him in again. A snake could shed its skin, but never change its colors.

The old man studied him, resting his hands on his knees.

“When I heard the rumors that you possessed our ability—when I tracked you and Hall to the docks all those years ago—do you know what my first thought was upon seeing you?”

Nicholas stiffened.

“I thought you had the bearing of an Ironwood, for all that you were a knob-kneed stick of a thing. I was impressed by how quickly you agreed to be trained and work beside Julian.”

It was the greatest shame of Nicholas’s life that he had given in to the wonder of what Ironwood had offered. Adventure beyond reckoning. Status beyond imagination. And…“You promised me compensation, and information on who had purchased my mother,” he said flatly. “You provided neither in the end.”

Four years of his life, wasted. And when he’d been exiled to this—his natural time—as punishment for failing Cyrus and allowing Julian to die, he’d been cut to the bone with a second blow. By the time he’d discovered what had become of her on his own, his mother had died of fever—alone, among strangers—as he and Julian had merrily drunk themselves into a stupor in 1921 New Orleans, chasing another fruitless lead for the astrolabe.

The lingering call of the passage filled the silence between them, a low murmur beneath the fire’s snaps and pops.

“I warn you,” Nicholas said, “if you attempt to do the same to me now—deny me that which I’ve earned for bringing the ladies here—I’ll kill you where you stand, and gladly be hanged for it.”

Cyrus gave him an approving look that did little more than make his guts roll.

“Your job is not yet finished, Samuel,” he said.

“My name is Nicholas.” It was the name he’d chosen for himself as a child when the Halls had presented him with the opportunity to redraft his life into something of his own making. It was a name the old man had refused to use, even when he’d brought Nicholas back into the family years ago to serve Julian. Nicholas, the patron saint of sailors, repentant thieves, children—all of the things he was and could be. The name made him feel more than protected. It made him feel like he could be a protector.

Naturally, the Ironwoods saw it as yet another way that he had failed.

Cyrus inclined his head. “You’ve pleased me thus far. I would like to raise the stakes some, if you are amenable?”

Something about the words caught him, held him in place for an instant, before he managed to shake himself free.

“Our business is concluded,” Nicholas said firmly. “I will meet with your man of business downstairs.”

And figure out a way to untangle Etta from this.

“That sum is hardly enough for you to buy your own ship,” Cyrus said. “Oh, yes, I am well aware of the reason you accepted this task. There’s no need for surprise. I am pleased with your vision. Your acumen. You remind me of myself.”

Nicholas felt as though he’d overturned a bucket of boiling tar on his head. “I assure you—you and I are nothing alike.”

Cyrus waved his hand again. “You’re entirely right. I cannot send the child alone. Not only is she likely to give herself away and be killed, she is her mother’s daughter. Wily and cunning—I looked into her eyes and saw Rose Linden staring back. I won’t be taken for a fool twice.”

Nicholas wondered if he’d also seen the flicker of recognition in Etta’s eyes as the girl had looked over the letter. He’d sensed the rebellion rising in her, even as she’d agreed.

“In addition to the original settlement, I will relinquish total control of my plantation holdings to you in this era, to do with as you please,” Cyrus said. “Free the slaves, sell the land, or continue it as it stands. You’ll fund not just a single ship, but a whole fleet of them.”