“She might yet return,” he told her as he came to stand behind her.
Sophia turned to him one last time, the mist of the storm collecting on her face. “No. She won’t.”
OUR LADY OF CANDELARIA WAS A STATELY PAPIST—Catholic—church, with all the embellishments the Baroque style of architecture had to offer. Two towers sat proudly on either side of an unfinished dome, dark granite accents contrasting neatly with its whitewashed walls. Inside, however, the design was neoclassical, its pillars and statues of angels, saints, and the Virgin Mother carefully carved with an eye for the size and beauty of the place of worship.
It was blessedly far, at least, from the all-too-prosperous slave market on Valongo Street, the fattening houses where weak and thin “merchandise” were cajoled into gaining weight to increase their value, and the dock itself, which had no doubt been built by the hands of slaves to welcome each subsequent shipment of innocents. Of course, that had not stopped Ironwood from walking their party of an even dozen men right through it, with all the care and sensitivity of a monster.
“What’s the matter with you?” the old man asked.
Wonders abounded—the man had finally broken away from the narrow lane of focus that was the astrolabe. The last five days had proven that when the old man was not speaking of it, he was thinking of it; and when he was not thinking of it, it was only because he was asleep and dreaming of it. It was the first word out of his mouth in the morning, and the last one he spoke in place of his evening prayers. Conversation with Ironwood was already forced, but it had become so rote and tiresome, Nicholas actually found himself missing the man’s vile threats and bitter oaths.
Nicholas shifted his eyes away from the church. “Nothing. Am I not allowed to admire beauty when I see it?”
Ironwood snorted at that. “A terrible liar, now and forever. It’s how I know I can trust you. How’s the arm? Back in fighting form, I see. Good, good.”
Rather than risk being left behind as a liability, someone who wouldn’t be able to protect the old man from any enemies who might appear, Nicholas had removed his sling and tucked his useless hand into his coat pocket.
“It is—”
“Wonderful, yes,” Ironwood said, in a voice that practically sang with glee. Nicholas was instantly repulsed by the heavy hand that landed on his shoulder. The added weight of it might as well have been a mountain, for how quickly his knees threatened to buckle.
Owen—the short, stocky guard—emerged from the church, signaling it was clear to enter and take the passage to Japan.
“One more step,” the man said, as he urged the two of them forward. “One more night. Imagine her face; the future you wish to create is within your reach.”
Owen held the door for them, allowing Nicholas to duck inside without moving his paralyzed arm. And, whether he wished it or not, he did see Etta there. He saw her in the flickering of the candles. He saw her in the smooth, pale lines of the arches. He saw her in the singular way the light struck the stained glass behind the altar and colored the world.
A hymn to her. A requiem to a future that was no longer his to claim.
“Yes,” he said finally. “The end is in sight.”
THE CENTURIES AND CONTINENTS MOVED around her in dark waves, and the passage’s usual bellow was more of a long, continuous whistle. The difference, while pleasant to Etta’s ears, was rather disconcerting. But before she had much time to consider this, her feet struck the ground, and the full weight of the gold she carried in her leather backpack brought her down to her knees.
Julian tumbled out behind her, rocketing into her and sending them both down in a heap of limbs and bags. The gold plates and chalices dug into her spine.
“Ow,” she said.
“Ouch,” came the weak response. “Not one of our better landings.”
“Better than the last six,” Etta said, rolling out from under him.
Julian lurched up to his feet, struggling to stay vertical under the weight of his pack. “Time?”
Etta squinted at the wind-up watch they’d found tossed in with Ironwood’s other treasures, still breathing hard from the run. “Half past ten?”
Julian punched the air in triumph. “Told you we’d make it in time, didn’t I?”
While there had been enough gold and precious stones left in the cave, Julian had previously mislabeled one of the entries in his journal, which had subsequently sent them on a hair-raising journey through Jerusalem during the First Crusade, with twentieth-century clothing and more gold than anyone had any right to.
The passage’s whistling receded, but the drumming continued to pulse through the darkness. The vigor of the drums and chiming cymbals was breathtaking; as Etta stood, stumbling to maintain her balance on the soft incline, she was surprised to find the ancient music wasn’t the heartbeat of the mountain itself.
The passage had deposited them behind a line of flames that snaked up the mountain’s cleared path. Etta crawled through the damp, cool mud for a closer look.
“Sai-rei, sai-ryo!” That same phrase was being shouted, over and over, for all the wild, dark world to hear. She turned to Julian for a translation.
“I think…‘good festival’? Something like that?” Julian scratched at his mussed hair.
The smell of pine and smoke bled through the line of trees, carrying with it the voices of young and old alike. Stripped to their loincloths, men carried torches over their shoulders. Small ones, yes; carried by boys, really, who looked exceedingly proud to have the task. But as the torches increased in size, so did the men who carried them, until a few bore the staggering weight of torches the size of—motorcycles, and likely as heavy. The men staggered beneath their weight as they wound through the one-street village below, ascending up the dirt path. Cheers of encouragement followed from the villagers walking in their footsteps, their faces lit, glowing warmly in the face of an encroaching midnight.