Passenger (Passenger #1) - Alexandra Bracken Page 0,132

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.

On the back someone had written: Rose, age 13.

The other piece of paper in the envelope was a letter addressed to: Etta, my dear heart.

“You had that all this time, and you still questioned her?” Nicholas asked, outraged.

“Stop being so unreasonable,” Etta said. “How could he have known for sure?”

“I am a protector of this family,” Hasan said, his chest puffing out. “Rose is the cherished daughter of Abbi’s son, beloved by all of us. So I think, when I see this girl, she looks like Rose. She looks like my faraway English papa. She has his sky colors. But so do many from his country. On his last visit, Abbi seemed as old as the desert, the bàdiyat ash-shàm. He was confused in the mind, very frightened about what was happening to the other families. I would not risk her life for anything less than a certainty.”

“I understand,” Etta said, grateful and touched by how much passion he had invested into protecting the person she loved. “Thank you.”

She smoothed the letter out on her knee, looking around for some kind of pen. My dear heart…another sweet nickname her mother had never used for her before. Nicholas dutifully retrieved a fountain pen from a cup on the desk.

“Rather dangerous to keep all of this out,” he noted.

Hasan shrugged. “In the event it is discovered, the house and its contents will be burned.”

Etta shook her head at that, roughly sketching out the shape of a heart over the run-on sentences and non sequiturs, until she had isolated what she thought was the true message:

I am so sorry. I wish there was another way. I tried to protect you from this, but if you find this I’ve failed. Trust no one save those who share our blood. Ironwood will destroy your future, he will erase everyone and everything to save one life, and the Thorns mean to do the same. It must be destroyed. No one can decide what is or what should be. Bring jasmine to the bride who sleeps eternal beneath the sky, and look for the sigil. I will find you there as soon as I can. Forgive me. I love you.

Etta looked up, surprised to find herself crying. “I don’t understand—what does that mean, Ironwood wants to save one life? Whose? Augustus? Julian?”

Nicholas knew, but Hasan answered. “His first wife. Minerva.”

“What?” She fought the urge to reach over, to force Nicholas to explain why he looked like the world was crashing down around him.

“He wants it all, then,” Nicholas said finally. “Bloody hell, the bastard—”

Hasan cleared his throat with a meaningful look in Etta’s direction.

“Minerva was married to him for a few years when they were both young,” Nicholas continued. “I don’t know the details of it, only what Julian’s told me. It was a love match, rare for travelers, but it occurred during an incredibly unstable and violent time in the war between the families. His rivals from the other families took advantage of the fact that Ironwood had hidden her somewhere in the past for her safety. They discovered her location, and waited for a year in which there was no passage for Ironwood to use to intervene, then murdered her in retribution. In effect, they rendered her murder unpreventable, unless Ironwood chose to warn himself to return and live that year straight through—to be present when she was killed in 1456. That would have, of course, altered his fate and the shape of