Passenger (Passenger #1) - Alexandra Bracken Page 0,62
Sophia smoothed her hair, then her dress, and moved to the one on the far left, where a man armed with a rifle was standing guard. Nicholas measured him with a single look.
Before Etta could knock, a ringing voice called, “Enter.”
Etta, Sophia, and Nicholas followed the voice. This room was as bare as the hall, but practically stifling with the heat from the fireplace. With the exception of a four-poster bed with a side table, a trunk, and a porcelain chamber pot, the only other occupant was a wing-backed chair. A man was in it, positioned directly in front of a roaring fire.
He didn’t stand as they came in; merely absorbed each of them with a single look. Etta heard Sophia swallow hard. The old man raised his right hand expectantly, and she practically tripped in her rush to step forward and kiss the gold ring on it.
“Hello, Grandfather. You look well.”
“And you smell like a horse’s arse.”
Etta let out a shocked laugh and his sharp gaze swung toward her, choking the sound off with a single tilt of his head.
His face was round like Sophia’s, his features bold, despite the drag of age. His hooded eyelids hung over icy blue eyes; the corners of his mouth were naturally tipped down, giving him a look of tired apathy, like he could hardly abide their presence. He adjusted the blue silk damask robe he’d tossed over his shirt and breeches.
That single look ripped Etta open faster than any razor.
He turned to Sophia. “You’re dismissed.”
She jumped as if he’d shoved her in the direction of the door. “But—”
“You question me?” he asked calmly.
Sophia sealed her lips and turned to look at Nicholas.
“He stays,” the old man said firmly, with an impatient wave. “My God, child, I’ll die of old age before you ever reach the door.”
Etta saw the way Sophia took in a deep breath, set her shoulders back, and moved with practiced grace on her way out—and she understood something about the other girl, truly understood it for the first time. Sophia wanted in, when she was only ever being sent out.
“Step fully into the light,” the old man ordered when the door was shut. He set the book in his lap on the floor.
Nicholas stood with his hands clasped behind his back, fingers curled into fists. When she stepped forward, so did he, remaining a small step in front of her.
“I’m Etta,” she said, trying to fill the agonizing silence that followed. The longer she went without any sort of response, the more she had to fight the way her feet naturally wanted to turn toward the door. In all of her experiences of stage fright, each crippling attack of performance anxiety, she’d never felt so smothered by pure dread. With the heat of the fire at her back, and hours of travel behind her, she felt a pressure start to build just beneath her lungs.
Why was she just standing here? Why wasn’t she yelling, telling him what she really thought of the way he’d forced her to come here without any explanation? She could have been home, but here she was, because he wanted her, and he wasn’t doing a damn thing other than a passable impression of a gargoyle. And this was the same man who had kept both Nicholas and his mother enslaved—who thought it was fine to sacrifice their freedom in the name of playing a role and blending in.
“You’re late, Samuel.”
Maybe it was only a trick of the light, but Etta could have sworn Nicholas stiffened.
“My name is Nicholas now, as you’ve known for years. And I don’t see how you’ve reached that conclusion.”
“I wanted them here by the twenty-first. And yet here we are, ten past the first hour of the twenty-second. Your pay will be docked accordingly.”
Etta’s blood steamed. “That’s—”
“My man of business is downstairs. I expect you remember him? Of course, he’ll know you by your true name. Nicholas! My word. Perhaps you should have chosen the name Charlemagne when you decided to remake yourself. You certainly strode in here like an emperor.”
Was the old man mocking Nicholas? For choosing a name that he liked and wanted, rather than the one given to him? What a vicious way to remind him of what he had been.
I can handle this. She clung to her mom’s voice, the words, that trace of belief. If nothing else, she wouldn’t flinch under the old man’s steely gaze. She would make her mom proud.