The figurehead was a serpent, a dark specter, all teeth and long, curving neck. Etta sat back, flinching as it broke through the gloom, gliding forward like a knife through a veil. The rush of the tide and the birds circling overhead covered the sound of the oars splashing through the water.
“I thought you said he picked this place for his gold reserve because it was deserted—your exact words were ‘untouched by time and man,’” she said, glancing back over her shoulder.
“All right, I’ve been known to embellish my tales with a touch of drama, but do you honestly believe I wouldn’t pay special attention to where I could find my shiny inheritance?” Julian said, leaning over her shoulder. “This was the safest place to keep the loot because of how little play it got with the timeline. No one is supposed to actually like this place enough to come visit.”
Several other caches they’d checked had already been emptied and moved to an unknown location, or the timeline had shifted so severely that they had faded out of existence entirely. “Except Vikings,” Etta said.
“All right, except Vikings.”
“And the Celts,” Etta said. “And other Scandinavian peoples. Why didn’t he go way back—beyond ancient times? Prehistoric. Actually, how far back do the passages go? Could you see, like, the dinosaurs? Cavemen?”
Julian leaned back against the rock, pressing a hand against his chest, his expression one of pure astonishment. “My God, Linden-Hemlock-Spencer. I believe you’ve just given me a new purpose in life.”
Etta’s brows drew together. “Finding new passages?”
“No, hunting for dinosaurs,” he said. “Why did I never think of that—oh, right, the eating thing. Big teeth and all. Well, never mind.”
“How quickly the dream dies,” Etta said wryly, turning back toward the beach.
For an hour now, they’d kept watch on the cave, hidden just out of their line of sight by a curve in the mountain. All they could see of it through the mist and fog was the edge of the entrance: towering stacks of stone, some round like pipes, others as straight and narrow as bone, had seemingly splintered from a rough rock face. From a distance, Etta had thought they’d merely been piled closely together, like ancient offerings for whatever king had ruled the mountain and beach below.
The longship navigated between the narrow, towering black rocks jutting up from the water, before driving up onto the shore itself. The landing was quick work; the oars were tucked inside, the sails drawn up so as not to catch the whistling wind.
A half dozen men poured out of the belly of the ship, their feet striking the black sand, moving swiftly to catch the five empty leather sacks thrown by the others on the deck. The depressions their feet left in the black sand filled with rain, shining like scales from a distance.
Finally, a tall figure jumped down from the deck of the second ship, struggling for balance with one arm cradled against his chest. He was darker than the others, both in skin and dress, wearing none of the fur they did. The men around him gathered slowly, as if with reluctance, their heads bobbing up and down with whatever instructions he was giving them. Then he began his long strides toward the very cave Etta and Julian had come to clean out, his shoulders set back, chin raised, the way—
She was on her feet before she could think to rise. Etta choked out something between a gasp and a laugh. “Nicholas.”
Julian reached for the back of her shirt, trying to pull her down, but Etta twisted away, frantic. He was too far away, too far—her whole body trembled in protest at being forced to remain where it was.
She edged as close to the line of the cliff as she dared, starving for a better look at him; her heart was thundering so hard, she was half worried it might suddenly give out on her.
How long his hair had grown, how thin and battered he was in the face. The distance between them was more than just air and sand and mountains; it manifested in all of those missing days between them, creating a deep valley of uncertainty. The sling for his arm—what had happened? Who were these men, and why—
One last man was lowered down from the first ship, with the assistance of two other men. He was hunched at the shoulders, adorned with leather armor and gray fur, and she knew him—not because her mind put the impossible pieces together, but because Julian did. He recoiled, going bone-white in the face.
Cyrus Ironwood looked like a different beast without the finery he’d wrapped himself in to give the impression of civility.
Oh God, she thought, pressing a fist against her mouth to keep from making another sound. He’s got Nicholas.
She’d been so focused on finding the astrolabe, so sure in her belief that Nicholas was in Damascus still, that she had somehow never considered the possibility that Ironwood would have snared him again. But then—the men were going where Nicholas was pointing, hauling the sacks toward the hoard inside the cave at the end of the beach.
When Ironwood came up to him, when Ironwood put a hand on his shoulder, Nicholas did not run. He did not flinch. He nodded, pointing to the cave.
He…smiled.
“What in the name of God?” Julian began. He shook off the surprise first, pulling her back down to a crouch beside him. “He’s—that’s Nick, isn’t it? But then, that’s Grandfather, and they’re…they’re together.”
Walking side by side to collect the reserve of Ironwood treasure.
For one terrible moment, Etta could not feel anything below her neck. The cold air seemed to ice over the inside of her lungs, making it painful to breathe.