She swung her legs out of the window so that they dangled, pale and long, over the world below. The street emptied and silence returned.
When the tears burned her cheeks, Rose knew they were because of the wind and the heavy dust it carried. It had nothing to do with the man, the dreams of fire and blood. That was all. Grandpapa had told her to be brave, and so she would be. Rose Linden was not afraid, not ever.
“Not real,” she whispered again, squeezing her eyes shut.
A crack from behind her caught her attention, and Rose turned, searching for Grandpapa’s face, or Nanny to call her to supper. She would have even accepted silly, stupid Henry, if he’d be nice just once and not pull her braid. But no…she was not supposed to play with the Hemlocks anymore. Rose needed to remember this now. Not with the Jacarandas, either. And never, ever with the Ironwoods.
Instead, there was a woman at the door, staring at her.
“Ma—”
The word was swallowed back down her throat. This girl—this young lady—wore a simple cornflower-blue tunic of sorts, with a short jacket over it. She hadn’t thought to do her hair, or even wear a hat, which was most improper.
But she was not like the man in gold. She was nothing like him.
Now that the young woman was coming closer, Rose found herself swinging her legs back into the room. She saw the echoes of Mama’s face in the girl’s eyes and her mouth. Reaching down, she picked up the small letter opener Grandpapa had left on the room’s table and held it up. “Who are you?”
The girl stopped where she was and let out a startled laugh. She held up her hands. “I’m…like you.”
Her accent was American. Rose had not expected that, either.
“There’s no one like me,” she said.
The girl laughed. “That’s very true. I meant that I’m—”
“Don’t say it!” Rose hissed, shocked at her carelessness. Anyone might hear. “I know what you are. You’re doing a terrible job of it. You didn’t even buy the right kind of shoes!”
The girl looked down, then back up again, her face flushed. “Well, you’ve got me there.”
Rose slowly lowered the letter opener. “What do you want? Grandpapa isn’t home.”
The girl took a step closer. Rose allowed this. She took another step closer. Rose allowed this as well.
“I came to talk to you, actually,” the young lady said. “I wanted to see how you are—to talk to you about what happened.”
Rose shook her head, slapping her hands over her ears. “No, no, no! We aren’t supposed to tell, we aren’t—”
“I know, I know,” the girl said, crouching down in front of Rose. “But…I could use someone to talk to, too. And there’s no one I trust more to help me, to keep my secrets.”
Rose could not tell her what the man had said. It would be like pulling splinters out from under skin that had already healed over them. It hurt so very badly to think of it.
But this stranger—not her Grandpapa, not any of the other travelers—believed her to be someone to speak to, not speak down to. She liked this idea, that she was strong after all. It was a very sad, hard thing, her Papa had told her, to be a traveler, for there were so very few people who knew what they could do, and fewer still that they could talk to.
“I’ll listen,” Rose allowed, her voice trembling only a little.
The girl’s face clouded, her pale brows drawing together as she knelt down on one of the cushions, watching Rose come toward her, almost in awe. “I’m sorry about your parents. That must have been beyond terrible for you, and you were so brave. I’ve lost someone I love, too. My heart still hurts, even though I understand why it happened.”
Rose stood with her back straight, clasping her hands in front of her as she met the girl’s blue-eyed gaze with her own. “I’m not afraid.”
“I know you aren’t,” the young lady said, almost in a whisper, “but I heard that you had another visitor recently, and that some of the things he said might have been upsetting. I promise you, though, everything will be…okay in the end.”
Rose swallowed hard. Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw that man, the one who’d visited her before they left London. He had told her about terrible things, horrible things. She dreamt of what he said, the burns, the suffering—the—the blood.
“Will it?” she whispered, even though she knew it was wrong to press about the future.
The young lady nodded. “I promise.” She turned toward the corner of the room, where Grandpapa had set up a small easel. “Do you like to paint?”
Rose hesitated a moment, then nodded. She had not painted since Mama and Papa had…
She closed her eyes, scrubbed at her cheeks. The girl rose up off the ground and touched her hair gently, stroking it down. “Would you paint something for me? Maybe…maybe something from your memory?”
“Something…happy?” Rose asked, looking up at her.
“Yes,” the girl said softly, taking her hand. “Something happy.”