“Seems like just payment,” he agreed, weighing it in his palm, “considering what they’ve done to you.”

He set off into the wreckage of stone and storefronts around them. Etta watched him turn, and caught his eye as he glanced one last time over his shoulder. She gave him an exasperated wave to move him on, and the laugh that echoed back settled in her like a sip of warm tea.

She looked around again, struggling up onto her feet. The wall behind was enough of a support to lean against as she stepped through the piles of glass and wet, scorched wood. The signs were in English, and by the smell and scene, she could at least guess that there’d been some kind of fire.

Etta stepped back to where she’d been before and tucked herself against the wall, out of sight. Every now and then she heard a voice or the soft growl of an engine, and leaned forward to peer down the long hallway at the streets on either side. A bright red bus rolled by, followed by two young women in skirt suits and little hats pinned in place. Etta was painfully aware of her eighteenth-century gown, and the stays squeezing her ribs.

England, she thought, half-amazed. London, if she had to guess. And the fashion…1950s? Or—

No.

She took in the demolished walls, the evidence of fire, the uniformed men passing by the opposite end of the hallway.

Wartime London.

World War II.

Nicholas confirmed it when he returned, with clothing for her tucked beneath his arm. He’d changed into a crisp button-down shirt and trousers, and traded his shoes for oxfords. She could only imagine how he might have explained the breeches, stockings, and jacket he’d been strolling around in.

“I wasn’t entirely sure of the size.…” he began, his eyes on the ground as he passed a cornflower-blue dress and smart matching jacket into her hands. Etta studied the dress—V-neck, modest length, short sleeves—and ran her fingers along the lace detailing she had just noticed.

“It’s beautiful, thank you,” she said. And also generously loose in the waist; but it came with a belt that would allow her to tighten it if necessary. “How was it out there?”

Nicholas stared at her as she struggled to blindly unbutton her dress until Etta, flushing, finally cleared her throat. He startled and spun on his heel, giving her a little bit of privacy, as she got enough of the buttons undone to pull the dress over her head.

“Men are working to clear the wreckage from last night’s attack—they’re searching for survivors still,” he said. “I overheard them saying they would move to this area soon, so we need to proceed with some haste.”

Etta thought so too, but it wasn’t helping her get her stays unknotted any faster. Her hands throbbed from where they’d been scraped raw by her fall, and she could not get her fingers to stop shaking.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, “I need help—”

Nicholas glanced at her, then immediately turned back to face the wall. Etta felt a blush moving up over her face and chest. Stays and a nearly see-through shift. She could have at least crossed her arms over her chest.

He took in a pained breath and turned around. She studied the quick, sure movements of his calloused hands as he worked, forcing her arms to stay down at her side until the laces finally gave. His broad shoulders closed out the rest of the world; Nicholas stood close enough that she could have leaned forward, pressed her face against the space between his neck and shoulders—she could have—and, for a moment, she felt she might be trapped in the heavy grip of her own want if she didn’t. His pulse fluttered in his neck, and she couldn’t take her eyes away from it.

“There,” he murmured, though his fingers lingered on the loose laces a moment longer, his thumbs skimming along the upper edges of the stays, ghosting against the fabric of her shift. Etta held herself completely still, too afraid to lean forward into the touch; too afraid to move, or do anything that might end it.

The dizziness was back. She felt the warm breath of his sigh fan against her collarbone, an instant before he stepped away. He kept his gaze down as he said, in a voice like warm honey, “Sailors. Good with knots.”

It wasn’t until he turned back around to let her finish that Etta’s mind cleared again enough to remember the scissors she’d taken and stowed in her bag, for this exact reason.

The dress he’d chosen fit her well enough, but Etta would have to make do with the lace-up leather boots she’d taken from Sophia, and just ignore their pinching until there was a better option. She reached up, touching her earrings to make sure they were still there.

“Okay,” she said, smoothing her hair back over her shoulder. “How’s this look?”

As he stared, she reminded herself very firmly that he was staring at the hideously bruised lump jutting out of one side of her face, and only the hideously bruised lump.

After a moment he said, “You’ll do, pirate. Now, tell me what your mother’s letter truly says.”

As he balled up the gown, rolling the fabric up into a tidier bundle, Etta retrieved the letter and pen that had rolled to the bottom of the bag. Using the wall, she sketched the outline of a star over the face of the letter, studying the flow of words that were contained inside of its shape. Nicholas stepped closer, reading over her shoulder. Around them, the morning was picking up in pace, bursting with voices and the smell of fire and gasoline; but they were tucked inside a quiet pocket, a passage of their own.

“Rise and enter the lair, where the darkness gives you your stripes. Tell tyrants, to you, their allegiance they owe,” Etta read, running a finger beneath the words within the star. “Seek out the unknown gods whose ears were deaf to lecture. Stand on the shoulders of memory. Bring a coin to the widowed queen. Remember, the truth is in the telling, and an ending must be final.”