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Esta let out an uneasy breath at the thought. She couldn’t let herself go there. Not yet. Not ever.
Rubbing her arms for warmth, she considered her situation. It was snowing. Large, white flakes tumbled from the heavy gray sky. From the shelter of the tunnel, she could see the city clearly through the bare branches of the trees. Gone were the soaring skyscrapers of mirrored glass and steel. Brick and stone structures lined the park. It looked similar to the city as it had been in 1902. Maybe she was close to the right time.
Her gaze caught on a set of markings low on the wall of the tunnel. Her name. Someone had written her name in chalk. Along with the words “New York” and “age.”
She crouched down, ran her fingers along the letters, wondering what they meant, wishing she could understand what they signified by simply touching them. She tried to tell herself that there was any number of reasons that her name would be there, but she knew the only reason was if Harte had been there as well.
But how long ago did he write this?
There wasn’t anything she could do as long as her affinity was dead, so she figured she might as well figure out what the words meant. And whether Harte was here as well.
The words turned out to be a newspaper, and through a little investigation, she finally found the large brick building that held the paper’s offices. It was far uptown, away from the Bowery and the areas their friends would have frequented.
She studied the front entrance for a long while before realizing that she had no other real options. As long as her affinity still felt cold and empty, there was nothing to do but try to find someone she knew, someone who could tell her what might have become of Harte.
Inside the main vestibule, Esta shook the snow from her hair and shoulders before knocking on the heavy office door. A middle-aged man with light brown skin and a pair of pince-nez spectacles on his nose opened it and gave her a look somewhere between irritation and resignation.
“You’ll be looking for Abel and his folks,” the man said before Esta could even open her mouth to speak. “Upstairs.”
He shut the door in her face.
Esta didn’t know any Abel, but the man had been confident enough that she figured it would be worth trying the apartment upstairs. When she knocked on that door, she heard shuffling from within, and then suddenly the door was thrown open and Cela Johnson was standing there, a look of absolute shock on her face.
“Who is it?” Viola’s voice called from somewhere in the apartment.
But Cela didn’t answer. “Is it really you?” she asked Esta in a voice close to a whisper.
Esta nodded. “Is Harte here?”
Before Cela could answer, Viola was pushing her aside.
“Chi é—” Viola froze, her violet eyes wide, and then suddenly the prickly assassin launched herself at Esta and wrapped her in a fierce embrace.
Esta felt the burn of tears as she returned Viola’s embrace. She wasn’t too late. They weren’t gone. Not yet. She could save them. “Where’s Harte?” she asked. “Is he here?”
Viola nodded as she looked her over. “I can’t believe it. Darrigan, he said you’d come, but after a week, we weren’t so sure.”
“So Harte is here?” Esta asked, her stomach flipping. She hadn’t lost him. “What’s today’s date?”
“The eighth of December,” Cela said.
“But what year?” Esta asked.
Cela frowned. “It’s 1902. What other year would it be?”
Relief washed over her. They weren’t where they intended to be, but at least they were together. And they could always go back if they needed more time.
Once they were inside, Cela introduced Esta to Joshua, who seemed to be a friend of her brother’s, and a blond girl, who seemed to be Viola’s. But there was no one else there.
Confused, she turned to them. “Where’s Harte?”
Then she saw the uncomfortable look Cela and Viola were exchanging.
“What?” Esta asked. Her mind spun with a thousand scenarios for a thousand things that could have happened to him. The Order. Nibsy. Jack. “He’s okay, isn’t he?”
“Yes, of course,” Cela told her. “He’s out with Jianyu.”
Again, the uncomfortable silent exchange between the other women.
