“All right.” Whatever invisible string had been tied so tightly around her heart loosened. “Before we find out where we’re going, do you have any idea where we are?”
He climbed to his knees, giving her a dry look. “I was rather distracted by you lying in a pool of your own blood.”
“There isn’t a pool,” she protested, rubbing at her swelling cheek. He reached over, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and pulled her hand away to hold.
“Don’t fuss with it,” he said. He ran a featherlight finger over the scrape. She didn’t breathe until he let his hand fall away.
“Now you’ve the look of a real pirate,” he told her, with a small, quiet smile. “But I’ll need to purchase clothing and supplies. Will you be all right if I leave you here for a few moments? I won’t be long, I promise.”
Etta opened the bag she’d hastily packed, and rooted around inside of it until her hands closed on the small velvet sack of gold. She handed it to him. “My mom might not be a thief, but I don’t particularly care if I am.”
“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.