The Ship Beyond Time

  DEDICATION

  To my father, from whom I learned to love to read,

  and to my mother, from whom I learned to love to write

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Books by Heidi Heilig

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  On a warm December day in 1884, the Temptation was leaving Hawaii, as well as the nineteenth century, and her destination was entirely in my hands.

  At least, it was in my hands metaphorically speaking. Although I’d spent the entire morning poring over the maps in the captain’s extensive collection, I hadn’t yet been able to decide on a time and place for us to visit next. I always plotted our routes, and it didn’t usually take so long. But today was different—today was special. Today, my father had finally weighed anchor on the past, and the future unrolled before me, vast as the Pacific.

  It was a heady thought, even for a time traveler. Just yesterday, I hadn’t been certain I had a future. But when Slate had renounced his quest to undo my mother’s death—and thus, my own birth—the burden of an uncertain fate had lifted away. An infinite freedom had flooded in to take its place. I might go anywhere from here. The horizon was bright and boundless; there was nothing to hold me back. It was a thrilling luxury, and strange—endless choices, and all of them mine to make.

  “Is that our next map, amira?” Kashmir’s voice pulled me back to the present—Kashmir, the one thing I was certain about. He’d been watching me work, perched backward on the captain’s chair. The breeze through the deadlights stirred in his dark curls; for a moment, my hands itched to brush them out of his eyes.

  Instead, I ran my fingers over the surface of the tattered map I held. The Fastitocalon, the giant, mythical sea turtle that ancient mariners often mistook for an island—that is, until the moment it woke and dove under the waves, dragging foolish sailors down with it. “It’s intriguing,” I said with some regret, refolding the leather along the creases. “But much too mythological.”

  “Too mythological?” Kashmir laughed. “I never thought I’d hear you say that!”

  “Well.” I couldn’t help it—I glanced back over my shoulder. Kashmir followed my gaze to the bunk. Blake Hart was still sleeping there, his face paler than usual; that was the blood loss. The young aristocrat from Honolulu had nearly died last night, taking a bullet meant for me. Thank all the gods for the healing spring. Blake’s presence aboard the ship was a reminder that my choices had consequences—I had to temper my excitement with caution. “It’s not just about me.”

  Before Kash could respond, the captain’s voice floated in through the open door. “Nixie?”

  At the foot of the bed, Billie the beagle lifted her head at my father’s call, but I ignored the both of them in favor of the rolled parchments in the cupboards. Someplace more historical might be less alien to Blake—after all, he’d never before left Hawaii, much less his own timeline. Here, Paris at the fin-de-siècle. But wasn’t that rather glitzy after nineteenth-century Honolulu? Not to mention drowning in absinthe and opium, which presented a different sort of danger. It was only this morning that the captain had thrown his box of pills and potions overboard. Best not to steer us back to that port. I slid the map back onto the shelf.

  “Are you looking for someplace perfect?” There was humor in Kashmir’s voice—it was an old joke between us.

  “You know there’s no such place. But—”

  “Nixie!”

  “Just a minute, Dad!” Turning back to the maps, thoughts collided in my mind—France and artists and islands—ah, yes. The South Pacific, 1901. “Some places come close.”

  Kash stood to look over my shoulder—near enough that I could feel the warmth of his skin. I swallowed, trying to keep the map from trembling. It was a lovely one, labeled in French and decorated with a fanciful drawing of a kraken. No . . . I squinted. Wasn’t there a Tahitian octopus demon? Rogo-Tumu-Here . . . that was him, there, his many arms wrapped around the compass rose.

  “Not another island paradise!” Kashmir rolled his eyes, and I bit my lip. Though I knew he was only teasing, our time in Hawaii hadn’t been spent lounging on balmy beaches under sunny skies. We’d been coaxed into an act of piracy there—a plot against the crown in exchange for the map my father needed. And in the fallout, we’d nearly lost the ship, the map . . . and each other. But that was all behind us now. In Tahiti, we could rest. Recover. And make new plans.

  “Hopefully this version of paradise has fewer metaphorical serpents,” I said at last.

  “I suppose I can work on my tan there,” Kashmir said, flexing his golden arms. “I hear it’s the custom to pearl dive nude.”

  “Are you considering a career change?”

  “You have to admit, the uniform is attractive.” He winked outrageously and I blushed, grinning. “And who knows?” he added then. “If I pick enough pearls, maybe we can afford our own ship someday.”

  “A ship?” I blinked at him. That had been our plan—to set out on our own, to point our prow toward the far horizon, steered by the winds of fate. That was only yesterday, before my father had set me free, before I’d known that he still needed me near. But the thought was no less tempting now. “Someday.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Someday soon?”

  “I hope so.” My hand crept to the pearl pendant at my throat—the necklace Kashmir had given me. Kashmir, my best friend, my crewmate. Kash, whose green eyes were a mystery and whose lips, I had discovered quite recently, tasted of oranges.

  Gently, I laid the map of Tahiti down on the drafting table. Were there oranges there, in the high valleys? But maybe I didn’t need a map to find paradise. I turned back to Kashmir. He cocked his head, and then those lips curved into a smile. He was so close. All I had to do was take a breath and lean in—

  “Nix!”

  Kash and I sprang apart. My father was standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the sunlight. “What do you want, Slate?” I said, half exasperated, half grinning, but my smile slid away when he stepped into the cabin.

  At first I thought he’d been crying—his eyes were wet, gleaming—but when I recognized the other signs, my stomach sank. His blond hair was damp and lank with sweat, and there was the slouch that signaled the ache in his shoulders. His broad hands, usually so sure on the wheel, were palsied with tremors that occasionally traveled all the way up his arms. Usually, at times like these, he would make a beeline for the box of opium that used to be under his bed.

  Nervously, I smoothed the curling
edges of the map. We were sailing into uncharted territory.

  Beside me, Kash stood at attention, his expression bland, though his eyes were troubled. “Aye, Captain?”

  Slate didn’t spare him a look. “Did you hear me, Nix?” His voice was shockingly loud in the cabin. I shot a meaningful glance back toward Blake, but he hadn’t stirred, and the captain didn’t seem to notice. “Why didn’t you answer?”

  “I—I didn’t have an answer until just now.”

  “Okay.” He swiped his lips with the back of his hand, as though the word had left a residue. “Is it far?”

  “French Tahiti. Only fifteen years from this timeline. Should be easy passage.” I frowned at him as he approached the map with uneven steps. He’d never asked that before. “Why?”

  “It’s just a question!” Slate gripped the corners of the desk as he peered at the map. Sweat shone on his brow despite the cool trade winds blowing through the deadlights, and his pupils—black moons—eclipsed the icy blue of his eyes. “What?” he said, and I jumped. The edge in his voice was sharp, serrated. “Why are you staring at me?”

  I opened my mouth, but what could I say? He’d gotten rid of the box for me too, and his symptoms were to be expected. This was only a minor obstacle on our way to a bright future. We would get through this, and on the other side, everything would be better.

  Wouldn’t it?

  “Nothing, Captain.”

  After a long silence, he turned back to the map. “Get on deck, the both of you,” he muttered, tapping his fingers on the edge of the drafting table. “There’s a ship after us.”

  “What?”

  “A ship! A ship, following, gaining, do you understand?”

  “Yes, but . . . why?”

  Slate scoffed at my question. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten robbing the Royal Hawaiian treasury!”

  “No.” I took a deep breath, trying to maintain my calm, reminding myself it was the pain that made him cruel. “But how would they know it was us? We used a different ship.”

  “Do you want to tell them that, if they ask to search us?”

  “They wouldn’t find anything. We haven’t got the gold.”

  “We have the son of a known conspirator,” Slate said, his lip curling. “Which is far less valuable, but just as damning.”

  I took a breath to make a retort—to defend Blake—but Kashmir stopped me with a gentle hand on my wrist. “Come, amira. Let’s go see about that ship.” I pressed my lips together and followed him outside.

  Once on deck, I shaded my eyes against the tropical sun as I peered off the stern. The island of Oahu floated in the distance, a blossom atop the blue mirror of the sea. Between us and the faraway shore, a coal steamer purled black smoke from her funnel. I watched her, the wind in my face. It blew in our favor over the quarters, and we had broad reach, but the steamship was traveling at speed, and yes, it was gaining. Another obstacle, this one slightly bigger. I ground my teeth. “We can’t let them catch us.”

  “If we need more speed, we can always throw the dead weight overboard,” Kash said as he strode toward the mizzenmast.

  I frowned; our hold was nearly empty. “What dead weight?”

  “Mr. Hart comes to mind.”

  I made a face, grabbing for the halyard. Kash had been born a thief, and Blake a gentleman; they hadn’t had much in common, and that was before Blake had tried to stop the treasury raid. “He saved my life, you know.”

  The laughter in Kashmir’s eyes faded. “For that, I’ll always be grateful.”

  Together, we loosened the sail to take better advantage of the wind. The mast creaked as the sail billowed, straining against the ropes, and the Temptation surged ahead. She was a fast ship—a caravel, lateen rigged—and her black hull cleaved the white waves like a shark’s fin. Still the steamer gained. I could make out the figures on her deck now—men in dark blue jackets and gleaming white pith helmets. The uniform of the Royal Hawaiian Guard. As we dipped on the waves, the sun flashed off their long rifles.

  “Can the captain Navigate with them so close?” Kashmir asked. “They’ll see us disappear.”

  “They’ll see us sail into the fog,” I corrected.

  “A rather sudden fog!”

  “We don’t have many options,” I said, staring at the guns. A flag was running up their slender mast, flapping blue and gold against the black coal smoke . . . a semaphore signal.

  Rotgut, in the crow’s nest, sang out its meaning. “Kilo!”

  Beside me, Kash frowned. “What’s that one again?”

  “They wish to communicate with us,” I said crisply. He scoffed.

  “If wishes were fishes, aquariums would be much more terrifying.”

  On the quarterdeck, Bee drove her heel down hard, making the bell at her waist swing as she rapped—one, two, three—on the ceiling of the captain’s cabin. But the door did not open, the captain did not appear, and still the ship behind us gained. The riflemen were formed up along her prow; they could not shoot accurately at this distance, but there were so many of them, they wouldn’t really have to.

  I scrubbed my palms on my trousers. Could we escape if I took the helm? I’d gotten a glimpse of the map of Tahiti. Maybe I could take us to the South Pacific.

  Then again, I’d only Navigated twice before—I was by no means an expert, and the price of failure was high. The Margins were a strange place, difficult to find and even harder to leave: an ocean between worlds, inhabited by nameless creatures breaching in the waves, or far-off ships with tattered sails crewed by lost souls unable to escape the fog. Ancient sailors used to believe you would drop off the edge of the earth if you sailed beyond the borders of their maps, in the places where there be dragons.

  I shuddered at the thought. They didn’t know how right they were.

  “Lima!” Rotgut called out as the steamer raised the next signal flag: Stop your vessel immediately.

  Where was the captain? I ran to pound on the cabin door. “Slate!”

  No answer—I tried the handle. The door swung open to reveal my father, vomiting into his laundry hamper.

  I froze on the threshold. This was not the first time he’d been through the pain of withdrawal, but this was certainly the worst time. In more than one way. He blinked at me with red-rimmed eyes. “I’m sorry, Nixie, I—”

  But a voice interrupted him, carried on the following wind. “Ready!”

  And on the deck of the ship behind us, the men lowered their rifles.

  We’d let them get too close. Swearing, I ran up the stairs to the helm. Bee raised one scarred eyebrow. “You can do it?”

  “I’ll have to.” I spoke with more conviction than I felt, but she gave me a taut smile.

  “That’s my girl,” she rasped. Then she went back to the main deck, leaving me alone at the helm. Trying to ignore the crawling feeling of the target between my shoulder blades, I focused on the map of Tahiti, the lovely string of islands like scattered pearls.

  Almost immediately, the fog drifted up like smoke on the horizon. My breath caught in my throat. It was easier than I’d expected; I hadn’t spent more than a few minutes looking at the map. But it had always felt right to me—standing at the helm of the Temptation. My heart filled with pride; then it skipped a beat at the officer’s shout.

  “Aim!”

  I gripped the wheel, my palms suddenly slick. Kash and Bee were on the main deck, shielded from fire by the height of the stern, but Rotgut was a sitting duck in the crow’s nest, and I was standing with my back broadside to the riflemen. Trying to concentrate, I drew the fog closer. Through it, I watched for a glimpse of Tahiti, 1901: the craggy green mountains, the pale sand of the beaches, the crystalline water. Gauguin and pearl divers and—

  “Fire!”

  A rippling crack sounded behind us, and I ducked instinctively; white puffs of smoke popped above the steam ship. Rotgut shrieked and drew his legs up—just below him, the sails were peppered with holes. Kashmir had flattened himself on th
e deck as a round ripped through the sheet he was trying to shorten. In the cabin, Billie started howling: “Roooooo! Rooooooo!”

  But off the prow, the fog thickened, and I kept the wheel steady as we raced for the cover the mist would afford. Then I frowned. What was that dark patch in the water ahead? “Rotgut!” I called up to the crow’s nest. “What do you see?”

  “I see the entire Hawaiian navy taking aim at my—”

  “Ready!”

  “I know! I meant—” I startled at a loud sound. A single round?

  No. Slate had thrown his door open so hard it banged against the wall. Billie raced out with a howl; the captain followed, stumbling onto the deck and shading his bloodshot eyes. “Nixie? What are you doing?”

  The officer’s call came, loud and clear. “Aim!”

  “I’m trying to get us out of here!”

  Slate swore. “What if you get shot? Give me the wheel!”

  “What if you get shot?”

  He hauled himself up the stairs. “I’ll be fine!” he shouted. Then he stopped to heave over the rail. “I’ll be fine,” he said again, wiping his mouth. “I don’t die here, remember?”

  “What?” The ship began to rock as the waves swelled, but I stared at my father. “What are you talking about?”

  “My fate! My fortune.” He staggered toward me as the deck rolled, a manic light in his eyes. “I die in Honolulu, in 1868. Joss saw it happen!”

  “But Dad—”

  “Fire!”

  Another rifle volley came, lower this time. Bullets sang in my ears. But Slate shouldered me aside, gripping the handles with white knuckles. “Give me the wheel and get down on the deck. I won’t die without seeing your mother again.”

  A mighty gust of wind whipped my hair across my cheeks as I hesitated on the quarterdeck. I didn’t want to leave him, but I didn’t want to wrestle him for the wheel, either. Besides, he was still the captain; it was my duty to obey. And we were nearly safe in the Margins—or were we?

  The fog ahead had darkened, and lightning flickered in the lowering clouds. A wave burst over the port side in a white plume of foam. Tahiti shouldn’t have been difficult, not like this. Over the crash of the water, I heard the officer’s shout. “Ready!”