The Ship Beyond Time Read online

I bit my lip—but what could I tell her? That the Margins would rise up around her and trap her ship in a sailor’s purgatory? “What if he needs passage back?”

  “I’m not going back to London.” Gwen spat on the deck as she strode starboard, toward her ship, but she stopped at the edge of the deck, both hands on the rail. “You haven’t asked me where I’m bound,” she said then, and I knew she wasn’t talking to me.

  She and I both turned to Slate, and I waited for him to tell her to stay—to tell her that she’d never make it past the mist without a Navigator at the helm. But would she listen, if he did? Slate only shook his head. “We risked our necks to free you from the Santé, Gwen. Why did you go back?”

  “But she’s not the Santé anymore. When I took over, I named her after her old captain. See?” Gwen nodded to the rotting head.

  Slate frowned. “The Jack?”

  “The Fool. I’m bound for Salé,” she said, as though he had asked after all. “There’s money there. I’ll wait for you if you ask me to.”

  “Salé?” Slate’s eyes narrowed, and my own shoulders tensed. The biggest slave markets in the Barbary trade could be found in Salé. Slate knew it too. “Are you carrying on Jack’s trade, Gwen?”

  “Why do you ask? It doesn’t look like you’re in the market for new crew.”

  Gwen leaped up then, catching hold of the anchor line and pulling herself aboard the Fool. The crew doubled their efforts under her watchful eye, and soon enough they were ready to cast off. I clamped all my warnings behind my teeth—I had little pity for a slaver. And Gwen didn’t look back as she maneuvered the corvette out of the sea gates and into the open water. Slate watched after her—but when I caught his eye, he only turned and went back into his cabin.

  CHAPTER TEN

  At least I knew Crowhurst was somewhere in the city. But where? He was not waiting at the dock, and when I asked the harbormaster, he told me he had never even heard of the man. Apparently he’d marked down the name of the Fool’s captain as “Cook.” Was it only a mistake, or was Crowhurst deliberately trying to hide his presence? I did not know, and I could not ask, at least not until he arrived. So I tried to conceal my disappointment as I handed over the port fee. It was higher than I’d expected, but the harbormaster’s haughty look invited no bargaining.

  Kashmir raised an eyebrow when he saw me counting out the coin. “I suppose that’s how he affords such fancy dress,” he murmured after the man had gone.

  “What kind of utopia would it be without pretty shoes?” I asked.

  “I might take a look around. Try to find out.”

  There was an invitation in Kashmir’s voice; reluctantly, I shook my head. “I should stay with the ship in case Crowhurst comes. The harbor is the first place he’ll look for me.”

  His eyes darkened, and he turned toward the gangplank. “Suit yourself.”

  I watched him go, unease growing in my chest—but he would be safe on land, wouldn’t he? Unless there was a flood. “Come back before high tide,” I told him.

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “And be careful out there!”

  He only laughed—a mocking sound. “It’s a utopia, amira. What could go wrong?”

  I made a face, watching him until he was out of sight. Then I settled in to wait, growing increasingly frustrated as the hours passed.

  This far north, the winter days were short. By late afternoon, dusk had crept between the stone houses, the two-story malouinières and the low longères, nestling in corners and lying down in the streets. The tide rushed back home in time for sunset, and all before the church bells tolled six. The haunting sound of vespers drifted from the cathedral, and across the town, candlelight flickered like will-o’-the-wisps as hearth smoke curled up to meet the clouds that scudded between the sea and the scattered stars.

  But above the city, the craggy turrets of the château remained dark. Dahut had told the truth—I had confirmed it with the harbormaster. There was no king in Ker-Ys.

  I’d tried to ask the man what had happened, but he’d made the sign of the fig—a fist, with his thumb trapped between his fore and middle fingers, meant to ward off evil—and gestured toward the castle. “Le château, il est abandonné,” he’d said darkly, striding away over the cupped boards of the pier.

  The temperature dropped even further as night fell, and after we’d eaten, the crew bundled up and disappeared into their cabins for some much-needed rest. Once they had, I strung my hammock—all by myself this time. Then I pulled socks over my hands and blankets over my head and tried to sleep.

  I was doing all right too, until the sea gates opened again around eleven and the wind crowded into the embrace of the harbor. I gritted my teeth; now I knew why a key to open—or shut—the gates would be useful. But on the dark water, little fishing boats were rocking on the eddies, torches burning bright on their bows. Like all of us who served the sea, their lives were not ruled by the sun, but by the tides.

  The wintery wind took me by the throat. I huddled back down, tucking the blankets tightly around me. How long had the gates been open this morning? Two hours? Three? Long enough for the fishermen to go out and check their trot lines. Shivering, I drew my knees to my chest.

  Slate’s room would be out of the cold, but the weather was not as bleak as my father’s company. I had gone into his cabin to bring him dinner, hoping to ask about Gwen . . . not only for their history, although that had piqued my curiosity, but also about her arrival through the fog—and whether he thought she would be able to find her way back. Instead, I’d found my father crying into his sheets, great sobs that shook his frame. The sight had embarrassed me—I shifted in my hammock, uncomfortable still.

  Should I knock instead on Kashmir’s door? He would let me in . . . he would keep me warm. A thrill went through me, but in its wake, the fear—ever present. And Kash wasn’t exactly happy I’d brought us here. Though he’d returned from his foray into the city with a glint in his eye and a weight in his pockets, he hadn’t seemed in the mood for conversation over dinner. I curled up tighter and wrapped my own arms around my shoulders. It was very cold comfort.

  I was reconsidering the captain’s cabin when I heard someone opening the hatch. Not Kash, though—too noisy. I peeked out from under the pile of blankets. “Hello, Blake.”

  “Miss Song, please go back to your room.” The zephyrs toyed with his hair and scattered the white mist of his breath. “You’re humiliating me.”

  I pursed my lips, but another gust actually made the hammock sway. I clambered out, holding the blankets tight, and followed him down the ladder. But at the door of my old room, he wished me good night. I turned back to him. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to bunk with Mr. Firas. If he’ll have me.”

  I made a face. “Your nineteenth century is showing.”

  “Is it?” He raised an eyebrow. “Well, considering we’re in the seventeenth, I’m ahead of the times.”

  “We’ll share the room,” I said firmly, and he made a small bow.

  “Lady’s choice. Never let it be said I’m not a modern man.”

  In spite of the new furnishings, the cabin felt bigger now my things were gone. It was bare except for the bed and the neat sea chest tucked into the corner. And it was so warm. I sank gratefully to the floor beside the mattress, my blankets still wrapped around me, and Blake barked a laugh. “For god’s sake, Miss Song, take the bed!”

  I only turned toward the wall, shoving a wad of quilt under my head. “I always used to sleep on the floor, when I slept in this room.”

  “Stubborn.” He sighed and sat on the edge of the mattress; it creaked. “To be honest, I was surprised to find you in your hammock.”

  “Where else did you expect to find me?” The answering silence was delicate. I looked back over my shoulder to find a blush on his pale cheeks. “You’re lucky I’m too cold to get up and punch you.”

  “Did something happen between you and Mr. Firas?”

  All the
possible answers to that question crowded into my head—yes, no, something, everything. “Nothing,” I said at last. Nothing, nothing. I drew the blanket up closer to my chin.

  “All right,” he said evenly. For a while, there was only the soft sound of our breathing. In the lamp, the sky herring swam, making the light flicker. Slowly my toes began to thaw. I reached down and slipped my boots off my feet. Then he spoke again. “Did you ever really care for me, or was it only a ruse?”

  I froze all over again—but in the back of my mind, I’d been wondering if he would ask. Back in Honolulu, there had been . . . something between us, though I’d thought we’d left it behind us in Nu’uanu Valley, along with a bag of stolen gold and the rest of the regrettable past. “What do you mean, a ruse?”

  “To throw off my questions, of course. So you could rob the treasury.”

  My cheeks burned; I was glad I was facing the wall. “No. I . . . Blake. It wasn’t a ruse.”

  “Then why do you feel responsible for me?”

  “You’re here because of what I did.”

  “But I asked to come aboard the ship, as you so kindly reminded me.”

  I sighed. “You couldn’t stay in Hawaii after what happened.”

  “It certainly would have been very difficult,” Blake said softly. “But perhaps not for the reasons you think.”

  The sadness in his voice gave me pause. “What reasons, then?”

  There was another long silence, and I’d begun to think he would not answer when he did. “Hawaii is a small island, Miss Song. My father’s debts, my mother’s proclivities—they were no secret.” The mattress settled as he shifted. “The day you and I met . . . it was the first conversation I’d had in years without anyone sneering at me. There were no implications. No knowing looks. Just you and me and a day in paradise. I might venture to say, Miss Song, that you were my first friend.”

  I stared steadily at the grain of the wood on the wall. I was his friend, and I had betrayed him. “And what am I now?”

  “I’m not certain,” he admitted. “But I’m glad we have time to find out. May I give you a gift?”

  “I don’t need any presents, Blake.”

  “I feel compelled. I want you to have it.” I heard him sit up in bed; finally I turned toward him. He slid his sketchbook from under his pillow and tore out a page: a bold version of New York. Strong, clean lines, from the Narrows to the Harlem River. The southern neat line was made of silhouettes of buildings and water towers, bridges and trees, and the compass rose was the outline of Liberty’s torch.

  “This is beautiful.”

  “I did it the day we walked over the bridge,” he said. “You gave me the city. Only fair I give it back.”

  I tucked the map into the pocket of my cloak and tried to smile. I’d taken paradise from him—but if Crowhurst was telling the truth, if the past could really be changed . . . could I return it?

  Blake threw a cloth over the lamp and lay back down. Time passed, and his breathing grew even and deep. I might have dozed, but not deeply enough that the rumble of the gates didn’t wake me as they slid shut. The ship rocked a little on the eddies. Moments later, my eyes sprang open at the sound of footsteps crossing the deck above.

  My first thought was a thief. My second was Crowhurst—though perhaps it was fair to say they were one and the same. But whoever it was, was leaving. I sat up, the quilt slipping from my shoulders. Frost rimmed the small port window; I wiped it clear and peered outside. There was someone walking down the pier. I recognized his form easily, even in the sharp silver moonlight: my father, his shoulders hunched against the cold.

  I struggled out of the tangle of blankets and pawed through them, searching for my boots in the dark. I’d laced them back on, with some difficulty, before I wondered why I was chasing after him. Why did I care where he was going or what he was doing? What did it matter if he wanted to go on a midnight stroll?

  Pulling my cloak around my shoulders, I went abovedecks, the answer ringing in my head: it was what I had always done. He’d always been my responsibility. He wandered off, I sought him out.

  And right now, the way he’d been acting, it was too risky not to.

  I opened the hatch; the cold stole my breath. Torchlight threw shadows across the stone docks where the fishermen were unloading their catch. Smoke mingled with the white plumes of hot breath and muttered curses as the men worked. I searched, but my father wasn’t among them. Had he walked into the city? The Grand Rue curved up, away from the harbor, and I followed it.

  Moonlight gave the town an ethereal grace, turning the stone to silver and the shadows to mysteries. Overhead, the buildings leaned in close as though telling secrets, and the sky shrank to a strip of stars. The windows at ground level were shuttered, and the ones above had curtains drawn; although the town was still and the hour was late, I couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched through the gaps.

  The dark intensified my hearing, or perhaps it was the sound carrying farther in the cold; I heard the potch of my boots against the rounded cobbles, the squeak of a hanging sign rocked by the wind, even the rise and fall of the ocean against the seawalls, like the breath of a sleeping giant. A small tabby ran ahead of me for half a block and then slipped under a cart, peering out at me with shining eyes.

  Eventually the road spilled into a wide square. In the center, a fountain splashed over a beautifully crafted bronze mermaid. Icicles ran like tears down her cheeks. I walked all the way around, but there was no sign of Slate.

  The south end of the plaza was bordered by the crenellated walls and turrets of the château. From this angle, high in one of the towers, light glimmered in a single window. Hadn’t the harbormaster said it was abandoned? Was there a caretaker, waiting for the return of a long-lost king? Or a hermit wandering the otherwise empty halls?

  I shivered; the drifting mist from the fountain was turning to frost in my hair. Aside from the hish of falling water, all was quiet. The west side of the square was lined with shuttered shops like closed jewel boxes; to the east stood a Gothic cathedral. The stained-glass arches glowed invitingly with colored light, but Slate had never been a religious man. Had I passed him somehow along the way? Or perhaps I had only missed him among the fishermen.

  Another blast of wind scoured the square, scattering the arcing water in the fountain and blowing leaves across the cobbles—no, not leaves, but bits of paper. I frowned. This was not New York—paper wasn’t trash, not in this era. Where had it come from?

  Wrapping my velvet cloak tight around me, I followed the pieces like bread crumbs marking the invisible path of the southerly wind. Torn scraps gamboled at my feet as I approached the castle. There, before the gatehouse, lay a tattered book; I had knelt to pick it up when a movement caught my eye. Startled, I gasped, my heart leaping into my throat.

  A man stood there, not two yards away, in the deep shadow under the stone archway of the castle gatehouse. He gripped the bars of the portcullis. The holes weren’t big enough to fit a dog, but he pressed his head against the iron, as though he could pull himself into the keep by sheer force of will.

  “Slate?” I spoke without thinking; as the man moved, I knew it was not the captain.

  He turned slowly, unsteady on his feet, as though drunk or distracted, and tottered into the light of the unforgiving moon. Dirty blond hair lay in lank curls past his shoulders, and his robe and shoes were tattered, but he must have been a wealthy man, once. Under the grime was the dull shine of silk and velvet, and a gold chain gleamed on his neck.

  “Do you know me?” His accent was quite thick—a rich brogue—but his voice was urgent. “Do you know who I am?”

  “I . . . no,” I said, taking a careful step back. “I’m only looking for my father.”

  “Your father?” He seemed to wilt, putting his face in his hands, and his voice throbbed with sudden grief. “I had a daughter once. The sea took her.”

  “The sea?” I tensed, recalling my own dire fortune—but this w
asn’t about Kash and me. “I’m sorry,” I added hastily, the small words falling, worthless as pennies in a hat. But the man tilted his chin up; his eyes shone with tears—or was that rage? I took a step back. “I’ll go. I just . . . Have you seen him? A tall man. He was—”

  “Your father is the devil, witch! I can see it in your eyes.”

  My hand fluttered like a flag of surrender as I backed away across the square, but he followed with lurching steps. “A monster slavers in the castle!” he cried, his voice echoing from the stones and ringing in the bell tower. “A man wastes away in the pit!” He pulled the pendant of his necklace out of the folds of his robe, brandishing it at me. At first glance, it looked like a cross, but as he held it out, I saw it was a key. “I was a king,” he whispered. “I was a king, but I have no kingdom.”

  My jaw dropped; I stared at him. “What did you say?”

  “Usurper! Witch!”

  “Wait!” I raised my hand, but he slapped it away.

  “Heed the warnings of the wayward saint! The flood will come! The dark horse will ride!” He lunged at me, and I stumbled back, tripping over the mangled book. “Witch! Witch!”

  Panicked, I fled, my feet pelting on the granite cobbles. My breath came in short bursts as I skidded along the Grand Rue, speeding past the shuttered houses and the shadowy shops. Through the narrow gap between the buildings overhead, the night sky seemed to tilt as clouds blew past the moon. I neared the wharf—was he following? I risked a glance back over my shoulder and ran straight into a pair of outstretched arms.

  For one wild, childish moment, I hoped it was my father, come to protect me. But though I recognized the man, it wasn’t Slate. I knew him immediately from the picture I’d seen on my phone—only a little older. There, standing between me and the dock, was Donald Crowhurst.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I reeled, but he steadied me, his eyes bright in the dark. My chest was too hot, my fingers too cold; my heart rattled my ribs. I tried to speak, but I could not seem to catch my breath. The cold air burned like alcohol going down. “Mr. Crow—Mr. Crowhurst?”