The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)

 

 

I cast about for an excuse, but it was Mr. Hart who responded. “But I wanted one of these.” He plucked something at random from the shelf—a plush doll of a white cat in a red dress—and his expression turned from credible to puzzled. “What the devil?”

 

“Please, Blake. And that was clearly a sham reading,” she said, glaring at the man behind the counter, who didn’t even bother looking guilty.

 

“Okay, fine.” He glanced down at the bones. “A stranger will ask for help. Say yes. Five dollars.”

 

“I didn’t want you to tell my fortune!” she said, raising her voice. “I wanted you to translate—” Nix pulled herself up short, glancing back at me, but the man had already taken up her phone.

 

“Ah, translation!” He squinted down at the screen for a moment, and his face fell. When he glanced up, he wasn’t looking at her, but at Blake and me, and his eyes were full of pity. “Which one is it?”

 

Nix snatched back her phone. “Never mind,” she said, digging in her bag and tossing a crumpled bill among the bones. Then she swept past us toward the door.

 

Mr. Hart shoved the doll back onto the shelf and we both scrambled after her. “What was that about?” I asked her; there was no point now in masking my curiosity.

 

“Something for Slate,” she said, not meeting my eyes, and anger leaped like a flame in my chest.

 

“Why do you hide things from me?” I said, finally blurting something out. So much for discretion.

 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Hart take a hasty step back. But I kept my focus on Nix. Her cheeks were pink, but her gaze was clear. She sighed, resigned. “I’ll tell you on the way back. Brooklyn Bridge, right?”

 

We trudged south in silence, making our way along the summer streets, and this time it was Mr. Hart who trailed behind Nix and me. Although she did not speak, this was not the silence of still waters, but that of the gathering storm. In the pit of my stomach, the fire of my anger had burned out, leaving behind a lump like coal: did I truly want to know what she was hiding?

 

The bridge was crowded with joggers and bikers, tiny dogs fighting their leashes, and women with red wire carts selling mangoes carved in the shapes of roses. I bought one, to try to take the bitter taste of ash from my tongue. Nix finally stopped in the shade of the Manhattan tower, out of the way of the traffic. “You brought your sketchbook,” she said to Mr. Hart—not a question, but a suggestion. “Give us a moment?”

 

“Certainly.” He pulled his pen from behind his ear and sat in the shade of the pillar as Nix came to stand beside me at the rail. I offered her a bite of the mango. She accepted.

 

“God, that’s good.”

 

Side by side, almost touching, we traded bites and watched the ships: the brunch yachts coming in, the sailboats going out. I could smell the sun in her hair. Together we finished the mango; the nectar clung like perfume. Still she did not speak, and I did not prompt her—it seemed we were both summoning our courage.

 

My empty hands fluttered, useless; I longed to stroke her arm. Instead, I strummed my fingers along the row of locks fastened around a steel cable. They were brass and silver, old and new, pink and yellow and green—there must have been a dozen to a foot. They continued down the bridge, fastened to eyebolts and lampposts, rods and fences. Some had hearts drawn on them, others had names. I hefted one of them—an old iron thing, tarnished, antique—and slipped my picks from my pocket, for something to do. Nix snorted.

 

“What?” I glanced at her sideways. “It’s not like someone can steal the bridge.”

 

“They’re not for security, they’re symbolic. Couples come to the bridge and attach a lock to signify their love. Then they throw the keys into the water.”

 

“That’s foolish.”

 

“The authorities think so. Apparently a bridge railing collapsed under the excess weight. That was in Paris. City of love; it’s ironic. At least no one was hurt.”

 

“I wasn’t talking about engineering.” I probed the lock with hook and rake. There was a click, and it came free in my hand. “See? It’s an imperfect metaphor.”

 

“A weight too crushing to bear?” She shook my head. “It seems apt to me.”

 

“Interesting.” I lowered my gaze to the lock. But why was I hiding? I hooked the lock around a belt loop and clicked it shut. Then I raised my eyes to hers. “Love has only ever buoyed me up.”

 

“Joss said I’m going to lose the one I love.”

 

Misery stole her breath; she spoke no louder than a whisper, and it took a moment to understand. There was a long silence, the seconds measured in the beat of my heart at the base of my skull. “How?”