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

 

 

My heart clenched in my chest; the pressure was back and I couldn’t breathe. Still I hesitated: say something, say nothing. “Nothing,” I said. But I snatched the gun from the shelf and shoved it into my back pocket. My palms were sweaty, my blood racing. But Slate only dropped his head to his hands. Why did he look so small? “Don’t worry, Dad. I know where your map is. We’re sailing tomorrow to get it back.”

 

“No.”

 

“No?” I stared at him, waiting for him to elaborate. “Why not?”

 

“Maybe it’s better this way.” He sighed, sinking lower still. “Easier, not to have to choose.”

 

“Choose what? Between me and my mother? Or . . .” I didn’t finish the sentence, and he didn’t answer the question—he was bent, defeated, a broken thing. Was this my future? Was I staring my own fortune in the face? “Forget your map. We’re still sailing.”

 

“I’m not fit to take the helm.”

 

“I’ll do it, then.”

 

“So eager now, to take my place?”

 

I swallowed, bracing myself, but he said nothing more. The only sound in the room was the rustling of the maps in the breeze through the deadlights, and the ragged sound of his breath, as though he was the one struggling to keep his head above the rising tide.

 

That night I lay in my hammock, studying the map of Ker-Ys as the moon climbed to the top of the sky and leaped. The red lines had begun to blur and fade in my head when a sound made me blink awake.

 

“Mr. Firas said we’ll be leaving soon. Is it true?”

 

So Kashmir had guessed—but of course he had. Perhaps there hadn’t ever been any doubt. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I sat up, the hammock swaying beneath me. Blake was standing on deck facing the skyline, silhouetted against the glow of the city. “It is.”

 

“We’ve barely scratched the surface here.”

 

“We’ll be back soon enough.”

 

I heard the smile in his voice. “I thought we were supposed to live in the now.”

 

“It’s hard when what you need is in the past.”

 

“I do know that.” He turned from the rail to face me, although his eyes were shadowed and I could not read his expression. “Is that the map we’ll be visiting?”

 

“Want to see?” I turned the paper toward him; he came closer and took it with gentle hands.

 

“Ker-Ys. From Souvestre’s peasant tales from Brittany, isn’t it?” I raised an eyebrow, impressed, but he only smiled. “I had a classical education, Miss Song. But how will we visit a place that exists only in myth?”

 

I wet my lips . . . how to put it? “As long as the mapmaker believed what he drew, this map should work as well as any other.”

 

Now it was his turn to look impressed. “Do mapmakers have so much power?”

 

“The Navigator has to believe too, of course.”

 

“And do you?”

 

“Why shouldn’t I? I grew up visiting places just like it.”

 

“Fascinating.” He squinted at the map. “I wonder how a utopia will compare to paradise? Though I suppose both are eventually lost.”

 

“Well . . .” I turned toward the Atlantic, as though I could see all the way to the fabled vasty fields of France. “The myth may not play out as we’ve read it.”

 

Blake looked at me sharply. “What do you mean?”

 

I took the map back from him and handed him the letter. “There’s a man there who claims he knows how to . . . to alter history.”

 

“What?” Blake’s eyes gleamed as he scanned the page. “How?”

 

I traced the red lines of the map with one finger. “I hope to learn.”

 

He caught his breath. “And what could you do with knowledge like that?”

 

I opened my mouth to answer, then closed it again when I saw the hope in his face. I had been so focused on rescuing Kashmir, but what else was possible? Could I save my mother, like Slate had dreamed he could? Could I save the island that Blake loved? Could I look through history with perfect hindsight and undo the injustices of the past? I took a deep breath, feeling giddy. “I . . . I suppose . . . if it works . . . I could do almost anything.”

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

 

 

Late the next day, the Temptation pointed back toward the Atlantic. Her sails were full of the hot summer breeze, and I was at the helm, the wheel warm and firm in my hand.