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

 

 

“Wormholes. Alternate universes. Mass energy causing closed timelike curves.” At his look, I added, “I had a classical education, Mr. Hart.” He laughed. The sails hummed overhead, waves whispered against the hull, and my father’s words resurfaced from the day he’d taught me: know where you’re going, let go of where you’re from.

 

“We might be traveling between worlds,” I added then. “Or just visiting a time before magic was replaced with science. But I’ve always just thought of it as . . . as Navigation.”

 

“Typically, mariners restrict the seas they sail to the usual seven.”

 

“Can you be sure?” I adjusted my hands on the wheel. “These maps, these stories—they reach us somehow. From somewhere.”

 

“Are you saying Ker-Ys actually existed?”

 

“I’m saying it does exist, in some point in time. All stories come from somewhere—from a shared memory or a hope or a history now forgotten. And the peasants Souvestre spoke to definitely believed in it.”

 

“Souvestre wrote about morgens and mermaids and man-eating wolves, as well. Do you believe in those too?”

 

“I do.” Unbidden, the memory returned of the map of Tahiti and the creature in the water; I suppressed a shudder. Then I gave him a sidelong look. “But you’re no stranger to the fantastical.”

 

He rocked a little on his heels, and his hand went once more to his side. How much did he remember about that night in Honolulu, the healing spring, the Hu‘akai Po? Blake’s voice was faraway when he spoke again. “Sounds dangerous.”

 

I glanced down at Kashmir once more, remembering his words: Trojans and horses. “It might be.”

 

Why did Crowhurst need my assistance? His letter hadn’t exactly been clear on the details. And on closer study, the map had raised questions of its own. The red lines charting Ker-Ys still swam behind my eyes. The paper itself was just that—paper, not parchment or vellum—and it was crisp and new. Crowhurst must have had an older version—the one he’d used to arrive in Ker-Ys in the first place. What had he found when he’d arrived? More importantly, how had he managed to change it?

 

Though early tales of a sunken city had begun circulating during the Age of Discovery, the map of Ker-Ys was marked 1637. The version of the myth describing the city’s downfall had first been published that same year. By then, the story had included all the major elements: the princess, the devil, the king. At least—it should have. But Dahut had said there was no king. And of course there was Dahut herself, seeming more wayward than wicked. Was she still fated to open the sea gates and be cursed with a mermaid’s tail? Was she a mythological princess, or just an ordinary girl like me?

 

Well. I raked the hair out of my eyes as I steered the black ship toward the edge of the world. Perhaps not so ordinary.

 

“What’s changed, Miss Song?” Blake’s voice was soft—only meant for me to hear.

 

“What?” I glanced over at him, but he was watching the horizon. “What do you mean?”

 

He sighed. “The other night, you were so willing to embrace the inevitable—to bend the knee to history as written. Today you’re steering the ship to a mythic island to try to learn how to alter the past. What changed your mind?”

 

I squeezed the handles of the wheel. “You were right. About fighting back.”

 

“Even if you’ll fail?”

 

“I won’t fail.” The words came out low, fierce—and my eyes went back to Kashmir. Blake cocked his head; in the silence between us, I could practically hear his thoughts.

 

“I see.”

 

Past the buoys at the mouth of the river, the fog crept up, floating, shimmering like a veil. The mist was cool, pleasant after the briny humidity of the city; it condensed on the warm bronze wheel and smelled faintly of honey.

 

Beside me, Blake took a deep breath of the foggy air. “Is this the Margins, Miss Song?”

 

I only nodded, putting all thoughts of New York behind me, shedding the heat, the horns, the crush of humanity. Ahead, the answers to my questions lay just beyond the horizon—all I had to do was get us there safely. The deck of the ship began to roll, but I’d roped in too—we all had. This was, after all, a fairy-tale map as well as the Mer d’Iroise; I’d expected the waves to rise. But the temperature was dropping as well. Even in the thick of the fog I could see my breath turn to crystal. Goose bumps flashed across my skin like a school of little fish. I shivered; I’d changed shorts for trousers, but my arms were still bare.

 

Blake rubbed his hands together. “Is Navigation always so cold?”

 

I shook my head. “It must be winter there.”