The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)
By: Heidi Heilig
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.”