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

 

 

“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 wasn’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?”

 

The torches at the dock had been extinguished, the fishermen all gone to bed, and moonlight splashed across the wharf. But he was unmistakable, even in the dim light: a plain man, with a high forehead under a mop of curly hair and a long, sloping nose. There was wonder on his face—or was it fear? “You’re here,” he breathed.

 

“Yes. Yes!” I was giddy with relief. I held out my hand. “I came as soon as I could. It’s so good to finally meet you!”

 

“It is.” Crowhurst stared at me for a long time, but he did not seem to share my joy. Still, he took my hand and shook it at last. “The pleasure is all mine, miss—but you have the advantage. Tell me, what’s your name?”

 

My hand stilled. He released it, and my arm fell back to my side. “You . . . Don’t you know me?”

 

He peered at me, his eyes guarded. “I’ve seen you before.”

 

“Of course you have. You invited me here. By name.” Did he have a memory condition as well? My heart sank.

 

Desperately, I dug my hand into my pocket and drew out his letter. Frowning, he scanned the page. “Nix . . . Nixie? You’re Nixie?”

 

I furrowed my brow. The nickname sounded strange in his voice—too intimate. “Only my father calls me that.”

 

“I was just speaking to him.” Crowhurst looked up from the letter, concern on his face. “He’s not a well man.”

 

I followed his eyes to the wall, and there he was—the captain. I knew him not only by his silhouette, but by the fact that no one else would be up there, exposed to the cold sea air in the middle of the night—and standing perilously close to the edge. I swore. “Did you give him back his map?”

 

“His what?”

 

“The map of Honolulu.” I glanced back at my father and swore again. “Tell me you haven’t lost it!”

 

“I don’t understand. What map?”

 

“The map you stole from his desk when you were in . . .” My voice trailed off as my mind raced toward realization. “When you go. To New York City.”

 

“To New York?” he repeated. “How?”