The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)
By: Heidi Heilig
Time coiled around me like a snake; on the water, the Temptation nodded knowingly. My fingers shook as I pulled the map out of my pocket—the map Blake had only just given me. I held it with an odd reluctance. But it had to happen, didn’t it? It had already happened.
I’d seen this once before, with Joss in ancient China, and it had seemed something like fate then, too. What made it possible—these little loops in chronology, where time twisted like a M?bius strip? As I stared into Crowhurst’s eyes, the answer came to me. “Two Navigators,” I said softly. “Of course. Is that why you needed my help? Does changing the past require working together?”
“Changing the past.” He breathed. “Yes. That’s why you’re here. That’s why we’re both here.”
“Take this, then,” I said, my hand just barely shaking as I held out the map of New York. “Take that letter too. And a map of Ker-Ys to give to me—a map drawn this morning. You must have one.”
“I do,” he said. Understanding crept across his face. “But of course I do.”
“Dahut will find me in Brooklyn, near the docks.” I bit my lip—I wanted to say more, but I had to go to my father. I started toward the edge of the wharf, where a set of stone stairs led to the top of the wall. “Hurry back!”
“I will!” he called after me. “I’ve been waiting for this for months!”
Months? I nearly turned back to ask what he meant, but now was not the time. Crossing the pier, I reached the wide stone stair that ran up to the rampart. It switched back once, and there was no balustrade; as I climbed higher, I glanced down toward the harbor and immediately regretted it. The only thing between me and the black water was twenty-five feet of chill air. Gulping, I pressed myself against the stone wall, continuing up on unsteady legs.
At the top, the cold made me gasp. The guard tower did nothing to slow the rushing wind, but I huddled in the curve of the turret to gather my courage. The top of the wall was slick with seawater, and there was no parapet here—nothing to prevent a person from losing her footing and tumbling headlong into the swirling blackness of the Mer d’Iroise.
Of course Slate was standing at the edge, his shoulders rounded, his face like a knot pulled tight. At least he was wearing a coat; the wind off the sea whipped it around his legs and scoured the stones underfoot.
It made me dizzy just to look at him. I steadied myself, one hand on the wall in the turret. The stone tower sheltered the bronze mechanisms that controlled the sea gates; from inside, it felt like standing in a gilded cage. My fingers trailed over an oval panel embedded in the stone. It was decorated in relief with two mermaids; between them, verdigris wept from an old keyhole.
With a start, I remembered the madman near the castle—and the key around his neck. Was that the key to the sea gates? Had he told the truth? Had he been a king? If so, what had happened? How had he fallen from power?
But I could not worry about another man’s fall, not now. Pushing off the wall, I propelled myself toward my father.
He didn’t turn when I approached. We stood side by side for a while in silence, watching the moonlight turn the spray to a scattering of diamonds. Minutes passed. Did he even know I was there? “So,” I said, the wind tearing the word from my lips. I cleared my throat. “You met Donald Crowhurst.”
Slate didn’t respond for a long time, but when he did, I wished he hadn’t. “There was a woman in the water.”
I blinked at him. “Drowning?”
“Singing.”
“Okay.” I tried to keep my voice neutral, but my heart clenched. A woman in the water? Automatically, I searched for the sheen of sweat on my father’s cheeks, the black hole eyes, but there was nothing in his face but sorrow. Could he be hallucinating even without the opium? I’d read about that somewhere—that one might see things, in the grip of mania or depression. And it couldn’t have been real . . . could it? At our feet, an icy wave shattered against the stones. The wind rose and fell; it sounded like a song. “Since she’s gone, can we go back to the ship?”
“I keep thinking about the bells,” he said. “The ones that toll the tides. The myth of Ker-Ys says that on a quiet day, you can still hear them ringing under the water.”
“I know, Slate.” My hair lashed my cheeks; I hooked it with my finger and pulled it back. “I’ve read the same books you have.”
He leaned out, looking down. “I wonder if anyone has ever fallen off the edge.”
I made a face and took a fistful of the back of his coat. “Not tonight.”
“Do the bells ring for them?”
“Slate . . .”
“I lied to her, Nixie.”
“To who?”