The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)
By: Heidi Heilig
“I told Gwen time had done this. It was love. I tried to warn you. Remember?” He glanced at me, his eyes full of regret, and then away, shaking his head, as though he couldn’t bear to look. Instead, he stared down into the swirling blackness of the water. “I tried to help. I didn’t want this to happen. I would have done anything to keep you from getting hurt—you know that, right? I still would. Anything.”
“Dad.” The word hung lonely in the air; I didn’t know what else to say. But the wind gusted, and I slipped my arm into the crook of his elbow. He followed when I started walking, so I led him gently back to the ship.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I spent the rest of the night in front of the door in the captain’s cabin, sleeping only fitfully, worried he’d disappear again, this time for good. By the time dawn arrived, my entire body ached. The captain was still sleeping peacefully, damn him, so I beat Rotgut to the galley to start the coffee. He found me hunched over my second cup and recoiled in mock horror. “You look awful!”
I rolled my eyes. “You always know just what to say.”
He fussed about, snatching ingredients and utensils off the shelves and dropping them on the scarred wooden counter. “What’s the trouble?” In a puff of white, Rotgut popped open the tin of flour and dumped some into a bowl. “I’m going to guess it’s a boy.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Well, it traditionally is a boy. And there’s that extra one now.”
I made a face. “I’m not a girl who follows tradition.”
“Me neither.” He put a cast-iron pan on the stove and winked. “Fine. Tell me what the trouble really is.”
“A man.”
“Oh, dear.” He cracked two eggs into the bowl, stirring vigorously.
I made a face. “I’m worried about Slate.”
His hand stilled. “We’re all worried about Slate.”
“Right.” Lowering my gaze, I traced my fingertip through a puddle of coffee. I’d been focusing so much on my own problem, I hadn’t spent much time thinking about Bee and Rotgut. But they’d sailed with Slate for decades—they knew his history, they’d seen his ups and downs. If they were worried too, it wasn’t a good sign. “He’s been through worse, though, right?”
“At least once.”
It was early and I was tired—I almost asked when. Then I sighed. Slate had survived my mother’s loss once—he could do it again. Couldn’t he? Frowning, I wiped the coffee off on my trousers. Speaking of the captain’s past . . .
“Who was Gwen, anyway?”
“Ah. Gwen.” As the pan started to smoke, Rotgut poured in a dollop of batter; it sizzled at the edges. “We met her in Ribat, must have been . . . nearly twenty years ago now. That was back when the Fool was the Santé—and the captain was named Skamber Jack. He was a Barbary slaver.”
“And she was a pirate?”
“A captive.”
“Oh.” I bit my lip; overhead, smoke made the lantern light bleary. “Were she and Slate ever . . . ?”
“Ever what? Fishing buddies? Bingo partners?” Rotgut laughed a little as he shook the pan. “No. They were never. You should know, the captain’s not like that.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”
Rotgut flipped the pancake and gave me a look right back. “Likely to take advantage of someone who owed him.”
I shifted on my feet, a little embarrassed; then again, my father’s ethics had always been gray to me. “It seemed like she wished things were different.”
“They do have that in common. Just not the same things. The captain said she could crew with us, but she refused. Too proud. Or maybe too painful.”
I nodded. I could imagine both being true. “What will happen to her when she reaches the Margins?”
“That’s probably a question for your father,” he said. “But Gwen’s a survivor.”
“I believe that. What do you make of what she said? The dreams of her crew?”
“Who knows?” Rotgut shrugged. “I’m more interested in what she said about strange fish.”
I smiled a little. “Are you going to try to get your line in the water?”
“If there’s time. You can join me if you want. Good antidote to boy trouble.”
“Is that why you like it so much?”
“Plenty of fish in the sea,” he said, scraping at the pancake with a spatula. “Of course, there’s always the one that got away. That’s Gwenolé’s problem.”
I blinked. “Gwenolé?”
“Her full name. French or something”
“Celtic, actually. Very similar to the name of a saint from a local myth.”
“Whatever.” Rotgut gave the splotchy pancake a professional frown and flipped it onto the floor; Billie’s head darted out from under the shelf to snatch it. Then Rotgut poured out a dollop of fresh batter. “The first one’s always ugly.”
I drained my coffee with a grimace—my stomach was sour with it—and started washing the mug in the basin. First the king, and now the saint—but neither were quite like the myth I knew. Was it coincidence or something more? The madman had mentioned the dark horse too. Then again, he’d also mentioned a man in the pit and a monster in the castle, and neither of those were part of the legend.