The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)
By: Heidi Heilig
Blake’s brow furrowed, and then he guessed. “The map I drew—the map of New York City. You gave it to him? My god.” Blake shook his head. “What would have happened if I hadn’t given it to you?”
“I don’t know.” I laughed a little, but without humor. “I studied this for years, back when I first realized what might happen if Slate actually succeeded in saving my mother. Some people say that what’s meant to happen will find a way, come hell or high water. And some people think that preventing history from happening would unmake the universe.”
His eyebrows went up. “Are those the only two possibilities?”
“Oh, no, there are infinite possibilities. But very little hard science.”
“Then how did Crowhurst learn?”
“What do you mean?”
“He has a way to change the past—or so his letter said. If he was telling the truth, he found a way, and all without ending the world.”
“Blake . . .” I chewed my lip, staring at the harbor, the water, the boats gently bobbing. “That’s the thing. I gave him the letter too.”
“The letter he sent to you? Then . . . he doesn’t have a way to change anything? It was all a lie?”
“Or it might have been what had to happen—”
“To keep the world from unraveling?” Blake searched my face for answers I did not have. “Do you think we’re here for a reason, Miss Song?”
My mouth twisted like a rope—I knew the reason I’d brought us here, but Blake gave the word a shine beyond self-interest. “We have to wait for Crowhurst to return to find out for certain.”
“It seems that way.” Blake folded his arms. “But perhaps we can still track down the madman.”
I looked at him, surprised. “We can?”
“Aren’t you curious how he knows the ending of a story yet untold?”
“Of course I am,” I said. “I just didn’t realize you’d want to come with me.”
“Well, I can’t very well let you keep all the adventures to yourself, Miss Song.” He offered me his arm then, and I took it. Together, we started out across the wharf, up the Grand Rue toward the castle.
It was the same route I’d taken last night, but the town was far more colorful in the light of day. The sun brought out the bright hues of the doors, enameled in rich blues and reds, and above the street swung the carved and painted signs for hat makers and haberdashers, porcelains and parfumeries—luxuries in this age, especially for a town so small. Where did this wealth come from? I saw no factories, no sign of industry. Then again, Ker-Ys was supposed to be a utopia.
The streets themselves were quiet, and most of the shops were still shuttered this early, but curtains were being drawn back from the windows in the living spaces above, and there was the feeling in the air—a murmur of voices, a scent of milk and smoke and rising bread—that people were stirring. As we turned into the square, bells in the cathedral began to ring.
The chateau was even lovelier under the sun than the moon: a profusion of slender towers, lacy with tracery and topped with conical slate roofs. My eye went to the upper window, but it was dark. Still, the entire atmosphere was halcyon, and the events of last night seemed far away, almost unreal, like a distant ship on the horizon.
“No madman,” Blake murmured.
“Maybe he wandered off. But . . .” I scanned the square. Had it only been a strange nightmare? An odd dream? No—the old book was there, lying mangled on the cobbles in the shade of the gatehouse. As I knelt to pick up the cracked leather covers, Blake grasped the bars and rattled the portcullis. It barely moved, although I could hear the faint clanking of chain in the mechanisms.
“This gate would keep all but the smallest monsters out,” he said.
“Or in.”
“Safest that way. What have you got there?”
I showed him the lettering on the book cover, stamped into the skin. L’HISTOIRE DE LA VILLE D’YS.
“A history book?” He raised an eyebrow. “The work of a revisionist, perhaps?”
“That’s not funny. This book was priceless.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Song. It’s only that I can understand being enraged by history.” He knelt to pluck up a handful of scraps; they had drifted like fallen petals into the corner of the gatehouse. “You’re right, of course,” he said softly, sorting through the pieces. Gold leaf shone in the morning sun; the book had been lovingly illuminated. “It was beautiful work.”
“Don’t bother.” I opened my hand; the empty cover fell to the ground, a dead thing. “It’s beyond repair.”
“I know. But some of these are interesting. Look here.” He smoothed a crumpled piece of vellum against his thigh and tilted it toward me. “Seems like a diagram of the island.”
It was only a partial, but the design was still clear: the circular seawalls, the coil of the Grand Rue. But another path stretched across the city, leading to the sea wall and branching through the town. I traced the line with my finger. “Sewer system, maybe?”