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

 

 

“And the climate’s wrong for silkworms.” I drew a single thread from the basket; it was at least a yard long, and the thickness of a spiderweb. “It’s sea silk,” I said, breathless as the stories came to me. “Or sea wool, in ancient Rome. Apparently a glove woven from it could fit inside a thimble. The Egyptians called it byssus and used it to wrap the bodies of their god kings.”

 

He reached out in wonder, running a finger along the strand. “But what is it?”

 

“The Chinese sometimes called it mermaid’s hair.”

 

We stared for a moment at the pile of silvery fiber. Now it made sense to me—the luxury of imported spices and fine fashion on the Grand Rue—and I could nearly hear Blake’s thoughts as we both considered the meaning of the fishtails nailed to the boathouse wall.

 

“Right,” he said briskly, wiping his hand on his jacket. “Let’s keep looking for that passage.”

 

Behind the fish market was the boathouse proper. The floor here was cracked; the flagstones rocked underfoot. Along the walls facing the dock, weak sunlight crept through the doorframes of the loading gates, hanging heavy on their hinges, but the light faded quickly into gloom. Haphazard crates made a dark maze out of the wide room; in corners, coils of rope and buckets of hardened tar gathered dust waiting for repairs. A rotting dinghy lay in the middle of the floor, its hull stove in by rocks. Had its crew been able to bail long enough to return to port? Or had the boat floated in, upside down and empty, on the tide?

 

We searched the walls, looking for a door, secret or otherwise, but found nothing of interest until we reached the back corner. “Good god!”

 

At Blake’s shout, I leapt back; by his feet was a child’s skull. No . . .

 

“What on earth?”

 

At first I’d thought it was human, but the teeth were like an eel’s: rows of slender needles. I picked it up and held it to the light. The bone was thin, almost translucent, like the nacreous scales of a fish.

 

My palms were slick with sweat, but Blake took it from me gently, turning it toward the light. “There are more things in heaven and earth,” he breathed.

 

“That’s definitely not Yorick.” I shuddered—I couldn’t help it. But Blake was staring in wonder. “You take very easily to such foreign waters.”

 

His answering smile was a little ghoulish in the torchlight. “I wouldn’t be much of an explorer if I found myself frightened by the unknown. What about you, Miss Song? Doesn’t mystery tempt you?”

 

“I’ve always loved seeing what was just over the horizon. Still . . .” I considered the skull as he tucked it back into the corner. “I think I preferred the secret beaches and the hidden waterfalls.”

 

“Perhaps you and I could go back to Hawaii someday.” He straightened his jacket. “Do you still have a map that would work?”

 

“Honolulu is my native time. I can get there through the Margins. Of course, after . . . after what happened, I’d likely be recognized. I couldn’t go back without—”

 

“Without changing the past?”

 

“Without a disguise, I was going to say.”

 

“Ah.” Blake was watching me again. The little pool of torchlight cupped us, drawing us close together, and the warmth of his body was comforting in the chill. Then it struck me—he’d said “you and I.”

 

I blinked at him; he smiled. Abruptly, I took a step back onto the uneven flagstones; I had no warning at all before they cracked and crumbled away under my feet.

 

I fell right after, down into the dark.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 

 

“Miss Song?”

 

“Hnnngh.”

 

“Can you speak? Say something!”

 

As the sharp pain of my landing faded, I squinted up through sudden tears at the bright blur of the hole in the ceiling—which had recently been the floor. I had fallen straight down and landed in a heap.

 

“Miss Song!”

 

“Yes.” The word hissed out of me; my ribs had hit something hard—a stone? No, a brick. I touched my side gingerly; it throbbed, but the pain wasn’t acute. “I think . . .” Slowly I straightened out my legs, pushing aside bits of the broken flagstone; though I was shaken and sore, everything seemed to work. “I’m all right.”

 

I clambered to my feet; as I did, my hip twanged. I winced, putting my hand against my side. There was a hard lump there—the gun. Ugh. What a bruise that would make.

 

Brushing dirt from my clothes, I found something wet had wicked through the wool of my cloak. The sandy ground was quite damp here, so close to the harbor—and under the fish market. My torch had been snuffled out in the fall. Wrinkling my nose, I sniffed at the stain, but thankfully it was only saltwater, though it had wet my book of matches.