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

 

A wave of dizziness hit me again, not as gentle this time. When it passed, I struggled to sit up. Kashmir put his hand behind my back to support me. “Slowly, slowly.”

 

I shook my head—the roaring sound was still there, rising and falling. But it wasn’t only in my ears. “Are people . . . cheering?”

 

There was music too; the sound of drums and some kind of wind instrument, a flute or a fife, distant but coming closer. Kashmir helped me to my feet, and I tottered over to the window; through it, I could see a press of backs as people lined the street outside. The shopkeeper was standing in the open doorway, her attention split between her strange customers and the excitement outside.

 

“Pardon,” I said to her. “Qu’est-ce qu’il y a là bas? What is it, out there?”

 

“C’est Grand l’Un,” she replied, giving me a once-over, her eyes suspicious.

 

“Grand l’Un? The Great One?”

 

“Oui,” she said slowly, as though it should be obvious. “Le roi revient!”

 

“The king?” I asked, unsure that I’d heard her correctly. “What king?”

 

But Kashmir cocked his head. “The king of Ker-Ys, amira.”

 

For a moment I thought he was joking, but he didn’t laugh when I did. Then Blake nodded his agreement, and my knees went weak all over again.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

 

 

We stood outside the bakery in a thick scrum of people. Adults lifted toddlers onto their shoulders; children were ushered to the front where they could see. It was warmer now, or perhaps it only seemed so in the crowd. I swayed on my feet, still weak, but in the press of bodies, there was no way we could make it back to the ship.

 

Kashmir supported me on the left and Blake on my right, and they were pushed even closer as the crowd surged forward. The excitement rose around us and people started to chant. “Grand l’Un! Grand l’Un!”

 

My skin went cold, but the cheering reached its peak, ringing against the clear blue sky. Petals rained down in the crisp winter air—cherry, and gourdon, and lily of the valley; where had they come from, so early in the season? And then, there he was, waving from the wide window of a gilded carriage, the king of Ker-Ys: Donald Crowhurst.

 

His livery collar caught the afternoon sun, as did the golden crown on his head, and the red satin sash around his shoulders was very dashing. His eyes glimmered with joy as they swept across the faces of his people. He smiled down at the crowd, every inch a king; it struck me, then, that this was the welcome he would have had if he’d returned home triumphant from his race around the world. But this was a far greater feat. I willed him to look at me, but he did not glance my way, and my voice, shouting his real name, was lost in the roar of the crowd.

 

As the carriage passed us, I saw her—Dahut. She wore deep red velvet, her black hair bound with gold, and she sat beside Crowhurst like his shadow. But unlike the king, she did not wave at the crowd. Her eyes were fixed on a point above our heads, and there was something hard in them. I didn’t blame her—as she passed, the cheering faltered, and a few in the crowd surreptitiously made the sign of the fig. Why?

 

“Kashmir,” I said softly. “Do you recognize her?”

 

“The princess? We saw her in New York, yes.”

 

I turned to him, incredulous. “Kash. She wasn’t a princess then.”

 

He tilted his head in confusion. “She’s always been a princess.”

 

“What makes you say that?”

 

Kashmir took in the parade, the crowd, the huzzah. “Everyone says that.”

 

“Not everyone! Not me.” The carriage passed from view on the way toward the castle, and the crowd flooded the narrow street behind them, turning from spectators to participants in the parade. People streamed by, pushing, jostling, and then they were gone. Petals stirred on the cobbles; it felt like a dream.

 

“I don’t understand, amira.”

 

“There is no king in Ker-Ys,” I said. “I mean, there was no king. This morning.” My voice faltered as I heard the echo of my own words then, reverberating in my head, along with the cheering of the crowd fading up the street. “You don’t remember.”

 

“Miss Song.” Blake took my arm gently, leading me back toward the docks. “Perhaps you hit your head when you fell.”

 

“We were just inside the castle, Blake! It was abandoned!” I put my fingers on my temples and pressed, trying to soothe my aching head. “There was a . . . a wolf in the great hall. You shot it dead, and it was eating the man’s body—”

 

“A wolf?”

 

“This morning everything was different. I swear!” I tore away from them, crushing the petals under my heels to pace, trying to make sense of it all. “He did it. He changed the past. But the world hasn’t been unmade—only the memories of it. But how on earth—” I staggered, and Kash caught me.