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

 

“I’m not crazy,” I said. “I’m not.” Only when he nodded did I let him take my arm.

 

They led me toward the docks, and my heartbeat drummed at the base of my skull. In my head, a litany: he’d done it, he’d done it, he’d actually done it.

 

By all the gods, how? My father had never gone so far. If he had, would he have erased memories of me as easily as Crowhurst had erased the memories of the townspeople? Was this the sacrifice Joss had mentioned? I leaned on Kashmir, drawing comfort like warmth from his closeness. When I squeezed my eyes shut, I saw the madman’s pale face above the red ribbon at his throat.

 

When we reached the ship, Rotgut hailed us from the quarterdeck. He was on watch, lost inside a massive coat of mangy fur and oiled leather that made him look much fiercer than he actually was. His brows dove together as Kash helped me up the gangplank. “What’s wrong with her?”

 

“I’m fine,” I insisted. “I just feel a little dizzy.”

 

“You should have had some pancakes,” he said, tut-tutting.

 

I shrugged free of Kashmir’s grip. “Rotgut . . . what do you remember about this morning?”

 

“Aside from your lack of appreciation for fine cooking?” He folded his arms, the fur coat bristling around his shoulders. “The motorboat sticks in my mind.”

 

“The what?”

 

“Pretty flash.” Rotgut pointed his chin toward the starboard side. There, docked beside the Temptation, a sleek black powerboat was moored where the Fool had been. “Definitely fit for a king.”

 

“So you know he’s the king?”

 

“Was it supposed to be a secret? Because the people chanting ‘Hail to the king!’ might have spilled the beans.”

 

I rolled my eyes and went to look at the boat: a gorgeous thing of wood and fiberglass, completely out of place and time. “Wasn’t there anything odd about that, to you?”

 

“No.” Rotgut cocked his head. “Why?”

 

But I didn’t answer; my focus was on the yacht. Her name was painted in gold on her stern: Dark Horse—the name the newspapers had given Crowhurst, back in the race. “The dark horse and the wayward saint. That’s what the dead man said to me.”

 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Blake and Kashmir glance at each other, and a flash of irritation shot through me. But Rotgut jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll go make her some lunch.”

 

He squeezed through the hatch as Kash took my arm, his hand very gentle. “You should rest.”

 

Swallowing my annoyance, I let him lead me below, drifting behind him as though he was a tug. Rest was a good idea.

 

Kash ushered me into his cabin, his face a mask of concern. I curled up in his nest of pillows; he knelt at my side, arranging the cushions around me, tucking a blanket around my shoulders, brushing my hair back from my face. The silk smelled like clove and copper; I was warm and suddenly so tired, but I tried to connect one thought to the next. “It makes sense if you think about it,” I murmured. “If Navigation can actually change reality, the original memories of that old reality would have to change too.”

 

“My memories.” Kash sat back on his heels. “Mr. Hart’s memories. The people’s memories. But not yours.”

 

“Perhaps the fainting is a reaction to that.”

 

“You had a headache in New York,” he said. “Just before we met the princess. Is that what happens when another Navigator arrives?”

 

“Maybe so. Slate had one too. I wonder if he remembers the same past I do. Are Navigators immune somehow?” I bit my lip; the thoughts were started to flow together, like clouds massing before a storm, but Kashmir did not seem to share my excitement. “What? What’s wrong?”

 

“I don’t know, amira. Or perhaps I just don’t remember. But there are some things that should not be stolen.” He stood then. “I’ll go. You need your sleep, if you’re going to get us out of here tonight.”

 

“Tonight?” I sat back up. “No, Kash. We can’t leave, not yet. Not till I know how he did it!”

 

“You think he’ll tell you?”

 

“He has to—I have to know. And his letter said he would.” The letter I had given him, I did not add.

 

But Kashmir laughed, low and rueful. “You’re the smartest person I know. Surely you can see this. People do not offer great things without a great cost.”

 

“That’s not always true, Kash. Sometimes . . . sometimes people give freely without asking anything in return. Like you and me.”

 

He shook his head; he couldn’t meet my eyes. “Amira. We may not ask. But there is still a cost. You pay it too.”