The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)
By: Heidi Heilig
I stared up at him—at his jaw as it clenched, at the memory of sorrow in the curve of his lips. But before I could respond, a knock came at the door. Kash opened it, and Rotgut handed over a little plate of cold pancakes, sandwiched around some raspberry jam.
Kash nodded his thanks and passed it over to me; I ate in silence. Kashmir’s hand was still on the door, but he lingered on the threshold. Suddenly, more than anything, I wanted him to stay. The words bubbled in the back of my throat, like the start of a laugh, but he spoke first. “What was mine like?”
I swallowed the bite I was chewing. “Your what?”
“My map.” Kashmir stole a glance at me, almost as if he couldn’t bear to look. “You and the captain must have used a map to travel to Vaadi Al-Maas. I looked for my city once, in an atlas at the Brooklyn library, but I was never able to find it. Do you remember the one you used?”
“I do.” It surprised me, how quickly it came back to mind. I’d last seen it nearly three years ago, as we’d sailed away through the briny waters of the Persian Gulf. Had I known somehow, even then, how much it would change my life? “It was from the early eighteenth century. Lamp black and walnut oil on vellum. A Frenchman made it.”
“A Frenchman?”
“He’d read Scheherazade’s tales—they’d just been translated from the Arabic—and went to visit. He was . . . inspired by reality, rather than constrained by it.” I put the plate down on the wooden box beside his bed, nestled beside tiny treasures—a silver pillbox, a perfume bottle, a scattering of coins. “You won’t find Vaadi Al-Maas on any modern maps.”
“Because it was a myth.”
I bit my lip. “Yes.”
“Then what am I?”
“Kashmir—”
“If you can create a myth, why not a man? Am I merely a figment of some cartographer’s imagination? Or did you make me up when you arrived?”
“No, Kash. I . . . No.” I stood and reached for him, taking his shoulders in my hands; they were warm and solid, as they always were. Could I have ever imagined anyone like Kashmir? “Don’t say that. You are . . . you’re very real to me.”
But it wasn’t what he needed to hear. He shook his head. “I need to be more than what is reflected in your eyes. Otherwise . . .” For a moment, he was at a loss for words, and the confusion of it made him look so young.
“Otherwise what?”
“Otherwise what am I without you?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
KASHMIR
An old story had crept into my head. It was a story about a rogue, like me. But he was a marionette carved from crooked timber. He longed to be a real boy, and so he learned to be good—whatever that meant. He had been a myth: an Italian allegory only meant to scold the poor.
Nix had taught me that.
Out in the hall, I leaned against the door. Behind it, she slept. She’d been sapped, the coals of her eyes burning low; she needed to rest. And I needed to think. It was hard to do with her near.
I tried to clear my head. Still questions stole in. What was I made of? Who had carved me? All my life, I’d clung to the fact that my mind and body were my own—after all, I’d had nothing else to my name. But I’d never dreamed that someone else might be holding my strings.
And what of the memories Nix had claimed to have? The memories I was missing? Was my mind so malleable a stranger could change it? Were all of my thoughts now suspect? The wounds and the wonders I’d carried from my youth—the dreams and desires I’d fostered for my future . . . the love and longing for the girl who’d stolen my heart? My hand went to the lock at my belt, a comforting weight: solid, real. I’d worn it since the day on the bridge. At the memory, I sighed, catching the scent of her hair. It was sweet as water—fresh, not salt. Why did it make me weak in the knees?
No—no. Of all things, I would not doubt my love. I told myself that as I climbed abovedecks.
The angle of the sun surprised me—it felt later than midafternoon. The harbor gates had shut again. Petals spun on the still water, tumbled down from the street. The Dark Horse lay in the harbor, sleek as a seal; a suspicious group of townsfolk had gathered on the wharf to stare at the king’s steed. I shook my head grudgingly. Crowhurst was bold, I’d grant him that.
Mr. Hart was waiting at the starboard rail, stiff-backed as any gentleman. “Is Miss Song . . . well?”
I knew what he meant, but I wasn’t going to answer such a roundabout question. I pushed the clove I’d been chewing into my cheek and gave him a wide-eyed look. “Well, what?”
He grimaced, adjusting his grip on the brass; in the cold, his knuckles were white. “What do you make of her claims about the king?”
There it was. I considered my words. “Her memory is unquestionable, and she doesn’t lie often.”
“Oh?” Mr. Hart’s face was bland but behind his eyes . . . was that pain?
“And when she does, she does it poorly. Many tells.” I sighed. “You know this. You watch her nearly as closely as I do.”
The corner of his mouth turned up, his expression rueful. “She’s better at keeping secrets.”