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

 

 

“Fair enough,” he said gamely. “Your other dreams, then.”

 

I winked at him. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

 

His expression was wry. “I suppose that means I go first?”

 

“Bon courage, Mr. Hart.” I lifted my cup.

 

Mr. Hart took another thoughtful sip. “That first day I came to the ship, I dreamed—or I think I dreamed—that I had stayed in Hawaii instead. Not so unexpected, really. And it might only be wishful thinking. But it was a strange dream. Vivid. And a week later, I can’t shake it. What about you?”

 

I watched his right hand clench and loosen on the handle of the mug. There was something he was not telling me. No surprise there. But what to tell him, exactly? The words were hard to summon; odd, when the dream was so clear in my head. Draining my cup, I set it down firmly. “The night I came aboard, I dreamed I died instead.”

 

Surprise flickered across his face, like the shadow of a sparrow flying by above. “How?”

 

My hand crept to my neck—thankfully, it still held my head to my shoulders. I shuddered; I couldn’t stop it from happening. “Execution,” I said at last.

 

The muscles in his throat jerked. He was nervous, but his voice was steady. Still, he toyed with the mug. “With a gun?”

 

“A sword.” I could still feel it now, as soft as a whisper, as cold as the crescent moon. “Why do you ask?”

 

Mr. Hart’s answer was a long time coming. “In my dream, I . . . I killed someone, back in that cave above Nu‘uanu Valley.”

 

I ran my tongue over my teeth; the cider had left a sour aftertaste. “Your father?”

 

“No.” He stared at me, a lost look in his eyes. “It was you.”

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 

 

Alone in Kashmir’s bed, I slept too lightly to dream him there. My mind was still spinning; I tossed and turned as well. After a fitful hour, I gave up and opened my eyes. Before me was a poem; the page had been torn from a book and pinned to the wall with a silver tack. The edge of the paper fluttered with each breath. My eyes focused on the words . . . one of Rumi’s about love and insanity.

 

The words stirred something in my chest as the events of the morning came back to me. The swirl of petals, the dead man gutted, the cheering crowd, the stench of the wolf. If I hadn’t read Crowhurst’s letter, if I hadn’t known what to expect, I might think I was going mad. Or at least misremembering. After all, I had hit my head. I could still feel the bump—and the Mayo Clinic had listed head trauma as a factor in memory problems. Depression too. And of course that was heritable.

 

No. No. I would not end up like my father—I would not lose Kashmir. Not if Crowhurst could help me avoid it.

 

I twisted around in the silk cushions, trying to get comfortable, but the pistol jabbed my hip. I slipped my hand into my pocket and pulled it out, running my fingers over the scrollwork. The silver barrel gleamed in the low light. How could Blake have forgotten shooting the wolf? I frowned, struggling to open the chamber to check. It took me a few tries—I had never studied guns—but no, the bullets were gone.

 

Then again . . . we’d fired both before coming aboard in Hawaii.

 

And how would Slate have gotten bullets for a derringer? In modern New York, the gun would have been an antique, the bullets custom.

 

For one very odd moment, the world seemed to twist in around me, like the tentacles of a sea monster. Was I actually going insane, or had the captain reloaded the gun?

 

Scattering the pillows, I hauled myself to my feet, holding on to the doorframe as a sudden dizzy feeling ebbed. Then I shoved the gun back into my cloak and made my way upstairs.

 

The captain was still curled in his little alcove; I whispered his name, but he did not stir. On the floor beside the bed, I saw a congealing stack of untouched pancakes—Rotgut’s doing, certainly. I sighed, running my hand through the tangles of my hair. Had my father woken yet today? I had to remind myself that it wasn’t unusual, during the dark times, for him to skip meals and spend many hours in his bed—and it was better than him wandering the city and climbing the walls.

 

Quietly I searched the cabin, checking his sea chest, the desk, and finally the cupboard beneath it: there it was at the bottom, a leather case stamped with Blake’s initials. Inside, four bullets nestled in sleeves made for six.

 

I felt relieved—and silly, very silly—but why shouldn’t I have doubted? What Crowhurst had done was incredible. Unbelievable. What a power to have, so vast . . . and so dangerous. When the evidence of your eyes contravenes the memories in your head, where can you put your trust?