The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)
By: Heidi Heilig
Sure enough, as we made our way up the Grand Rue in our finery, people stared as we passed, their eyes dark pits in pale faces. As usual, Kashmir drew the most attention; he walked with his head high, striking in his red jacket and his black boots, seeming not to notice the glances—not even the ones I cast from under the hood of my cloak.
But as we neared the castle, the sound of music drifted to my ears, providing a welcome distraction, and when we reached the square, I gasped at the sight. The town had gathered under the velvet sky to hold a celebration in honor of the king. Bonfires roared on the corners, reaching to the sky to scatter embers like confetti. A giant pig turned on a spit in front of the cathedral, and tables groaned with pastries and cheeses, sausage and puddings, and platters of stewed fruit and nuts. Men in rich velvets danced with women gowned in shimmering sea silk, and musicians made their instruments sing: violins and pipes, lyres and flutes, tambourines and bells and a drum half the height of a very tall man.
And the chateau—so different tonight! Light glowed in each of the tall arched windows, and the portcullis was guarded by two men in blue-and-red uniforms. Torchlight glinted off the tips of their pikes. They saluted as we approached, striking the ground with the butts of their weapons. One escorted us across the bailey toward the great hall, though I could have guessed our destination; bright light and music spilled from the open archway. I hesitated outside, tangled in my memories of the morning. When I finally stepped through the doorway, I couldn’t help but stare.
The smell of decay, the huge wolf, the dead man . . . all were gone. The enormous hearths bracketing the room were crackling, not with dry leaves but with merry flames, and rich tapestries undulated in the warm current of air. In the corner, a young man strummed a lute, while on the ceiling, the painted mermaids splashed in bright pools. A hundred candles dripped fire from each chandelier, and the long table was laid at one end with porcelain plates rimmed in gold.
How had it all changed so fast? Even the army of servants carrying platters to the sideboard couldn’t have cleaned it up so quickly. The floor was polished, the broken chairs restored. It was like magic—it was magic, wrought by some trick of Navigation.
I stood, dizzy in the sudden warmth and the unexpected luxury. Was this how myths originated? Was Navigation where rumors of magic began?
“Welcome! Welcome!” At the head of the table, Crowhurst stood to greet us. For all the pomp, he had changed out of the blue dress coat and into a twentieth-century jacket and tie—something from his own era, perhaps—though he still wore his crown and the livery collar. The thick chain gleamed in the low light, and as he approached, I noticed that, rather than a kingly pendant, the device hanging from the chain was an old copper flask stamped with a scrolling Greek key design. He thrust out his hand. “Captain Slate! Pleasure to see you again. And Nixie. Nixie, such a joy.”
I tried to keep my face neutral. “Your Majesty.”
“None of that, none of that!” The man wrinkled his nose and flapped his hands as though the word had left an odor in the air. “Call me Donald.”
“I know who you are,” Slate muttered.
I shot him a look, but Blake stepped in. “They call you Grand l’Un in the city,” he said smoothly.
“I know! It gave me a bit of a shock to hear that name, but apparently it means Great One in the local dialect. I suppose King Donald doesn’t sound quite right. And you know Dahut.” She nodded at his gesture, and when her eyes met mine, I was glad to see a glint of familiarity. Then Crowhurst turned to Kashmir and extended his hand. “And . . . ?”
I made the introductions. Blake bowed at the waist like a gentleman, and Kashmir was all charm, bending low over the princess’s wrist and coaxing out a smile. Crowhurst greeted them both warmly—if he was surprised I’d brought guests, he did not show it.
After the formalities, Crowhurst slid into his chair and picked up a bottle. “Come,” he said, tipping it into the cut crystal glasses. Under his fingers, I read the label: CHTEAU D’YQUEM, 1811. “Let’s have a toast!”
I took a glass, trying to keep my hand from shaking. In 2011, the papers had reported the sale of a two-hundred-year-old bottle of Chateau d’Yquem; it had gone for more than a hundred thousand dollars, making it one of the most expensive wines ever sold. It sparkled in the light from the candles. “What are we toasting?”
“New beginnings,” Crowhurst said, setting down the bottle and raising his own glass. We all followed suit. “And new endings too.”
My mouth was dry. I took a sip—the liquid was sweet and crisp. On all our travels to various eras, I’d never once considered trying the wine.
But Kashmir did not bring his glass to his lips. “New beginnings,” he muttered as we drank. “Is that why you’ve crowned yourself king of a fairy tale?”
“Ah, that has more to do with new endings,” Crowhurst said with a small smile. “You know how the story used to go—the town flooded, the people drowned. Becoming king was the best way to change the legend.”
Blake stared at Crowhurst with deep fascination. “You’re trying to save the town?”