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

 

 

Kashmir seemed to coil in his chair, but Crowhurst was watching the captain, whose hand had stopped, the wine halfway to his lips.

 

In the doorway stood a strange woman dressed in a simple linen gown. She was clearly not local; her face was delicate and made pale by the black hair hanging loose, like a curtain, to her waist. She was Asian, Chinese most likely, like me.

 

Or rather . . . half of me.

 

Slate’s glass shattered on the stone floor. I felt the wine splash my hem, but I didn’t even glance down.

 

“What do you think, Captain?” Crowhurst’s voice seemed to echo in my ears, from very far away. “Genius or madness? Or does it matter either way?”

 

My father did not answer. He was white and weak as smoke; his hands shook, but not for opium, not this time. He stood stiffly, quietly, and then, suddenly, with a sob like a shout, he stumbled around the table, glass crunching under his feet.

 

The woman was smiling.

 

My mother was smiling.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER NINETEEN

 

 

I don’t know how long they stood there—my mother and my father—compressed beyond fusion. I was on the perimeter, on the event horizon, where time seemed to stop. And then she looked at me, and all of the air was pulled from the room and the gravity was so strong it was nearly impossible to break away.

 

But I managed.

 

My chair fell over with a crash, but I didn’t look back; I was already through the closest door and into an unfamiliar corridor. I took a turn at random, then another, then a left—perhaps it was a right. I stopped paying attention; my only goal was escape. I saw an open archway then, and burst out into the bailey, past guards who watched with impassive eyes. The cold air seized my lungs. Finally I slowed, coughing, panting. My legs shook. The world spun. The air tasted like torch fire and frost. I sank to my knees on the rough granite cobbles.

 

It was impossible.

 

But he’d done it.

 

But it was impossible.

 

But there she was.

 

Joss had told Slate he would see Lin again someday—and so he had. A laugh clawed its way up my throat. I hadn’t known that I would too! We’d both thought it would be in Honolulu in 1868, on the map he’d sought all my life. The map he’d found and lost.

 

The map Crowhurst had taken.

 

My god.

 

And all this time, we had thought she was dead.

 

My gut twisted like a rag wrung out. What had I done, giving Crowhurst the map of New York?

 

I wrapped my arms around my shoulders—I was shaking; was I cold? And there was an odd feeling, or a lack of feeling, a numbness behind my ears and along my scalp and at the tips of my fingers. I was breathing much too fast. I closed my eyes and tried to slow down, watching colors like fireworks swirl and fade behind my lids.

 

“Nixie . . .”

 

I whirled around; Crowhurst put his palms up, placating. Though the bailey was wide, the walls were high, and I felt trapped with him so close. For a moment, I wanted to run again, all the way back to the ship.

 

Instead I pushed myself to my feet, thrumming like a mast under too much sail. “You did this,” I growled, starting toward him, fists clenched. “You stole her.”

 

“I saved her.”

 

“You what?”

 

“I saved her life! Nixie—”

 

“Stop calling me that!” My shout echoed off the walls of the keep.

 

Crowhurst took a step back, concern on his face. “She needed help,” he said softly. “Penicillin.”

 

I shuddered to a stop. The words made no sense at first. The emotion was still coming in waves over my head; I took a deep breath, trying to keep an even keel. “You saved her. . . .”

 

“We did. You and I.”

 

“Me?”

 

“You got the map into my hands, and I went back to help. Your own father couldn’t do it,” he went on. “He told me so the night we met. He said he didn’t want to risk losing you.”

 

“He said that?” My heart trembled in my chest—a bird against the cage. I had doubted him, but he had chosen me; in the end, he always had. “Did he . . . did Slate ask you to go to her?”

 

“He wasn’t in any sort of condition to make requests, but I saw a need. I recognized his pain. You must understand,” he said, his voice soft. “I lost my family too.”

 

I stared at him, not comprehending. “But . . . they’re still alive on your timeline,” I stammered. Why did he look away? “I read that, in the articles. They waited for you—they’re waiting. All you’d have to do is go back.”

 

His face paled, and I saw his throat move as he swallowed. But before he could speak, I heard my father’s voice. “Nixie?”