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

 

Then I saw the Temptation gleaming like fool’s gold on the black water, and my anger returned. The ship was hers too; everything was hers. The room where I slept, the life she had saved . . . had she created it in the first place? And even now, my heart. All hers.

 

I was not a jealous man—it wouldn’t bother me at all if only I had something of my own. So what was mine? The coat I wore? Bought with stolen gold. The money in my pocket? Taken from the harbormaster. I pulled out the handful of tarnished silver; it gleamed dully in the moonlight. I cast the coins into the harbor like dice, like bones. They tumbled into the water and I watched the ripples disappear as though they’d never been.

 

What would Nix do if she learned how to change the past? The fact that I might not remember was not a comfort to me. But I was a man from nowhere, with nothing to offer her. Maybe I would be easy to forget. I stared at the Temptation, listening to the waves assault the walls of the city, but I couldn’t bring myself to climb the gangplank. Instead, I continued down the pier to board the Dark Horse.

 

I did it just to spite her captain. Though the yacht was sleek and rich, I didn’t want to keep anything Crowhurst had touched. But I hated the man—his smug face, the smokescreen of generosity that clouded his machinations, and most of all, the fact that he had brought us here.

 

Ready to do damage, I barged into his cabin, but I stopped just past the stair. The room was beautiful—teak and chrome, with wide windows, soft bunks, and a wooden desk. But the shelves were covered with ticking clocks.

 

There were dozens of them, of all makes and models. They hissed and whispered, cursed and hushed. The movement of their hands was like the scuttling of insects, and none were set to the same time. My skin crawled; it took all my willpower not to turn around and race back to the Temptation.

 

To steady my nerves, I started picking locks—cupboards, drawers, and ah, the liquor cabinet. A sip of scotch settled me further. I thumbed through his bookshelf: The Odyssey, The Voyage of Vasco de Gama, The Last Flight of Amelia Earhart. The Odyssey I knew—the myth of Odysseus—Nix spoke of it often. The other names were only vaguely familiar—I was sure she had mentioned them, but I couldn’t remember why. No matter. Calmer now, I pawed through Crowhurst’s closet, trying on his finest jacket—combed wool and black buttons, too short in the arms.

 

I was not careful. I didn’t bother watering the scotch, and I tossed the jacket in a heap in the corner. I even spat a clove onto the floor. It was reckless; it was freeing. I had left my mark. I had been there—I existed.

 

Taking the bottle with me, I sat at Crowhurst’s desk. I had half a mind to scratch my name into its glossy surface. Instead, I riffled through a stack of papers weighed down by a rough chunk of stone: maps, all in red, just like the one Dahut had given us back in New York. Boring. Next, I went through his drawers for coins; in the top one, I found a gold watch—mercifully wound down—a fancy pen . . . and his logbook.

 

Should I write a curse in the margins? Flipping through the book, I glared at that ugly black writing. My hand slowed when I recognized her name.

 

There was a lamp on the table. I flicked the switch and read.

 

Why name a child Nix? A cipher, nullity, oblivion. Portentous.

 

If life is a game, is she my opponent?

 

Mathematical calculations spattered the rest of the page, side by side with a snippet of terrible poetry.

 

Nix, the word, means nothing, or just no.

 

But there is something I must learn, or know—

 

Will my choices cause her soon to go . . . ?

 

My lip curled back. The man’s mind was clearly diseased. Shuddering, I took another swig of scotch as I turned the page.

 

The game we call chess is a simplistic version of the Great Game which I shall call COSMIC CHESS the game that is played over and over with infinite patience and no malice. God against the devil, and humanity the pawn.

 

Each piece has a proscribed set of movements—fate? But the hand moving them—free will?

 

The rules are complex, but the ending is the same: the game ends when either side captures the king. When the king is threatened, the queen must move.

 

Queen: Nix.

 

King: Grandlon?

 

That was crossed out. Beneath he’d written:

 

King: James.

 

I hold the king in check.

 

I AM A COSMIC BEING.

 

That last sentence was written in letters two inches high and pressed so hard into the page that they marked the next three. But below, the handwriting changed again—precise and neat:

 

James has three days; on the fourth, the Friendship sails without him and the game is over. Day One: My Arrival. Day Two: My Return.