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

 

 

Crowhurst took a deep breath, straightening his crown, regaining his composure. He even forced a smile. “Shall we all go back to the castle?”

 

“I . . . uh. I have to . . . uh.” My whole body was stiff. My mind was blank. All I could think was that I didn’t want to go anywhere with Crowhurst and his guards.

 

“Chores,” Blake said then, nodding toward the Temptation.

 

“We have to feed the dog,” Kashmir added smoothly. At the mention of food, Billie licked her chops.

 

“I see.” Crowhurst searched my face; was that doubt in his own? “Well. I suppose I’ll see you all later.”

 

I only nodded. Crowhurst led Dahut away, the guards falling in before and behind. The fishermen parted ranks around them, but the tension was still thick, and a small part of me wondered if we should have taken Crowhurst up on his offer of escort. I slid my hand into my pocket; the gun was still there, but it was useless in my hands. “Blake?”

 

“Miss Song?”

 

“Can you take this? Just in case?” I slipped the derringer out of my pocket; the silver barrel gleamed in the sunlight.

 

Reluctantly, he tucked it into his jacket. “What’s going on, Miss Song?”

 

“Let’s go to the ship,” I murmured, ushering the boys up the gangplank. As we ducked into the cabin, I cast one more glance toward Crowhurst as he crossed the wharf, only to find he was looking back over his shoulder at me.

 

Shuddering, I shut and locked the door behind us. Billie trotted up to the captain’s bunk, and Kashmir took a position near the port window to keep an eye on the fishermen. Blake stood in the center of the room. “Your mother told me I could find you on the ship,” he said with a frown. “She didn’t mention it would be Crowhurst’s ship.”

 

“It was a bit of a last-minute thing,” I said. “Dahut was trying to escape.”

 

“So you two stopped her?”

 

“Not exactly—well, yes,” I said. “But we actually have to help her.”

 

“Help her escape?” Blake’s look was incredulous. “I thought you wanted to stay. I thought you wanted to learn if it was possible to change the past.”

 

“I do—I did. But . . .” I bit my lip. “Not like this. Not from him.”

 

“Crowhurst steals her memories!” Kashmir abandoned his post at the porthole. “Makes her forget things. He’s not a good man!”

 

“What on earth do you mean, Mr. Firas?”

 

“Dahut told us she read something about it in her diary. Here.” I pulled the book from my pocket, flipping through. It was easy to find the page she had mentioned—the page where Crowhurst had written his version of the myth. The book folded oddly around the missing pages. I ran my finger down the cut edges. They were sliced very close to the spine, as though with a razor.

 

Or a very sharp knife.

 

My breath came faster as I remembered the king’s cut throat. No wonder Crowhurst had not seemed shocked to hear of the man’s death. But after Dahut’s revelation, it didn’t surprise me either. I ran my fingers over the page, trying to look past his version of the story to see what was underneath. Squinting, I tilted the diary toward the porthole, letting the wintery sunlight illuminate the indentations on the paper. “‘Father brought James to . . . the treasury?” I furrowed my brow. “Made him drink from . . . from the flask. . . . And now he . . . remembers nothing.’”

 

Blake shook his head, disbelieving. “You’re saying Crowhurst has some sort of elixir that takes away memories?”

 

“Lethe water,” I murmured, only half listening. “But who is James?”

 

Kash peered over my shoulder. “Wasn’t that the name in Crowhurst’s logbook, amira?”

 

“It was, wasn’t it?” Chewing my cheek, I handed him the diary and went to the desk. I’d put the logbook there, beside my father’s empty coffee cups. I found the page Kash had showed me last night. “King: James,” I read quietly. “I hold the king in check.”

 

Blake was frowning. “Mr. Firas, didn’t you mention that the treasury was a pit beneath the castle?”

 

“Baleh,” Kash said, but I ignored them, paging back.

 

James has three days; on the fourth, the Friendship sails without him. A thought was forming in my head, a question bothering me. I studied the line, trying to listen to my softest thoughts past the sound of the waves on the seawall and the breeze in the lines. The words fell from my lips on a breath. “Gwen said there was a second man. And they left from the Port of London, in 1748.”

 

“A second man, Miss Song?”

 

“Crowhurst told me he was looking for other Navigators.” I swore. “The harbormaster even told me his name the first day I was here!”

 

“Whose name, amira?”

 

“Cook,” I said, stabbing the page with a finger. “James Cook. The man in the pit.”

 

“James Cook?” Blake’s eyes were round. “Captain James Cook?”

 

Kashmir frowned. “Was he the first European in America?”