The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)
By: Heidi Heilig
It was a circular hole lined with stone, very regular, like an enormous well, though there was no water in it. A stairwell had been built into the side, spiraling down into the gloom. At the bottom of the oubliette, something gleamed, like the toothy fish of the deep sea.
Mr. Hart followed me down. The stone steps were wet with condensation, the air cool and damp on my skin; I could still taste the tang of the sea. As we descended, the glow from the lamp illuminated the riches in the pit: crowns and goblets, coins and platters, bracelets and rings. Any other day I would have lined my pockets with the best of it and returned above, triumphant, but it wasn’t gold that Crowhurst was trying to keep here.
The light was gilded now, brighter. Still, it took me a moment to find what I was looking for—in fact, Mr. Hart noticed him first.
“My god,” he whispered, raising the lantern. On a pile of quilts and furs, a tall man slept. He was young—perhaps only a few years older than me—and unshaven, though he appeared in good health. His clothes were well made: a fine jacket with horn buttons, dark woolen britches . . . and manacles, fastened around both ankles, the chain passing through a ring in the floor. “Is this him?” Mr. Hart said, leaning close. “Is this the man who touched off the theft of Hawaii?”
At his words, Cook stirred, then startled. With a rattle of chains, he scrambled to his feet, holding up one hand against my light. “Who are you?”
“Your saviors,” I replied. “We’ve come to take you back to London.”
“London.” He blinked. “Was I ever in London?”
I froze then, unsure—had Nix been wrong in her guess, or was this only the effect of the Lethe water? But Mr. Hart spoke. “Are you Captain James Cook?”
The man looked at him askance. “That is my name, but I am no captain.” His eyes grew distant then. “Though I’ve always dreamed of going to sea.”
“It’s your lucky day.” Crouching, I took hold of one of the manacles. “There’s a ship waiting for us at the dock. We’ll get you out of here. Mr. Hart, bring the light closer.” Focused as I was on unlocking the irons, I didn’t notice that he hadn’t obeyed until the first manacle fell away. “Mr. Hart?”
His response was a long time coming, but once he spoke, I wished he hadn’t. “Maybe we should reconsider.”
My hands froze, as did my blood. Not now, not here, not alone with a man who’d lost his past and another willing to risk his future. “Let me remind you, Mr. Hart, that if Cook is not allowed to find Hawaii, you will never be standing there, able to ask me not to let him do so.”
“Did you know he pretends to be a god, too? On his last voyage.”
Cook started at him. “Do I?”
“It brings you to ruin,” Mr. Hart whispered in the dark.
“Be that as it may.” I took hold of the second manacle, trying to keep my fingers steady. “On this particular voyage, you’ll go upstairs, out the door, and to the docks via the sewer.” I spoke as though by telling the story, I could make it come true. “Mr. Hart has a map. He’ll show you the way.”
“Mr. Firas—”
The manacle opened. Cook stepped free. I stood, turning slowly to face Mr. Hart. “You’ll show him the way to the Temptation,” I told him, but he shook his head. There was anguish on his face.
“I can’t.”
“Then I will. Where’s that map?” I reached for Mr. Hart, but he batted my hand aside, so I punched him in the nose.
It was only a left hook, but he stumbled back against the slick wall of the oubliette; I pressed the advantage, taking him by the shoulder and plucking the sketchbook from his pocket. “She is not philosophy,” I growled. “I am not an ethical question. I will not risk my existence to satisfy your curiosity.”
“You think that’s all it is?” He wrenched out of my grip, wiping blood from his face, but I wasn’t in the mood for questions.
Taking Cook by the arm, I flipped through the book to the map of the sewers—could he use it to reach the ship if I went on to find Dahut? “Come, James.” I shoved him in front of me, up the stairs. “We have to hurry.”
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Hart said, but that’s not what stopped me in my tracks. Rather, it was a sound—a little click, like the second hand of a clock, slicing time.
My throat went dry. Very slowly, I passed Cook the sketchbook. He stared at me, bewildered, but he took it. “Go to the ship,” I whispered to him. “Nix will meet you there.”
“Don’t move,” Mr. Hart warned, his voice echoing up the hollow well.
Slowly, I turned to face him. His chin was high, his arm raised, and the barrel of the gun a silver iris around a deep black pupil. It was a familiar sight, but not exactly the same as it was in Hawaii—his pale face was paler still, and his hand actually shook as it held the pistol.
And of course this time I had no Kevlar vest.
What did I have? Words, nothing else. At least I stood between him and Cook; he might not have hesitated if he was aiming at the erstwhile captain. “Make the other choice, Mr. Hart.”
“I’m trying to,” he replied. “I can’t make the same mistake twice.”
I kept my eyes on his face, and I found regret, but no mercy. “Cook?”