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

 

 

I folded my arms, trying to tamp down on my fears. But I had to think—two guards at the door—and how many more between the suite and the front gate? If only I’d kept the gun. Was there a solution from the myths I knew? My mind threw me ideas like a dealer throws cards. Sleeping powders or potions . . . even the Tarnkappe, the Welsh cloak of concealment. But all of my maps were on the ship. I had no way to Navigate to the Isle of Britain, much less back again. How could I—

 

The crash of glass shattered my reflections. Slate was standing by the broken window, glaring down. Standing by his shoulder, I peeked into the bailey, thirty feet below. Guards were gathering around a battered chair, shards of glass glittering in the light of their torches.

 

Slate gave them the finger and stalked away from the window. “Plan C then,” he said to me. “You can do this one.”

 

Outside, the sky was thick with massing clouds, nearly obscuring the sun. Cold wind from the open window whipped my hair around my face, and I could hear the distant sound of the waves rising against the walls. A selfish thought—maybe it was best that Crowhurst was keeping an eye on Dahut and the key to the sea gates.

 

Disgusted with myself, I turned from the window. What did we have to work with? I could Navigate away, as could Slate, but that didn’t help the rest of the crew—nor would I be willing to leave Cook and the boys behind.

 

But perhaps they were already back at the ship—or at least out of the castle, in the sewers. . . .

 

“There’s a way through the sewers if we can just get everyone to the cellar.”

 

Rotgut cocked his head. “What, like a tunnel?”

 

“It leads down to the dock.”

 

He grimaced, half amused. “Well. There’s a much closer entrance than the cellar.”

 

“What do you mean?” I followed his eyes to the door of the little room off the parlor that concealed the water closet. “Oh. Oh god, gross.”

 

Still, it was the best option we had. I went to the door to look inside. The room was small and square, furnished only with the primitive toilet—a polished board with a cutout in the center—and a set of wooden hooks for robes. It was medieval custom to hang one’s best dresses in the water closet—the garderobe, they called it—in the hopes the smell would keep moths away. Here, the twice-daily tides prevented much smell, thankfully. I peered down through the seat into the dank circular hole that was, indeed, an entrance to the sewers. Below that, the light faded; it was a long way down.

 

Slate stove in the seat, the boards falling away into the dark, and Bee, Rotgut, and I stripped the bedding from each room, ripping it to long shreds and weaving the pieces into a thick rope. We worked as quickly as we could—we had to get out before the sea gates opened and the tide filled the tunnels—but it was equally important to make sure the rope was sturdy.

 

I listened for the bells that tracked the tide as it rose and began to fall again, and I breathed a little easier when high tide passed without incident. The sun was far below the horizon by the time we finished the rope, but after that things went fast. The crew was used to clambering over the rigging. Lin was the only one who needed help, so Slate went down first, boldly into the dark. Once he shouted the all clear, we pulled up the rope, made a harness for her, and lowered my mother down into his waiting arms.

 

The rest of us followed, trying our best to avoid touching the dank scum on the stone walls. It wasn’t hard to recall the map that Blake had drawn, and I led the crew quickly, safely through the tunnels. I could hear the washing of the waves on the gates, and I envisioned a wall of water sweeping us away any moment. When we emerged at last from the warehouse, relief flooded through me.

 

Overhead, the clouds were dark and lowering; the wind was knotting them into a storm. The harbor was dark, the fishermen nowhere to be seen—only a fool would brave this sea in a skiff. But the wharf was not entirely deserted. As we approached the Temptation, my heart stuttered at the sight of the man standing on the stern. I recognized his face from paintings—the hooked nose, the piercing eyes.

 

I realized then that I’d held out a slip of hope that I’d been wrong about Crowhurst’s plot, that the responsibility of rescuing Cook would not fall to me. One of the greatest navigators to have lived—a man who found worlds only to help destroy them. Had Blake been right? Should we have left him in the pit? I could not risk it—but I was not proud of that fact.

 

As we reached the gangplank, Slate recognized him too, and his feelings were much less mixed. “Good goddamn,” he said as came down the pier. “Captain Cook!”

 

Cook regarded Slate, confusion on his face. “Why does everyone call me captain?”