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

 

 

He stiffened, standing. “I didn’t ask for your forgiveness.”

 

“Then I don’t fear disappointing you.” I watched as he followed Crowhurst and Dahut toward the stairs, the light fading away like an ember flying up from a fire. I called after him, wanting to sound brave, but my voice rose like a ghost, soft and insubstantial. “Let’s hope you live long enough to regret this.”

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

 

 

Inside me, rage exploded, and a wild despair—then it sucked back inward, shrinking, collapsing under its weight into a cold black hole where my heart used to be. “Where is he?” I whispered. “Did he fall, or did he run?”

 

“I didn’t stay to watch,” Cook said, shifting on his feet. “He bade me come to the ship. The last I saw him, he was in the treasury.”

 

I turned with the mercury in my pocket and murder in my heart, ready to run all the way to the castle, but my father collared me on the gangplank. Struggling, I nearly fell into the harbor. “Let go of me!”

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“To Kashmir!” I lunged again, but Slate lifted me off my feet and hauled me back aboard the ship.

 

“No, Nixie. Look!” He jerked his chin toward the plaza. Three figures stood there, wreathed in torchlight, at the mouth of the Grand Rue: Blake, Dahut, and Crowhurst.

 

Seeing them standing together chilled me; a part of me had hoped Cook was lying, or mistaken—that the gun had gone off accidentally or that whatever argument they’d had, it was over. The alternative was too terrible to consider; I had seen Blake shoot.

 

“Cast off the lines!” my father called.

 

“No!” I renewed my struggles, but he only held me tighter as the crew pushed off from the dock.

 

“Crowhurst has a key to the gates, Nixie. I’m not waiting for him to shut us in.”

 

“I’m not leaving without Kashmir! You said I should fight, let me fight!”

 

“Not with your fists!” he said, swinging me around. But then my mother came to stand beside me, and her voice was soothing.

 

“Make a plan, Nix. Think it through.”

 

It was nigh impossible to think about anything but Kashmir, but the Temptation passed through the gates and into the choppy water before my father relaxed his grip. I threw off his arms and pressed against the rail, as close as I could get to Kash without diving off the side. Slate still hovered, as though worried I would consider doing just that.

 

With only Bee and Rotgut at their posts, the ship was unsteady and moving slow. But of course Crowhurst was in no rush—he knew I wouldn’t leave. He ambled across the wharf as though taking in the sea air, Dahut and Blake at his side. Once we reached the open water, the three of them were obscured from view by the wall. Was he heading to his yacht? No. I caught sight of him again as they reappeared near the lookout tower.

 

Did he hope to parlay? The wind herded dark clouds overhead, and the waves smashed themselves against the stones; we were too far away to be heard over the rush and the roar. “We have to get closer, Slate.”

 

The captain gave me a dubious look: the tide was low enough that the rocks at the base of the wall were exposed, shining black and slick with algae, and jagged as broken teeth. “Dangerous bit of sailing,” he said.

 

“Good thing you’re such a skilled sailor.”

 

“Promise me you’re not going to jump.”

 

“Just bring us around!”

 

Slate chewed his cheek, looking for a moment like he was going to refuse, but at last he took the helm and brought the ship in toward the tower. We hove to about ten feet out. Bee was the one to drop the anchor; she threw it over the side like a body. Her eyes were stony as she stared at Crowhurst, and though her voice was soft, I heard what she said. “He better hope there’s no need for revenge.”

 

But Crowhurst didn’t seem to notice the promise in her eyes—or perhaps he was always brave in the face of danger. He had strolled up to the edge of the wall, and he didn’t even look down. “Hello again, Nix!” He gave a cheery wave. “It seems you have something of mine, and I have something of yours! Fancy a trade?”

 

I bit off a curse. Behind him, Blake and Dahut huddled close in the lee of the tower, trying to avoid the wind. I narrowed my eyes; Blake was not carrying a torch, but Kashmir’s little glass lamp, and at his belt hung the knife Kashmir had been carrying. And there was something dark on his sleeve—a stain. Ink? Or blood?

 

It was only with great difficulty that I stopped myself from launching across the water to strangle him. My own blood pounded in my veins, and I slammed my open palm down on the railing. “What did you do?” My voice seemed high in my ears, too delicate to contain my anger. “What did you do to Kashmir?”