The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)
By: Heidi Heilig
“Nothing permanent—yet.” Crowhurst pitched his voice to carry over the hush of the swirling waves. “We made him comfortable in the treasury. Aside from the manacles, of course. Just bring Cook back and I’ll set Kashmir free.”
Relief eased the pain in my chest. Kash was alive, at least for now. “That’s not much of a bargain,” I called back to Crowhurst. “Considering that back in Al-Maas, Kash would have died without me!”
He only shrugged. “He still might.”
I clenched my fists, trying to keep a grip on my anger. But I couldn’t let Crowhurst get to me. Manacles? There was no lock that could hold Kashmir, not if he didn’t want to be held. A grim smile touched my lips. “I very much doubt that,” I said, but my bravado evaporated when he drew something familiar out of his pocket.
“Here, then. Blake gave me these, but I’m sure Kash would prefer you have them.” Crowhurst tossed the bundle toward me, underhand; it landed near my feet with a clink. Kashmir’s pick set. My heart sank. “Something to remember him by.”
A hole opened up in my chest, like a burn through a page. Beside me, Bee slapped the rail. “How could you betray your brother?” she cried, but her voice was lost in the wind.
Still, Blake understood. In the light of the lamp, I saw his jaw clench, but his shame wasn’t enough. I wished I had a basilisk’s gaze, to strike them all down dead. My blood boiled like venom in my veins; I spat my words like poison. “After all that about the blood of innocents, Blake? This won’t scrub clean so easily!”
There was misery in his voice. “Are any of us truly innocent, Miss Song?”
Crowhurst laughed. “Don’t be angry, Nixie. You’ve been a worthy opponent. But it seems I’ve won the game.”
“A game?” I stared at him—but that’s what he’d written in his logbook. Moves and countermoves. If this was a game to him, I had to be smart. Lin was right. I had to think it through. Cure Cook. Save Dahut. And Kashmir too, of course.
But how? Every move I made, Crowhurst was already ahead of me. How could I play against him if he held all the cards? He’d been planning for months, he’d said. At least since New York.
No . . . not New York. Boeotia.
Damn the man. He’d given me the hint last night. He’d told me himself: he’d met another Navigator there.
I spun on my heel, striding back across the deck. “New plan.”
“Good,” Slate muttered. “This one wasn’t going so great.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I said drily. “Can you give Bee the wheel? I’m going to need your help.”
“With what?”
I knew what I had to do, but it was hard to say aloud. “I have to go to Boeotia.”
He stared at me, shocked. “You’d leave without Kashmir?”
The pain at his words was physical—like a punch to the gut: it took my breath away. “I’m coming back. And I’ll need you to stay here. I’ll have to Navigate to the ship when I’m done.”
“To the ship! You haven’t got a map, Nixie.”
“Not yet. But I’m guessing you still have some needles?” I watched as understanding dawned on his face. My father wasn’t a cartographer, but he’d done dozens of tattoos.
“Yeah. Okay.” He scrubbed one hand through his hair and sighed. “Come to the cabin.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
He called to Bee and handed off the wheel while I went down to the galley to get a canteen for the Mnemosyne water. Then I climbed back above to find Slate, but I stopped dead when I ducked inside the cabin. Lin was there too. The sight of her still brought me up short, especially here on the ship.
Had she ever stood on these boards? Lin had never sailed with Slate—I knew that much. Joss had forbidden it. But though she looked out of place in my eyes, she seemed completely at ease. I went to the desk, to try to study the map of Boeotia, while Slate rummaged in the bottom of his sea chest, handing her materials. But I could feel her eyes on me, and finally I turned. “What is it?”
She smiled a little. “I think you’re a fighter and a lover.”
“Come, Nixie.” Slate folded his long legs and sat on the floor, arranging his tools beside him—a bottle of India ink, a pen, a pencil, and a needle and thread. I shrugged off my cloak and sat cross-legged before him. Rolling up the sleeve of my shirt, I exposed the soft flesh of my inner arm.
“Do it here,” I said. “Where I can see it.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to just draw?” He pushed the back of the needle into the eraser and started to wind it with thread.
“You don’t just draw, Dad.” I glanced at his hands, at the ink peeking out from under his sleeves. “This is my way home. It has to be right.”
“Okay.” He wet his lips. I could tell he was nervous, but he uncapped the pen and laid my arm across his lap. “Top down? How big?”
I held my thumb and forefinger about three inches apart. He nodded and bent his head over my arm. The pen tickled my skin as the outline took form: an almond shape, graceful, with circles for the masts and a square for the hatch. The Temptation, in simple lines, clean and clear. My father’s hands were surprisingly steady. I grunted, pleased. “This is good.”