The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)(18)

How did she know me? My scalp prickled and my heart started to race, the blood pounding in my aching head. I pressed my fingers to my temple. The last time a stranger had hailed me in port, he’d come with a deal we couldn’t refuse—no matter how much I wished we had. So what did this girl want?

I bit my lip and glanced at Kashmir. He stood with his hip cocked and his free hand resting quite casually near his pocket. I knew he kept a knife there.

The girl had beckoned us to the meager slip of shade under the black awning of a retail shop that was selling, by all appearances, a single wooden chair, or perhaps the silk shirt draped over the chair’s back. The store was empty but for a hopeful saleswoman. The woman kept casting glances toward us, but the door was closed against the heat; there was no way she could hear what we said. Still, I was not in the habit of speaking frankly to strangers.

“How do you know me?” I said at last.

“I don’t think I do,” the girl replied with a soft accent and a sideways look. “Not yet, anyway. But my father sent me to give you something.” Her small hand dove into her tote bag. Kashmir tensed, but rather than a weapon, she lifted out a scroll.

A map.

A jolt went through me—but I could see immediately it wasn’t the one my father was missing. The paper was too clean, too pale, and it was rolled instead of folded. It lay across her hands like an offering; beneath it, her palms were decorated with an intricate henna mehndi. What did the map depict? Part of me wanted to snatch it from her, and part of me was afraid to touch it until I knew where the strings were attached. “What’s your name?” I said, stalling.

“I’m Dahut.” The name was familiar, but I couldn’t recall why, and she continued before it came to me. “Take the map. It’s for you.”

A distant grumble of thunder echoed her urgency—the storm was approaching, and if I stood here much longer, the paper would be damaged in the rain. I tugged on one end of the leather strip, and the map unrolled, crisp and white. My eyes skimmed over the curving lines of the brick-red ink, the same color as the design on her hands. They delineated an island city in the Iroise Sea, off the westernmost coast of France. I sucked in my breath. “Ys.”

Kash peered over my shoulder. “Is what?”

“Ville D’Ys. Or Ker-Ys, if you’re from Brittany rather than Bretagne. The city.” I glanced up at Dahut. Then I took Kashmir’s arm and pulled him closer. “The mythical city,” I whispered. “A utopia. Supposedly the most beautiful city in Europe before it fell.”

“Fell?” He cocked his head.

“Drowned.”

“Like Atlantis?”

“Or Cantre’r Gwaelod, or Lyonesse. Or New Orleans, really. Much of Ker-Ys was built below sea level, and the Iroise is one of the roughest seas in the world. There was a wall protecting the city, you see?” I pointed at the map. “One day, at high tide, the king’s daughter . . .” I looked back at Dahut, and now I remembered where I’d heard the name before. “Who’s your father?”

She pressed her lips together—why did the question bother her? “His name is Donald. Donald Crowhurst.”

I blinked at her. The mythical king of Ker-Ys had been Grandlon . . . but the name Crowhurst was still familiar. “An Englishman? Born in India?”

Her eyes narrowed then. “You know him.”

“I know of him.” I let the map roll shut. Kashmir was watching me closely, trying to piece it together, but I couldn’t put it together myself. This was certainly not the myth I knew. “And he’s the king?”

“In Ker-Ys? No,” she said slowly. “Ys has no king. Not for many years. At least, that’s what my father tells me.”

“Really.” I gave her a hard stare, but she didn’t elaborate. Her hand went back into her bag; she drew out a letter.

“He wanted me to give you this, too.”

A sudden wind rattled the envelope in her hand and kicked a newspaper down the street. “It’s about to pour,” Kash said.

I shook my head, frustrated; the heat was pressing down like a great hand, and I couldn’t focus. I took the letter. It was sealed, but the mystery of the map was more compelling. It was clearly an invitation from Crowhurst. But why had he sent it to me? And was it safe to accept? Would we sail to Ker-Ys only to be caught in the flood? Joss’s warnings echoed in my ears: lost at sea.

“So you’ve been here?” I said to the girl, gesturing with the scroll. “To Ker-Ys? What’s it like?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is it as beautiful as the legend says?” A low roll of thunder thrummed in the air. “What happened to the king? And how did your father find Ker-Ys in the first place? I didn’t think it had ever been mapped—”

“I don’t know,” she said, interrupting me. “I . . . I don’t remember.”

“What?” I stared at her. “Why not?”

Her jaw clenched, and a dark shadow dimmed the shine in her eyes. “I have a condition. With my memory.”

“Oh.” Another gust of wind pushed between us; overhead, the clouds curdled in the heat. A memory condition? I wanted to ask, but I was sure it would be rude.

“So?” Dahut lifted her chin, making the word a challenge. “Will you help me?”