The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)(22)

“Maybe love is like life that way,” Rotgut volunteered through a mouthful of pastry. “Doesn’t have to be forever to be worth it.”

I gave him a weak smile. “Did you learn that back at the monastery?”

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s from a pop song? Either way, it’s top-notch wisdom, and don’t forget it.” He popped another bite of cheesecake into his mouth.

“I could have considered it a life well lived if I’d died in Ayen’s arms.” Bee gave us a wicked grin. “In fact, I did a little, and more than once, if you get my meaning. Ach! Ayen!” She ducked, her hand going to her ear as though it had been pinched—perhaps it had been.

“I was in love once,” Rotgut said.

“With what?” Bee teased. “The pastry?”

“Oh!” He swatted at the air, dismissive. “That was just a fling!”

“A moment on the lips, eternally on the hips,” Bee responded, elbowing him in the bony ribs. But I leaned forward across the table, curious. I’d never heard this story before.

“What was their name?”

“It’s not respectful to say it.” Rotgut shook his head, smiling a little. “He gave it up, you know. In the end. Like everything else. He was much more cut out for monking than I was. But I still try to live in the moment. To honor him.”

Bee lifted her water glass; he clinked it with his bottle of lager. And across the table, Kashmir watched me, his eyes as green and turbulent as an ocean gyre. “That’s all we can do,” he said softly. “Live in the moment. Love in the moment.”

In my chest, a pressure lifted, as though I had surfaced from deep water; looking at Kashmir, I wondered suddenly which one of us I had been trying to save. To the west, the sun reclined on a glorious pyre. A breeze from the ocean strummed the rigging, and the air was blissfully cool after the storm. Maybe they were right. Maybe love did not have to be forever. Maybe it could just be for now—after all, now was all we had.

Had Joss sent her warning not to protect me from loss, but to remind me not to follow my father’s path in dealing with it? But in spite of all his foibles, Slate had chosen to stop. Maybe I could too.

Forget Ker-Ys. Forget the past and the future. I stood then, feeling the weight of my messenger bag in the strap across my shoulder, even though it only held the map. Bee cocked her head. “Where are you going, girl?”

“To check on the captain,” I said—which was partially true. I didn’t want to say it in front of everyone else, but later tonight, when the moon was rising and the ship was quiet, I would find Kash in his cabin and tell him how I’d put the map of Ker-Ys in the cupboard with all the other improbable myths too dangerous to visit. For now, I only gave him a smile. “Be right back.”

I strode across the deck, feeling energized—expansive. There was a silly grin forming on my face as I pushed open the door, peering into the dim. After a moment, it melted away.

The captain was sitting on the edge of the bed in his little alcove, shoving something under his pillow.

I saw two routes before me, then, like deep indigo rivers twisting between the azure threat of shallow reefs, both ways fraught with peril: say something, say nothing. The latter route was tempting, but I had floundered on those rocks before. I started toward him, propelled by a burst of sudden anger. “You swore you gave that up.”

“Nixie, it’s not what you think!” Slate held up his hands in a placating gesture, but I was already pulling back the pillow. Then I took another breath.

Instead of a syringe, it was a pistol.

“Well, you’re right,” I said at last. “It’s not at all what I thought.” I tossed the pillow aside and picked up the gun. It was a double-barreled derringer—small and complex and deadly as a cone snail. I shuddered; the last time I’d seen this weapon, it had been pointed at me. “This is Blake’s.”

“It was in his pocket when he came aboard. I found it in his jacket.” Slate ran a hand through his blond hair; it was lank with sweat. “I haven’t given it back yet. I will, but—”

“I don’t know that he’d want it back.” I shook my head. “Not just yet.”

“No harm in me keeping it, then.”

“I suppose. But not under your pillow. You could hurt yourself.” I opened one of the cupboards—full of the maps we called dead enders—and put the gun on the shelf. Then I hesitated, considering. Light glinted off the stamped scrolling in the steel barrel. I turned back to my father, but he did not return my gaze. Substance abuse. Family conflicts. Suicide. “Slate.”

“What, Nixie?” He did look then, his blue eyes wide, bloodshot. “What?”

My heart clenched in my chest; the pressure was back and I couldn’t breathe. Still I hesitated: say something, say nothing. “Nothing,” I said. But I snatched the gun from the shelf and shoved it into my back pocket. My palms were sweaty, my blood racing. But Slate only dropped his head to his hands. Why did he look so small? “Don’t worry, Dad. I know where your map is. We’re sailing tomorrow to get it back.”

“No.”

“No?” I stared at him, waiting for him to elaborate. “Why not?”

“Maybe it’s better this way.” He sighed, sinking lower still. “Easier, not to have to choose.”