The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)(31)

“Heed the warnings of the wayward saint! The flood will come! The dark horse will ride!” He lunged at me, and I stumbled back, tripping over the mangled book. “Witch! Witch!”

Panicked, I fled, my feet pelting on the granite cobbles. My breath came in short bursts as I skidded along the Grand Rue, speeding past the shuttered houses and the shadowy shops. Through the narrow gap between the buildings overhead, the night sky seemed to tilt as clouds blew past the moon. I neared the wharf—was he following? I risked a glance back over my shoulder and ran straight into a pair of outstretched arms.

For one wild, childish moment, I hoped it was my father, come to protect me. But though I recognized the man, it wasn’t Slate. I knew him immediately from the picture I’d seen on my phone—only a little older. There, standing between me and the dock, was Donald Crowhurst.





CHAPTER ELEVEN


I reeled, but he steadied me, his eyes bright in the dark. My chest was too hot, my fingers too cold; my heart rattled my ribs. I tried to speak, but I could not seem to catch my breath. The cold air burned like alcohol going down. “Mr. Crow—Mr. Crowhurst?”

The torches at the dock had been extinguished, the fishermen all gone to bed, and moonlight splashed across the wharf. But he was unmistakable, even in the dim light: a plain man, with a high forehead under a mop of curly hair and a long, sloping nose. There was wonder on his face—or was it fear? “You’re here,” he breathed.

“Yes. Yes!” I was giddy with relief. I held out my hand. “I came as soon as I could. It’s so good to finally meet you!”

“It is.” Crowhurst stared at me for a long time, but he did not seem to share my joy. Still, he took my hand and shook it at last. “The pleasure is all mine, miss—but you have the advantage. Tell me, what’s your name?”

My hand stilled. He released it, and my arm fell back to my side. “You . . . Don’t you know me?”

He peered at me, his eyes guarded. “I’ve seen you before.”

“Of course you have. You invited me here. By name.” Did he have a memory condition as well? My heart sank.

Desperately, I dug my hand into my pocket and drew out his letter. Frowning, he scanned the page. “Nix . . . Nixie? You’re Nixie?”

I furrowed my brow. The nickname sounded strange in his voice—too intimate. “Only my father calls me that.”

“I was just speaking to him.” Crowhurst looked up from the letter, concern on his face. “He’s not a well man.”

I followed his eyes to the wall, and there he was—the captain. I knew him not only by his silhouette, but by the fact that no one else would be up there, exposed to the cold sea air in the middle of the night—and standing perilously close to the edge. I swore. “Did you give him back his map?”

“His what?”

“The map of Honolulu.” I glanced back at my father and swore again. “Tell me you haven’t lost it!”

“I don’t understand. What map?”

“The map you stole from his desk when you were in . . .” My voice trailed off as my mind raced toward realization. “When you go. To New York City.”

“To New York?” he repeated. “How?”

Time coiled around me like a snake; on the water, the Temptation nodded knowingly. My fingers shook as I pulled the map out of my pocket—the map Blake had only just given me. I held it with an odd reluctance. But it had to happen, didn’t it? It had already happened.

I’d seen this once before, with Joss in ancient China, and it had seemed something like fate then, too. What made it possible—these little loops in chronology, where time twisted like a M?bius strip? As I stared into Crowhurst’s eyes, the answer came to me. “Two Navigators,” I said softly. “Of course. Is that why you needed my help? Does changing the past require working together?”

“Changing the past.” He breathed. “Yes. That’s why you’re here. That’s why we’re both here.”

“Take this, then,” I said, my hand just barely shaking as I held out the map of New York. “Take that letter too. And a map of Ker-Ys to give to me—a map drawn this morning. You must have one.”

“I do,” he said. Understanding crept across his face. “But of course I do.”

“Dahut will find me in Brooklyn, near the docks.” I bit my lip—I wanted to say more, but I had to go to my father. I started toward the edge of the wharf, where a set of stone stairs led to the top of the wall. “Hurry back!”

“I will!” he called after me. “I’ve been waiting for this for months!”

Months? I nearly turned back to ask what he meant, but now was not the time. Crossing the pier, I reached the wide stone stair that ran up to the rampart. It switched back once, and there was no balustrade; as I climbed higher, I glanced down toward the harbor and immediately regretted it. The only thing between me and the black water was twenty-five feet of chill air. Gulping, I pressed myself against the stone wall, continuing up on unsteady legs.

At the top, the cold made me gasp. The guard tower did nothing to slow the rushing wind, but I huddled in the curve of the turret to gather my courage. The top of the wall was slick with seawater, and there was no parapet here—nothing to prevent a person from losing her footing and tumbling headlong into the swirling blackness of the Mer d’Iroise.