The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)(32)

Of course Slate was standing at the edge, his shoulders rounded, his face like a knot pulled tight. At least he was wearing a coat; the wind off the sea whipped it around his legs and scoured the stones underfoot.

It made me dizzy just to look at him. I steadied myself, one hand on the wall in the turret. The stone tower sheltered the bronze mechanisms that controlled the sea gates; from inside, it felt like standing in a gilded cage. My fingers trailed over an oval panel embedded in the stone. It was decorated in relief with two mermaids; between them, verdigris wept from an old keyhole.

With a start, I remembered the madman near the castle—and the key around his neck. Was that the key to the sea gates? Had he told the truth? Had he been a king? If so, what had happened? How had he fallen from power?

But I could not worry about another man’s fall, not now. Pushing off the wall, I propelled myself toward my father.

He didn’t turn when I approached. We stood side by side for a while in silence, watching the moonlight turn the spray to a scattering of diamonds. Minutes passed. Did he even know I was there? “So,” I said, the wind tearing the word from my lips. I cleared my throat. “You met Donald Crowhurst.”

Slate didn’t respond for a long time, but when he did, I wished he hadn’t. “There was a woman in the water.”

I blinked at him. “Drowning?”

“Singing.”

“Okay.” I tried to keep my voice neutral, but my heart clenched. A woman in the water? Automatically, I searched for the sheen of sweat on my father’s cheeks, the black hole eyes, but there was nothing in his face but sorrow. Could he be hallucinating even without the opium? I’d read about that somewhere—that one might see things, in the grip of mania or depression. And it couldn’t have been real . . . could it? At our feet, an icy wave shattered against the stones. The wind rose and fell; it sounded like a song. “Since she’s gone, can we go back to the ship?”

“I keep thinking about the bells,” he said. “The ones that toll the tides. The myth of Ker-Ys says that on a quiet day, you can still hear them ringing under the water.”

“I know, Slate.” My hair lashed my cheeks; I hooked it with my finger and pulled it back. “I’ve read the same books you have.”

He leaned out, looking down. “I wonder if anyone has ever fallen off the edge.”

I made a face and took a fistful of the back of his coat. “Not tonight.”

“Do the bells ring for them?”

“Slate . . .”

“I lied to her, Nixie.”

“To who?”

“I told Gwen time had done this. It was love. I tried to warn you. Remember?” He glanced at me, his eyes full of regret, and then away, shaking his head, as though he couldn’t bear to look. Instead, he stared down into the swirling blackness of the water. “I tried to help. I didn’t want this to happen. I would have done anything to keep you from getting hurt—you know that, right? I still would. Anything.”

“Dad.” The word hung lonely in the air; I didn’t know what else to say. But the wind gusted, and I slipped my arm into the crook of his elbow. He followed when I started walking, so I led him gently back to the ship.





CHAPTER TWELVE


I spent the rest of the night in front of the door in the captain’s cabin, sleeping only fitfully, worried he’d disappear again, this time for good. By the time dawn arrived, my entire body ached. The captain was still sleeping peacefully, damn him, so I beat Rotgut to the galley to start the coffee. He found me hunched over my second cup and recoiled in mock horror. “You look awful!”

I rolled my eyes. “You always know just what to say.”

He fussed about, snatching ingredients and utensils off the shelves and dropping them on the scarred wooden counter. “What’s the trouble?” In a puff of white, Rotgut popped open the tin of flour and dumped some into a bowl. “I’m going to guess it’s a boy.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, it traditionally is a boy. And there’s that extra one now.”

I made a face. “I’m not a girl who follows tradition.”

“Me neither.” He put a cast-iron pan on the stove and winked. “Fine. Tell me what the trouble really is.”

“A man.”

“Oh, dear.” He cracked two eggs into the bowl, stirring vigorously.

I made a face. “I’m worried about Slate.”

His hand stilled. “We’re all worried about Slate.”

“Right.” Lowering my gaze, I traced my fingertip through a puddle of coffee. I’d been focusing so much on my own problem, I hadn’t spent much time thinking about Bee and Rotgut. But they’d sailed with Slate for decades—they knew his history, they’d seen his ups and downs. If they were worried too, it wasn’t a good sign. “He’s been through worse, though, right?”

“At least once.”

It was early and I was tired—I almost asked when. Then I sighed. Slate had survived my mother’s loss once—he could do it again. Couldn’t he? Frowning, I wiped the coffee off on my trousers. Speaking of the captain’s past . . .

“Who was Gwen, anyway?”

“Ah. Gwen.” As the pan started to smoke, Rotgut poured in a dollop of batter; it sizzled at the edges. “We met her in Ribat, must have been . . . nearly twenty years ago now. That was back when the Fool was the Santé—and the captain was named Skamber Jack. He was a Barbary slaver.”