The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)(42)

As the carriage passed us, I saw her—Dahut. She wore deep red velvet, her black hair bound with gold, and she sat beside Crowhurst like his shadow. But unlike the king, she did not wave at the crowd. Her eyes were fixed on a point above our heads, and there was something hard in them. I didn’t blame her—as she passed, the cheering faltered, and a few in the crowd surreptitiously made the sign of the fig. Why?

“Kashmir,” I said softly. “Do you recognize her?”

“The princess? We saw her in New York, yes.”

I turned to him, incredulous. “Kash. She wasn’t a princess then.”

He tilted his head in confusion. “She’s always been a princess.”

“What makes you say that?”

Kashmir took in the parade, the crowd, the huzzah. “Everyone says that.”

“Not everyone! Not me.” The carriage passed from view on the way toward the castle, and the crowd flooded the narrow street behind them, turning from spectators to participants in the parade. People streamed by, pushing, jostling, and then they were gone. Petals stirred on the cobbles; it felt like a dream.

“I don’t understand, amira.”

“There is no king in Ker-Ys,” I said. “I mean, there was no king. This morning.” My voice faltered as I heard the echo of my own words then, reverberating in my head, along with the cheering of the crowd fading up the street. “You don’t remember.”

“Miss Song.” Blake took my arm gently, leading me back toward the docks. “Perhaps you hit your head when you fell.”

“We were just inside the castle, Blake! It was abandoned!” I put my fingers on my temples and pressed, trying to soothe my aching head. “There was a . . . a wolf in the great hall. You shot it dead, and it was eating the man’s body—”

“A wolf?”

“This morning everything was different. I swear!” I tore away from them, crushing the petals under my heels to pace, trying to make sense of it all. “He did it. He changed the past. But the world hasn’t been unmade—only the memories of it. But how on earth—” I staggered, and Kash caught me.

“Amira, please.” In his eyes, a worried look—a look I recognized. I’d looked at my own father that way many times.

“I’m not crazy,” I said. “I’m not.” Only when he nodded did I let him take my arm.

They led me toward the docks, and my heartbeat drummed at the base of my skull. In my head, a litany: he’d done it, he’d done it, he’d actually done it.

By all the gods, how? My father had never gone so far. If he had, would he have erased memories of me as easily as Crowhurst had erased the memories of the townspeople? Was this the sacrifice Joss had mentioned? I leaned on Kashmir, drawing comfort like warmth from his closeness. When I squeezed my eyes shut, I saw the madman’s pale face above the red ribbon at his throat.

When we reached the ship, Rotgut hailed us from the quarterdeck. He was on watch, lost inside a massive coat of mangy fur and oiled leather that made him look much fiercer than he actually was. His brows dove together as Kash helped me up the gangplank. “What’s wrong with her?”

“I’m fine,” I insisted. “I just feel a little dizzy.”

“You should have had some pancakes,” he said, tut-tutting.

I shrugged free of Kashmir’s grip. “Rotgut . . . what do you remember about this morning?”

“Aside from your lack of appreciation for fine cooking?” He folded his arms, the fur coat bristling around his shoulders. “The motorboat sticks in my mind.”

“The what?”

“Pretty flash.” Rotgut pointed his chin toward the starboard side. There, docked beside the Temptation, a sleek black powerboat was moored where the Fool had been. “Definitely fit for a king.”

“So you know he’s the king?”

“Was it supposed to be a secret? Because the people chanting ‘Hail to the king!’ might have spilled the beans.”

I rolled my eyes and went to look at the boat: a gorgeous thing of wood and fiberglass, completely out of place and time. “Wasn’t there anything odd about that, to you?”

“No.” Rotgut cocked his head. “Why?”

But I didn’t answer; my focus was on the yacht. Her name was painted in gold on her stern: Dark Horse—the name the newspapers had given Crowhurst, back in the race. “The dark horse and the wayward saint. That’s what the dead man said to me.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Blake and Kashmir glance at each other, and a flash of irritation shot through me. But Rotgut jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll go make her some lunch.”

He squeezed through the hatch as Kash took my arm, his hand very gentle. “You should rest.”

Swallowing my annoyance, I let him lead me below, drifting behind him as though he was a tug. Rest was a good idea.

Kash ushered me into his cabin, his face a mask of concern. I curled up in his nest of pillows; he knelt at my side, arranging the cushions around me, tucking a blanket around my shoulders, brushing my hair back from my face. The silk smelled like clove and copper; I was warm and suddenly so tired, but I tried to connect one thought to the next. “It makes sense if you think about it,” I murmured. “If Navigation can actually change reality, the original memories of that old reality would have to change too.”