The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)(43)

“My memories.” Kash sat back on his heels. “Mr. Hart’s memories. The people’s memories. But not yours.”

“Perhaps the fainting is a reaction to that.”

“You had a headache in New York,” he said. “Just before we met the princess. Is that what happens when another Navigator arrives?”

“Maybe so. Slate had one too. I wonder if he remembers the same past I do. Are Navigators immune somehow?” I bit my lip; the thoughts were started to flow together, like clouds massing before a storm, but Kashmir did not seem to share my excitement. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know, amira. Or perhaps I just don’t remember. But there are some things that should not be stolen.” He stood then. “I’ll go. You need your sleep, if you’re going to get us out of here tonight.”

“Tonight?” I sat back up. “No, Kash. We can’t leave, not yet. Not till I know how he did it!”

“You think he’ll tell you?”

“He has to—I have to know. And his letter said he would.” The letter I had given him, I did not add.

But Kashmir laughed, low and rueful. “You’re the smartest person I know. Surely you can see this. People do not offer great things without a great cost.”

“That’s not always true, Kash. Sometimes . . . sometimes people give freely without asking anything in return. Like you and me.”

He shook his head; he couldn’t meet my eyes. “Amira. We may not ask. But there is still a cost. You pay it too.”

I stared up at him—at his jaw as it clenched, at the memory of sorrow in the curve of his lips. But before I could respond, a knock came at the door. Kash opened it, and Rotgut handed over a little plate of cold pancakes, sandwiched around some raspberry jam.

Kash nodded his thanks and passed it over to me; I ate in silence. Kashmir’s hand was still on the door, but he lingered on the threshold. Suddenly, more than anything, I wanted him to stay. The words bubbled in the back of my throat, like the start of a laugh, but he spoke first. “What was mine like?”

I swallowed the bite I was chewing. “Your what?”

“My map.” Kashmir stole a glance at me, almost as if he couldn’t bear to look. “You and the captain must have used a map to travel to Vaadi Al-Maas. I looked for my city once, in an atlas at the Brooklyn library, but I was never able to find it. Do you remember the one you used?”

“I do.” It surprised me, how quickly it came back to mind. I’d last seen it nearly three years ago, as we’d sailed away through the briny waters of the Persian Gulf. Had I known somehow, even then, how much it would change my life? “It was from the early eighteenth century. Lamp black and walnut oil on vellum. A Frenchman made it.”

“A Frenchman?”

“He’d read Scheherazade’s tales—they’d just been translated from the Arabic—and went to visit. He was . . . inspired by reality, rather than constrained by it.” I put the plate down on the wooden box beside his bed, nestled beside tiny treasures—a silver pillbox, a perfume bottle, a scattering of coins. “You won’t find Vaadi Al-Maas on any modern maps.”

“Because it was a myth.”

I bit my lip. “Yes.”

“Then what am I?”

“Kashmir—”

“If you can create a myth, why not a man? Am I merely a figment of some cartographer’s imagination? Or did you make me up when you arrived?”

“No, Kash. I . . . No.” I stood and reached for him, taking his shoulders in my hands; they were warm and solid, as they always were. Could I have ever imagined anyone like Kashmir? “Don’t say that. You are . . . you’re very real to me.”

But it wasn’t what he needed to hear. He shook his head. “I need to be more than what is reflected in your eyes. Otherwise . . .” For a moment, he was at a loss for words, and the confusion of it made him look so young.

“Otherwise what?”

“Otherwise what am I without you?”





CHAPTER SIXTEEN


KASHMIR

An old story had crept into my head. It was a story about a rogue, like me. But he was a marionette carved from crooked timber. He longed to be a real boy, and so he learned to be good—whatever that meant. He had been a myth: an Italian allegory only meant to scold the poor.

Nix had taught me that.

Out in the hall, I leaned against the door. Behind it, she slept. She’d been sapped, the coals of her eyes burning low; she needed to rest. And I needed to think. It was hard to do with her near.

I tried to clear my head. Still questions stole in. What was I made of? Who had carved me? All my life, I’d clung to the fact that my mind and body were my own—after all, I’d had nothing else to my name. But I’d never dreamed that someone else might be holding my strings.

And what of the memories Nix had claimed to have? The memories I was missing? Was my mind so malleable a stranger could change it? Were all of my thoughts now suspect? The wounds and the wonders I’d carried from my youth—the dreams and desires I’d fostered for my future . . . the love and longing for the girl who’d stolen my heart? My hand went to the lock at my belt, a comforting weight: solid, real. I’d worn it since the day on the bridge. At the memory, I sighed, catching the scent of her hair. It was sweet as water—fresh, not salt. Why did it make me weak in the knees?