The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)(45)

“So they say. An ingenious design, so that if the walls were breached in war, the treasury would flood to hide the gold. I dreamed I went looking for it. But in my dream, the castle was empty. . . .” I glanced down at my palms; the calluses made bumps and ridges. That scrape there—had I actually roped down into the bailey and explored the grounds, rather than only dreaming I had?

Mr. Hart leaned closer. “Did your dream include frightening us in the gatehouse?”

With a crack like a wishbone, the clove broke between my teeth. I spat the pieces to the floor. “It did,” I said, though he’d already seen the answer on my face.

Chewing his lip, he thrust his hand into his breast pocket, drawing out the sketchbook I’d given him. “You mentioned a pit,” he murmured, paging through. Then he stopped, whistling low under his breath. “Look here.”

I took the book and traced the drawing with one fingers. “A map?”

“Of the underground tunnels. See this?” He gestured at a colorful slip of paper tucked between the pages. “I dreamed we found it in the square—or I thought I dreamed it. But here it is. And it shows le trou, a pit. That’s what we were searching for in my dream—or my memory. Miss Song thought there was a man trapped there.” He sat back in his chair. “Tell me, in your travels aboard the Temptation, have you ever seen this happen?”

“Not that I know.” Still studying the pages, I pulled another clove from my pocket. “Then again, I’ve always been on the ship when she’s Navigated.”

“Except once.”

I shut the book and met his gaze head-on. “Yes.”

Steepling his hands, he put his elbows on the table. “Do you have any . . . old memories from that time? Odd ones, that seem like dreams?”

The question was as pointed as a knife, and nearly as threatening, so I laughed. “I’ve only had half a cider, Mr. Hart. Far too little to tell you about my dreams.”

He smiled, though his eyes were grim. “So you do have them, then.”

Glancing at the fire, I watched it dance and crackle. Above, heat shimmered in the air, almost, but not quite, invisible. “I do.”

“So do I.”

I let the silence stretch—as did he. Farther down the table, a group of men broke into a ribald song; I waited till the end of the first chorus, but neither of us budged an inch. Finally I stood, sliding the sketchbook back across the table. “You’re a hard lock to pick, Mr. Hart.”

I drained my mug and held out my hand. He finished his too, and passed it over. Back to the bar, then. I smoothed my vest and prepared my best smile for the girl; my reward was a little blush on her pale cheeks, though she looked upset about it. “Have you got anything stronger?” I pushed an extra coin across the bar. “Mulled wine? Genièvre?”

She nodded, topping off the cider with a splash of what smelled like whiskey. As I waited, I pretended not to listen as one fisherman told another about the yacht. “It moves like nothing you’ve ever seen,” he said. “Flies over the water.”

“It’s an enchantment,” his companion hissed back. “They say the princess is a witch. She writes spells on her palms.”

The words were like needles, pricking at my skin, but I let nothing show on my face as I picked up the mugs. Accusations like that were dangerous, not only for the accused, but for those who showed them sympathy.

Setting the cider down on our table, I slid back into my seat. Then I lifted my own drink and trotted out my native accent, just for fun—or maybe to spite the men at the bar. “Salamati.”

“Hipahipa,” Mr. Hart replied in Hawaiian, taking a deep draft and making a face.

I did the same; it had been whiskey, after all. For a moment, it burned like a coal under my ribs before settling into a pleasant warmth behind my navel. I rolled the clove over my tongue. “If . . . if these dreams are . . . are more like a memories . . . if we share them—does that make them real?”

Mr. Hart glanced at the cup. “What’s in the drink, Mr. Firas?”

I laughed a little. “I mean to say, does this mean they happened? Somehow? Somewhere?”

“Miss Song mentioned alternate universes.” He sighed, wistful. “Imagine if we could go back and forth between them, picking the best outcome each time.”

I raised an eyebrow. “The best outcome for who?”

“Good point.” He smiled wryly and saluted me with his cup. Outside, the light was fading. Near the hearth, a woman lit a rush and carried it to the lamps hanging on the wall, stopping briefly at each, like a pickpocket in a crowd. Mr. Hart sighed, rubbing his chin. “It is strange,” he said. “How quickly fortune changes.”

“How so?”

“Well!” He laughed, surprised. “Two weeks ago, I never would have imagined myself visiting a mythical city. Or commiserating with a confessed criminal.”

“Is it so strange we find ourselves allies? After all, you’re a confessed gentleman.”

“What’s wrong with being a gentleman?”

“In Hawaii? I’ve stolen much, Mr. Hart, but never an island.” At my words, his smile faded and fell away; a pang hit me. Was it guilt? I sighed. “But neither of us had a choice in our parents.”

“Were you raised a thief?”