The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)(48)

“His records? To help him remember where you’ve been, or . . .” I furrowed my brow, but then I realized. “Or so you can return to a place if you Navigate away. God, that’s clever.” We’d done that once, in Hawaii with Blake. Why hadn’t I thought of asking him to make maps wherever we went?

“My father is very clever,” Dahut said then, but it didn’t sound like a compliment. I bit my lip.

“How did . . . is Crowhurst . . .” I faltered, considering the question I had been about to ask: is he your real father? After all, as I’d mentioned to Kashmir, Crowhurst had a daughter on his timeline, but her name wasn’t Dahut. But Slate and I did not immediately look alike, and I’d always hated how people looked at us, as though cataloging our differences. Maybe Crowhurst had had a second family—or maybe he’d adopted her. Either way, would she remember? And what did it mean, anyway? Real. I let the question die unasked. “I’d like to talk to him, actually.”

“He said you might. And I know he’d like to talk to you.”

“Oh?”

She laughed a little. “I almost forgot to mention it. There’s a dinner tonight. You and your father are both invited. He has something for you. A gift, and a request.”

I almost asked her what they were, but she would have told me if she’d known. I sighed, running my hand through my hair. I knew the gift, at least. Crowhurst had already offered me knowledge in his letter—it was the reason I had brought us here. But what was the request? Kashmir’s words came back to me: people do not offer great things without great cost.

And yet.

I had come so far, and the destination was so close. If I left now, without knowing for certain, would I regret it for the rest of my life? I glanced over at Slate—the gesture was almost automatic, but the sight of him made my jaw clench. I couldn’t follow the same route as my father.

“Does it make him strange?” Dahut was staring at Slate too, peering into the darkened alcove. “The—the Navigating?”

“Strange how?”

“Intense. Like a fire with too much fuel.”

“Sometimes. But I don’t know if it’s the Navigation or the . . . or something else.”

“Something else?”

“He misses my mother,” I said at last, which was only part of the truth, but the only part I felt comfortable admitting.

Dahut arched an eyebrow. “But you don’t.”

“I never knew her.”

“I never knew mine,” she said, her voice softening. “At least, I don’t remember knowing her. But I miss her just the same.” Then she sighed. “I know my father misses the rest of his family. Maybe that’s what makes them odd—your father and mine. Something missing.”

“Something missing, indeed.” I made a face. “Though it does appear Navigation has some . . . unexpected side effects.”

“Can you do it?”

“Do what?”

She made a vague gesture. “Navigate.”

“Yes.”

Her breath caught in her throat; her voice came out a whisper. “Then maybe you can help me.”

“I might, if you could remember what you wanted.”

“Can’t you guess? My head. My memories!” Urgently, she took my hands. “There must be a way to help me get better!”

“I . . .” I was about to protest, but there were cures we could try: the panacea, the Aquae Sulis, the earth and spittle of Egyptian medicine, even the vial of mercury from Qin’s tomb—any number of solutions on any number of maps. But would they work if the problem was born of Navigation itself? I licked my lips as the next thought came to me. “Has your father ever tried to help?”

She stiffened, and as the silence stretched, I felt my cheeks go pink. “Maybe you should ask him that,” she said at last. “He never answers me.”

“Maybe I will.”

She took a deep breath, her slim shoulders rising and falling under the heavy velvet. “So you’ll join us tonight?”

“Yes.” I clenched my fists at my side, resolved. Was that excitement in my stomach, or trepidation? “But the captain will stay behind.”

“Why?”

“He—he should rest,” I said, which was not a lie. “And anyway, I’m the one with the questions.”

“What do you want to know so badly?”

I led her to the door, though I hesitated on the threshold. Could I tell her? Perhaps she already knew—or wouldn’t even remember. But more than anything, I wanted to share the thought. Excitement crept into my voice as I spoke. “I think . . . I think Crowhurst has found a way to change the past.”

Her eyebrows went up, but she did not seem as thrilled as I was—she only pressed her lips together, and her large eyes dimmed. “So there’s something missing for you too.”

I stiffened, but she said nothing more as she went down the gangplank. Two guards waited for her on the pier; when one of them caught my stare, I turned back into the cabin. Then I startled. My father stood by his bed, swaying on his feet.

“Nixie,” he growled, and his eyes were fever bright. “You’re not the only one with questions.”





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN