The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)(51)
The smell of decay, the huge wolf, the dead man . . . all were gone. The enormous hearths bracketing the room were crackling, not with dry leaves but with merry flames, and rich tapestries undulated in the warm current of air. In the corner, a young man strummed a lute, while on the ceiling, the painted mermaids splashed in bright pools. A hundred candles dripped fire from each chandelier, and the long table was laid at one end with porcelain plates rimmed in gold.
How had it all changed so fast? Even the army of servants carrying platters to the sideboard couldn’t have cleaned it up so quickly. The floor was polished, the broken chairs restored. It was like magic—it was magic, wrought by some trick of Navigation.
I stood, dizzy in the sudden warmth and the unexpected luxury. Was this how myths originated? Was Navigation where rumors of magic began?
“Welcome! Welcome!” At the head of the table, Crowhurst stood to greet us. For all the pomp, he had changed out of the blue dress coat and into a twentieth-century jacket and tie—something from his own era, perhaps—though he still wore his crown and the livery collar. The thick chain gleamed in the low light, and as he approached, I noticed that, rather than a kingly pendant, the device hanging from the chain was an old copper flask stamped with a scrolling Greek key design. He thrust out his hand. “Captain Slate! Pleasure to see you again. And Nixie. Nixie, such a joy.”
I tried to keep my face neutral. “Your Majesty.”
“None of that, none of that!” The man wrinkled his nose and flapped his hands as though the word had left an odor in the air. “Call me Donald.”
“I know who you are,” Slate muttered.
I shot him a look, but Blake stepped in. “They call you Grand l’Un in the city,” he said smoothly.
“I know! It gave me a bit of a shock to hear that name, but apparently it means Great One in the local dialect. I suppose King Donald doesn’t sound quite right. And you know Dahut.” She nodded at his gesture, and when her eyes met mine, I was glad to see a glint of familiarity. Then Crowhurst turned to Kashmir and extended his hand. “And . . . ?”
I made the introductions. Blake bowed at the waist like a gentleman, and Kashmir was all charm, bending low over the princess’s wrist and coaxing out a smile. Crowhurst greeted them both warmly—if he was surprised I’d brought guests, he did not show it.
After the formalities, Crowhurst slid into his chair and picked up a bottle. “Come,” he said, tipping it into the cut crystal glasses. Under his fingers, I read the label: CHTEAU D’YQUEM, 1811. “Let’s have a toast!”
I took a glass, trying to keep my hand from shaking. In 2011, the papers had reported the sale of a two-hundred-year-old bottle of Chateau d’Yquem; it had gone for more than a hundred thousand dollars, making it one of the most expensive wines ever sold. It sparkled in the light from the candles. “What are we toasting?”
“New beginnings,” Crowhurst said, setting down the bottle and raising his own glass. We all followed suit. “And new endings too.”
My mouth was dry. I took a sip—the liquid was sweet and crisp. On all our travels to various eras, I’d never once considered trying the wine.
But Kashmir did not bring his glass to his lips. “New beginnings,” he muttered as we drank. “Is that why you’ve crowned yourself king of a fairy tale?”
“Ah, that has more to do with new endings,” Crowhurst said with a small smile. “You know how the story used to go—the town flooded, the people drowned. Becoming king was the best way to change the legend.”
Blake stared at Crowhurst with deep fascination. “You’re trying to save the town?”
“I have saved it.”
“In point of fact, you only haven’t yet destroyed it,” Blake countered, but Slate’s hand shot out and grabbed Blake by the shoulder, pushing him back in his chair.
“Who cares about the future?” my father said. “Tell us how you changed the past.”
“All in good time.” Crowhurst gave a signal, and the servants brought food around the table, many courses all at once in a service en confusion. There was a scalloped silver tureen filled with hot saffron soup, tiny china cups holding the pickled eggs of guivres, and a fat swan with gilded feet, roasted and sewn back into its own feathered skin. The centerpiece, set down with great ceremony, was a nest woven of willow twigs and filled with ortolans—whole broiled songbirds, blinded and drowned in Armagnac.
The sight of them gave me pause—they were banned in the modern era for the cruelty of their preparation—and when a man in livery offered me a second napkin, I declined. So did Slate. “I have one already,” he said, but I leaned across the table.
“It’s to cover your face while you eat the ortolan, Dad.”
He looked at me askance. “Why?”
Crowhurst answered before I could. “They say it’s to hide your greed from God, though I think it’s because stuffing a whole bird in your mouth looks rather monstrous.”
Slate threw his napkin on his plate. “There goes my appetite.”
I felt queasy too—or was that only nerves? But I wasn’t here to eat. “It’s very impressive,” I said to Crowhurst. “But I hope this isn’t the gift you mentioned.”
“Not at all!” His eyes twinkled; he took his glass and propped one elbow on the table. “The gift I have for you is much more rare than wine and songbirds.”