The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)(52)

“Knowledge,” I guessed; in my lap, my fingers twisted in the lace of my dress. “That’s what I came for.”

“Alas, that’s not the gift, but the request.”

I froze in my chair, blinking—the request? But it was Blake who spoke. “And what is it you want to know?”

“The same things you do.” Crowhurst set down his glass and clasped his hands together. His face took on a grandiose expression as he looked around the table, taking us all in one by one. At last, his gaze settled on me. “Ever since my first revelation, when I was nearing the end of the race, I’ve wanted to discover the secrets of what you call Navigation. I’ve spent the last year exploring the limits of our abilities. So far, anything seems possible—”

“Anything, Father?” Dahut’s question was pointed.

“Almost anything,” Crowhurst amended without missing a beat. “But of course, there’s a holy grail in this quest for knowledge. The question we all want to answer . . . all of us who chart courses through time—”

“Changing the past,” Blake said.

“Yes. I’ve done it here, in Ker-Ys, it’s true. But myths are strange things. Malleable. Uncertain. And what I really want to know is whether I can change history itself.”

“What is history but a fable agreed upon?” I said softly—the words were Napoleon’s. But Slate grimaced.

“No, no, no,” he said, putting his hands on the table. “We didn’t come here to help you discover gold in California or buy stock in Apple or whatever scheme you’re dreaming up.”

“Oh, come now, Captain!” Crowhurst tapped the heavy crown on his head. “Money is easy. My dreams are much grander than gold!”

Kashmir shifted in his chair. “What gives you the right to try to alter myth or history?”

“The right?” Crowhurst looked surprised; he glanced from me to Slate, as though we would understand. “The three of us . . . we’re cosmic beings. We might even be gods.”

His voice was pompous, grand. Was it only delusion? But the changes he had wrought were very real; I could still taste the wine on my tongue, and smell the oily scent of the ortolan.

“Christ.” Slate picked up his glass and downed the contents. “You’re even crazier than I am.”

Crowhurst held on to his composure, though his eyes were stony. “Genius is often mistaken for madness, Captain, until the method’s proven. That’s why I need you.”

“You’re not convincing me.” Slate refilled his glass. Wine sloshed onto the table, but Crowhurst waved his words away.

“I wasn’t trying,” he said, meeting my eyes.

I swallowed. “Me?”

“Haven’t you ever wanted to shape the world, Nixie?”

“What the hell are you talking about? Slate said, but I ignored him.

Across from me, Blake sat rapt, his eyes full of wonder; beneath the table, Kashmir took my hand. I squeezed his fingers. “Is that your request, then?” I said. “My help?”

Crowhurst nodded. “It is.”

“Nixie . . .” My father had a warning in his voice, but I didn’t even glance his way.

“Then what’s the gift?”

Crowhurst watched me for a long moment. Then he smiled. “It’s yours either way.” At his gesture, a servant opened the side door. “But maybe I should have called it proof.”

Kashmir seemed to coil in his chair, but Crowhurst was watching the captain, whose hand had stopped, the wine halfway to his lips.

In the doorway stood a strange woman dressed in a simple linen gown. She was clearly not local; her face was delicate and made pale by the black hair hanging loose, like a curtain, to her waist. She was Asian, Chinese most likely, like me.

Or rather . . . half of me.

Slate’s glass shattered on the stone floor. I felt the wine splash my hem, but I didn’t even glance down.

“What do you think, Captain?” Crowhurst’s voice seemed to echo in my ears, from very far away. “Genius or madness? Or does it matter either way?”

My father did not answer. He was white and weak as smoke; his hands shook, but not for opium, not this time. He stood stiffly, quietly, and then, suddenly, with a sob like a shout, he stumbled around the table, glass crunching under his feet.

The woman was smiling.

My mother was smiling.





CHAPTER NINETEEN


I don’t know how long they stood there—my mother and my father—compressed beyond fusion. I was on the perimeter, on the event horizon, where time seemed to stop. And then she looked at me, and all of the air was pulled from the room and the gravity was so strong it was nearly impossible to break away.

But I managed.

My chair fell over with a crash, but I didn’t look back; I was already through the closest door and into an unfamiliar corridor. I took a turn at random, then another, then a left—perhaps it was a right. I stopped paying attention; my only goal was escape. I saw an open archway then, and burst out into the bailey, past guards who watched with impassive eyes. The cold air seized my lungs. Finally I slowed, coughing, panting. My legs shook. The world spun. The air tasted like torch fire and frost. I sank to my knees on the rough granite cobbles.

It was impossible.