The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)(58)

“The idea of infinite worlds, infinite universes . . . it isn’t new to me, but it’s not the only theory.” I sighed. “Some people think worlds are stacked thick as books in a library, and each choice you make creates a new story. But others think there’s only one world. One book.”

“And the arrival of a Navigator tears out whole pages?”

“Not on purpose. But even the smallest change might have unintended consequences.” I bit my lip. “I don’t know what your dream means—if it’s a memory of a life that might have been, or one that was until I arrived. But my father told me, and my grandmother told him, whenever you try to change something, you sacrifice something else.”

“Every choice has a cost, Miss Song. The real question is whether or not one is willing to pay it.”

“No, Blake. The real question is whether it’s worth the price.”

“I wonder what Crowhurst sacrificed, to be king.”

“We should ask him,” I said. “Though that’s not first on my list of questions.”

“So you do want to know more,” he said softly, and I could not deny it.

At the end of the hall, we found a tower. The stairs curled down inside it like the shell of a nautilus. Blake followed me down—one flight, two flights, three. At the bottom, I recognized the arched doorway. “Do you remember this, from our first visit?” I glanced back. Blake’s brow was furrowed. “The bailey is just through the kitchens.” But crossing through them, I stopped dead in my tracks. Blake bumped into my back.

“Speak of the devil,” he whispered under his breath. There in the kitchen was Crowhurst.

He held a tray, and in the dim light of the banked hearth, he looked as surprised as I felt. But hadn’t Dahut told me? Her father rarely slept. “Where are you both off to?” he said at last, glancing from me to Blake.

“I’m escorting Miss Song back to the docks. And you?”

Crowhurst hesitated, just a moment. “A midnight snack. With all the conversation over dinner, I forgot to eat.”

Blake glanced at the tray he held. It was stacked with dirty plates, including a teapot and two cups. “You must love tea.”

Crowhurst barked a laugh; the sound flitted through the dark like a bat. “I am an Englishman, of course I do! As does my daughter—I was with her.” He turned back to me, concern etching a V on his brow. “But surely your own father wouldn’t want you out in the middle of the night! Aren’t your rooms comfortable?”

“They’re fine,” I said quickly. “Everything’s fine, I’m just . . . I’m having trouble sleeping. I’m not used to being indoors.”

“Well,” he said, setting the tray down on the wide table. “There’s a beautiful library on the second floor, and the ceiling is painted with stars. May I show you?”

Blake looked to me for the answer, but I could see the eagerness in his expression. It had nothing to do with paintings or books—I knew, for it must have mirrored my own. “I’d like that,” I said.

“Excellent.” Crowhurst clasped his hands and ushered us back toward the stairs. “Safer this way.”

“Oh?” Blake cocked his head. “I thought Ker-Ys was supposed to be a utopia.”

“Don’t you think it is? A healthy population. Rare goods. Beautiful architecture.”

And man-eating wolves, I did not add, nor did I mention the mermaid tails nailed above doorways, or the suspicious stares of the townspeople. “Yet you worry the town is dangerous at night.”

“I don’t want to risk it,” he said, leading us into another long hall. “Not after I’ve spent so much time looking for you!”

Blake frowned. “Looking for . . . Miss Song?”

“Well. For others like her,” he amended, glancing at me. “Like us.”

The torches guttered in the drafts, and shadows played like dark sprites in the corners. I pulled Blake’s coat more tightly around my shoulders. “When I was younger, I thought my father was the only one in the world who could do what he does.”

He chuckled. “Daughters are like that with their fathers, aren’t they?”

“I guess,” I said, trying to keep my face neutral. If Crowhurst noticed my dubious tone, he didn’t give any indication.

“It is a solitary endeavor, I suppose. I might have drawn the same conclusion myself,” he added. “Except that I met another on one of my first journeys.”

“Another Navigator?” I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice. “Where?”

“Ancient Greece. Boeotia, to be specific.”

“Boeotia? Near the oracle? Why was he there? And how did you know he was a Navigator?” The words tumbled out of me, one after the other; as they did, a smile spread down Crowhurst’s face. “I’m sorry,” I added then, breathless. “I just haven’t met many others and I—I have a lot of questions.”

He waved away my apology. “There were . . . certain signs. The clothing, for example. Wasn’t from the era. But we didn’t talk much. Still, after that, I knew I wasn’t the only one. Here’s the library,” he added then, pushing open a heavy wooden door and ushering us inside.

The room was rectangular, with a barrel-shaped ceiling, and it was indeed painted with the constellations: the boreal hemisphere stitched with the signs of zodiac. The wall on the right was made of tall Gothic windows; an ornate desk sat beneath them, angled to catch the best daylight. On the left side of the room, just beneath the cove and all the way to the floor, the wall was lined with polished wooden shelves filled with books.