The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)(61)

Making a face, I sat on the bed. “I know, I know. Crowhurst is dangerous.”

Concern flickered across Kashmir’s face. “What happened?”

“Nothing! Nothing yet. But something will in two days, though he won’t tell me what.” The mattress sank as Kash sat beside me, and his shoulder brushed mine. He had taken off his red coat; I could feel the warmth of his skin through the thin cotton of his white shirt. My hands held each other in my lap, though I longed to hold his instead. “What do you mean, he cuts out her memories?”

“In her diary. He tears out pages and writes in his own stories. He altered the myth of Ker-Ys and named himself as king.”

I swore under my breath, the curse a hollow susurration in the room. “So that’s how he does it.”

“You already knew?”

“Crowhurst admitted as much. Now I know why he hasn’t helped her get better.”

“Help her?” He raised an eyebrow. “Is that possible?”

“It should be. We have half a dozen maps that we could try.”

“Then we should do it.” His voice was urgent; he turned to me with new energy. “Take her away with us. Give her back her memories.”

“Take her away?” I leaned back. “You mean kidnap her?”

“If we asked her to come, I think she’d say yes.”

I frowned as something clicked in my mind. “You were with her tonight?”

“Earlier.” He shifted, suddenly cautious. “It wasn’t like that, amira—”

“I know.” I held up my hand to forestall his explanation. “But when?”

“A few hours ago.”

“Crowhurst told me they were having tea together.”

“So?”

Squeezing my eyes shut, I rubbed my hand over my forehead. “So he’s lying.”

“We already knew that.”

I sighed and let my hand drop, folding it around his. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should take her somewhere else. He might never know, but I would.”

“Know what?”

“Whether or not the past can be changed.” Running my thumb over the white scars on his knuckles, I stared down at our fingers, entwined, remembering how Kashmir’s hand had slipped from mine in the Margins—how I’d thought he might be gone. I tightened my grip. “If we take Dahut away from Ker-Ys, she can’t open the sea gates. The city is safe and the myth is altered and I’ll know for certain that fate isn’t inevitable.”

“Is that the only thing that matters to you?”

“Not the only thing. But it’s close.” I looked up at him, filling my eyes with the sight of his face. “I can’t lose you, Kashmir. I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“What?” A cold feeling in my chest—unsettled. “Kashmir, you know how I feel—”

“Tell me then, so I can hear it from you.”

“I . . . I . . .” I bit my lip, the words were there, in my heart, but they stuck in my throat. As the moments passed, the hope in his face turned to sorrow.

“Do you regret it, amira?”

“Regret . . . what?”

“Meeting me. Knowing me.” He searched my face. “Loving me.”

Everything seemed to stop at the word; it hung in the air between us, tangible and real. “No,” I said at last. “No.”

“But you fear you will someday. That’s why you hold back. That’s why you want to know you can change things before you commit.” He let go of my hand and stood. The distance between us ached like the cold of a winter sea. “You watched your father chase your mother for years, and you wished he didn’t love her. What will you do to my memory when I’m gone? Will you chase it like a dragon? Or will you banish it like smoke?”

“I’m not going to lose you!”

“I know when you’re lying, so tell me the truth. Why am I the only thing in your life not worth any risk?”

“No. Kash—” My voice broke. “Kashmir, that’s why we’re still here. I would risk anything for you.”

“Anything but loss.”

I felt the blood leave my face. Words deserted me.

Kashmir shook his head. “I’m going to the ship. I can’t sleep under this roof.”

“Wait—” But he had already opened the door, slipping out without even the decency to slam it behind him. “Come back!”

He did not.

Grabbing the candle, I yanked open the door just in time to see the one to the hall closing; Kashmir wasn’t there in the parlor.

But my mother was.

She was kneeling at the hearth, pulling a copper pot off the coals of the fire. She rose and turned toward me, every movement graceful. “Only lovers fight like that.”

“What can I say?” I shifted, fists clenched, on guard. “I’m a fighter, not a lover.”

Her laugh was light, like chimes. “Your father used to say the opposite. Would you like some tea?”

Part of me wanted to flee back to my room; another part wanted to rush after Kashmir, though would I be able to say the words he needed to hear? Instead, I took one step, then another. The third came easier still. Finally I was close enough to set the candle down on the table near the chaise, where a tray held a fine porcelain tea service. “Okay.”