The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)(63)

“She was a cautious person herself. But perhaps she wanted me to have a better life than she did. She hated everything about your father, except how he made me feel.” She took another sip and sighed. “Love is a beautiful drug. Very addictive.”

I nearly smiled. “Are you going to tell me to just say no?”

“Too late for that, don’t you think? It’s interesting.” She inspected the bottom of her cup, then scraped the wet leaves out onto the tray. “The moment a new patron walked into the shop, I could always tell whether or not they’d be able to leave. I was never wrong. That’s how I knew I could love your father.”

I couldn’t help it: my mouth twisted. “Because you knew he wouldn’t leave?”

She looked up, surprised. “Because I knew he could—if he chose to.”

“But he never did.”

“When a captain goes down with his ship, it isn’t because he doesn’t know how to swim.”

I made a face. “That’s heartening.”

“I think so. Because it’s never up to you what happens. Your only choice is what to do when it does. What kind of person will you decide to be?”

“You saw the tattoo.”

“Yes.” She poured a fresh cup, her dark hair falling over one shoulder. We were quiet for a while. Coals glowed in the ashes as the fire died. I tried the tea. It was warm and mellow. “It must have been a hard life for you,” she said then. “He kept a place for me. All these years.”

An understatement. “He did.”

“Maybe he shouldn’t have.”

“What? No.” The response was immediate, and very different from what it might have been yesterday. Was Kashmir right? Had I ever wished Slate hadn’t loved her? “No,” I said again, more strongly. “Why would you say that?”

“I see on his face what these years did to him. I see in your eyes what they did to you. How different would your life have been if John had forgotten me?”

Tears threatened again at the thought; my throat closed, trying to shut them off. Different . . . yes, but not better, not now that I knew what he and I had missed. I couldn’t say so, so I tried to laugh. “John?” The word was strange in my mouth: short, chipped. “I’ve never heard anyone call the captain that.”

“Is that what you call him? Captain? Not Father?”

“Sometimes I call him Slate.”

She hooked a finger behind the long fall of dark hair and tucked it behind her ear. “And what will you call me?”

In her black eyes, a guardedness like a bird with its head cocked, peering through the branches. I tried out the words in my head. . . . Mother. Mama. Mom. “I’d like to call you Lin. For now.”

She nodded—on her face, relief mingled with disappointment. “Now is what we have,” she said, and I blinked at her, surprised to hear my own words echoed in her voice. “Then again,” she added, giving me a small smile. “Perhaps now is all we need.”

Was it true? It felt that way. Something in my chest eased, and I dared to smile back. Then I downed my tea and stood.

“Where are you going?” she said to me as I went to the door.

“Back to my ship.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


KASHMIR

I had stormed out of Nix’s room like a child, but the winter wind cooled my temper, and by the time I reached the wharf, I had almost put her words out of my head—almost.

Then I saw the Temptation gleaming like fool’s gold on the black water, and my anger returned. The ship was hers too; everything was hers. The room where I slept, the life she had saved . . . had she created it in the first place? And even now, my heart. All hers.

I was not a jealous man—it wouldn’t bother me at all if only I had something of my own. So what was mine? The coat I wore? Bought with stolen gold. The money in my pocket? Taken from the harbormaster. I pulled out the handful of tarnished silver; it gleamed dully in the moonlight. I cast the coins into the harbor like dice, like bones. They tumbled into the water and I watched the ripples disappear as though they’d never been.

What would Nix do if she learned how to change the past? The fact that I might not remember was not a comfort to me. But I was a man from nowhere, with nothing to offer her. Maybe I would be easy to forget. I stared at the Temptation, listening to the waves assault the walls of the city, but I couldn’t bring myself to climb the gangplank. Instead, I continued down the pier to board the Dark Horse.

I did it just to spite her captain. Though the yacht was sleek and rich, I didn’t want to keep anything Crowhurst had touched. But I hated the man—his smug face, the smokescreen of generosity that clouded his machinations, and most of all, the fact that he had brought us here.

Ready to do damage, I barged into his cabin, but I stopped just past the stair. The room was beautiful—teak and chrome, with wide windows, soft bunks, and a wooden desk. But the shelves were covered with ticking clocks.

There were dozens of them, of all makes and models. They hissed and whispered, cursed and hushed. The movement of their hands was like the scuttling of insects, and none were set to the same time. My skin crawled; it took all my willpower not to turn around and race back to the Temptation.

To steady my nerves, I started picking locks—cupboards, drawers, and ah, the liquor cabinet. A sip of scotch settled me further. I thumbed through his bookshelf: The Odyssey, The Voyage of Vasco de Gama, The Last Flight of Amelia Earhart. The Odyssey I knew—the myth of Odysseus—Nix spoke of it often. The other names were only vaguely familiar—I was sure she had mentioned them, but I couldn’t remember why. No matter. Calmer now, I pawed through Crowhurst’s closet, trying on his finest jacket—combed wool and black buttons, too short in the arms.