The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)(64)

I was not careful. I didn’t bother watering the scotch, and I tossed the jacket in a heap in the corner. I even spat a clove onto the floor. It was reckless; it was freeing. I had left my mark. I had been there—I existed.

Taking the bottle with me, I sat at Crowhurst’s desk. I had half a mind to scratch my name into its glossy surface. Instead, I riffled through a stack of papers weighed down by a rough chunk of stone: maps, all in red, just like the one Dahut had given us back in New York. Boring. Next, I went through his drawers for coins; in the top one, I found a gold watch—mercifully wound down—a fancy pen . . . and his logbook.

Should I write a curse in the margins? Flipping through the book, I glared at that ugly black writing. My hand slowed when I recognized her name.

There was a lamp on the table. I flicked the switch and read.

Why name a child Nix? A cipher, nullity, oblivion. Portentous.

If life is a game, is she my opponent?

Mathematical calculations spattered the rest of the page, side by side with a snippet of terrible poetry.

Nix, the word, means nothing, or just no.

But there is something I must learn, or know—

Will my choices cause her soon to go . . . ?

My lip curled back. The man’s mind was clearly diseased. Shuddering, I took another swig of scotch as I turned the page.

The game we call chess is a simplistic version of the Great Game which I shall call COSMIC CHESS the game that is played over and over with infinite patience and no malice. God against the devil, and humanity the pawn.

Each piece has a proscribed set of movements—fate? But the hand moving them—free will?

The rules are complex, but the ending is the same: the game ends when either side captures the king. When the king is threatened, the queen must move.

Queen: Nix.

King: Grandlon?

That was crossed out. Beneath he’d written:

King: James.

I hold the king in check.

I AM A COSMIC BEING.

That last sentence was written in letters two inches high and pressed so hard into the page that they marked the next three. But below, the handwriting changed again—precise and neat:

James has three days; on the fourth, the Friendship sails without him and the game is over. Day One: My Arrival. Day Two: My Return.

Day Three was left blank—but that was tomorrow. Or technically, today. Automatically, I glanced at the nearest clock, but it read just after eight, which was certainly wrong. Still, it was long past midnight.

Considering, I rubbed the paper between my fingers. What did it all mean? It would have been easiest to dismiss the whole thing as mad ranting. But there was something there, something compelling. I turned back in time, past more poetry and mathematics and some notes of the wind speeds and weather, and then—

It is a blessing and a curse to know too much. When knowledge overflows the cup, there’s no room left for faith.

I can see my machinations. Without him, I could not have found Ker-Ys.

Without him . . . without who? His god or someone else? But the rest of the page was blank. I flipped back farther and found more poetry—if you could call it that. A horrible ode to the sea.

Then another sound came—her voice, soft as perfume on a breeze. “Kashmir?”

I sat back in the chair, considering whether or not to answer—half a moment, then another. But why was I pretending I had a choice? I longed to see her face. Even now, the tension in my chest was easing, just knowing she was near. I couldn’t fool anyone if I couldn’t fool myself. “I’ll be right there, amira.”

I stood, hesitating. Then I locked the drawers. I hung the coat back in the closet, watered the scotch, closed the cabinets. I was looking for the clove I’d spat when I heard her footsteps on the stair.

“What in the world?” She ducked through the doorway, peering around the cabin, her expression part fear and part excitement. She shivered as her eyes swept over the clocks on the shelves.

I picked the clove off the floor and slipped it into my pocket. “You knew he was mad.”

“It’s one thing to say it, and another to see it.” Her voice was distracted as she peered at one of the clocks. Then she cursed.

“Is this a bad time?” I said—a silly joke. But she shook her head.

“This one’s not a clock, it’s a barometer, see?” She pointed at the face of it. “The needle’s dropped since yesterday.”

“A storm coming?” I shook my head. “Poetic.”

She only sighed. “What were you doing down here, Kash?”

I considered my answer. “Drinking, amira.”

“Twice in one day?” Her jaw tightened. “Now who sounds like the captain?”

I barked a laugh. “Did you come all the way down here to fight with me?”

She opened her mouth and closed it again. “No.”

“Good. Because I got you a present.” I pointed my chin at the desk, and she followed my eyes. The frustration in her face gave way to delight as she reached not for the logbook, but the maps.

“Cantre’r Gwaelod?” She shuffled through the pages. “And Atlantis! Sunken cities . . . did Dahut draw these?”

“It seems that way,” I said, nonplussed. “But look what else there is.”

She blinked at me, then turned back to the desk. After a moment, she picked up the stone paperweight, holding it to the light. “Boeotia.”