The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)(73)

It wasn’t easy to walk away, not with the scent of her skin still lingering on mine. The part of me that was always watching finally understood how the captain spent so much time in the past. I followed Mr. Hart through the cold boathouse, lost in a warm memory.

But when I climbed down the rope into the tunnels, something chilled me. Maybe it was the darkness, almost tangible; maybe it was the weight of the city crouching there above my head. Or maybe it was the distance between me and Nix, growing by the moment. Still, I had made my choice, and so I crept through the shadows toward the castle.

Mr. Hart and I traveled along the sandy waterway by the light of my little glass lamp, following the path he’d marked in his book. Passing beneath the city, I caught a whiff of manure—was there a stable somewhere above? And when we neared the cathedral, the droning song of the monks drifted to my ears. Far down a side tunnel, the wind moaned; closer, water dripped and dropped. Mr. Hart himself was very quiet, and I was almost glad I could not see his face to read his troubled thoughts. I knew he was disappointed, but I did not understand it. Perhaps I did not want to.

I could not fathom a man who would flirt with destruction. What had he lost in Hawaii that was worth risking his life for? I did not ask, and he did not volunteer it. We only traveled silently, side by side in the dark.

Soon enough, we found the stair. At the top, the door stood ajar on crumbling hinges. It opened into a vaulted cellar, the walls of which were lost in the shadows. Curved stone pillars stretched before me like tree trunks in an old forest, away into the gloom.

Here, the wine was stored alongside the dusty dead. In the glow of the sky herring, the empty skulls watched us as we passed. I nodded to them like old friends. I liked to see them—these remains, these reminders of lives lived long ago. Men lived and died every day—how many could say they’d be remembered well?

A glow came again to my chest, and it had nothing to do with the lamp I held.

“This way,” Mr. Hart said, leading me through the cellar to a door of heavy oak. The room behind it was protected by an elaborate lock—a masterwork, at least for the era, though the one I’d taken from my belt might have been a greater challenge.

“Hold this?” I took my picks from my pockets and handed him the lantern.

He raised it high, sharpening the shadows. “Can you see?”

“Yes,” I lied, because I didn’t need to; I could feel the tumblers moving as I worked, quick and sure.

Mr. Hart stood by. “I wonder why Crowhurst didn’t kill him,” he mused, his voice only a whisper in the gloom.

“Cook?” I held my hands steady, though I chewed my lip—it was a very good question. I let my mind wander as I sought the pins. What had the logbook said? “I think he needs him,” I said at last.

“For what?”

“Navigation takes belief, right? But the man has lost his faith—displaced by knowledge or so he said. Maybe he needed someone else to steer him to Ker-Ys. Ah.” The last pin moved. I turned the hook, and the door opened. “Après vous.”

We stepped through the door and into a room so wide that the sound of our footsteps didn’t echo; they merely faded before they reached the walls. The lantern threw shadows up into the ceiling—and down into the pit on the floor, wide as the eye of a giant. Mr. Hart saw it at the same time I did; startled, he drew back, so I took the lead.

It was a circular hole lined with stone, very regular, like an enormous well, though there was no water in it. A stairwell had been built into the side, spiraling down into the gloom. At the bottom of the oubliette, something gleamed, like the toothy fish of the deep sea.

Mr. Hart followed me down. The stone steps were wet with condensation, the air cool and damp on my skin; I could still taste the tang of the sea. As we descended, the glow from the lamp illuminated the riches in the pit: crowns and goblets, coins and platters, bracelets and rings. Any other day I would have lined my pockets with the best of it and returned above, triumphant, but it wasn’t gold that Crowhurst was trying to keep here.

The light was gilded now, brighter. Still, it took me a moment to find what I was looking for—in fact, Mr. Hart noticed him first.

“My god,” he whispered, raising the lantern. On a pile of quilts and furs, a tall man slept. He was young—perhaps only a few years older than me—and unshaven, though he appeared in good health. His clothes were well made: a fine jacket with horn buttons, dark woolen britches . . . and manacles, fastened around both ankles, the chain passing through a ring in the floor. “Is this him?” Mr. Hart said, leaning close. “Is this the man who touched off the theft of Hawaii?”

At his words, Cook stirred, then startled. With a rattle of chains, he scrambled to his feet, holding up one hand against my light. “Who are you?”

“Your saviors,” I replied. “We’ve come to take you back to London.”

“London.” He blinked. “Was I ever in London?”

I froze then, unsure—had Nix been wrong in her guess, or was this only the effect of the Lethe water? But Mr. Hart spoke. “Are you Captain James Cook?”

The man looked at him askance. “That is my name, but I am no captain.” His eyes grew distant then. “Though I’ve always dreamed of going to sea.”

“It’s your lucky day.” Crouching, I took hold of one of the manacles. “There’s a ship waiting for us at the dock. We’ll get you out of here. Mr. Hart, bring the light closer.” Focused as I was on unlocking the irons, I didn’t notice that he hadn’t obeyed until the first manacle fell away. “Mr. Hart?”