The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)(77)

The rest of us followed, trying our best to avoid touching the dank scum on the stone walls. It wasn’t hard to recall the map that Blake had drawn, and I led the crew quickly, safely through the tunnels. I could hear the washing of the waves on the gates, and I envisioned a wall of water sweeping us away any moment. When we emerged at last from the warehouse, relief flooded through me.

Overhead, the clouds were dark and lowering; the wind was knotting them into a storm. The harbor was dark, the fishermen nowhere to be seen—only a fool would brave this sea in a skiff. But the wharf was not entirely deserted. As we approached the Temptation, my heart stuttered at the sight of the man standing on the stern. I recognized his face from paintings—the hooked nose, the piercing eyes.

I realized then that I’d held out a slip of hope that I’d been wrong about Crowhurst’s plot, that the responsibility of rescuing Cook would not fall to me. One of the greatest navigators to have lived—a man who found worlds only to help destroy them. Had Blake been right? Should we have left him in the pit? I could not risk it—but I was not proud of that fact.

As we reached the gangplank, Slate recognized him too, and his feelings were much less mixed. “Good goddamn,” he said as came down the pier. “Captain Cook!”

Cook regarded Slate, confusion on his face. “Why does everyone call me captain?”

“Aren’t you?” Slate turned to me. “Isn’t he?”

Before I could explain, the tidal bells began to ring. A deep rumble juddered up through the belly of the ship as the gates ground open, and the wind barged into the harbor. On the horizon, the sky was a threat the sea would make good on. Even at low tide, the swells were strong. But as I scanned the black water, squinting, I saw them: the Fool’s ghostly lights.

She’d held back, away from the walls—a safe choice in the gathering storm, with the currents and the tides driving at the rocks. Would Gwenolé come into port now that the gates were open? But this was not a time to wait and wonder. I turned to Cook, who stood on the deck beside me, watching the sea with awe. “Where are the boys?” I asked him.

“Who?”

“Blake and Kashmir. The boys who rescued you. Where are they?”

Cook turned to me, his eyes hollow. “Last I saw, one had shot the other.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


KASHMIR

The pain was deeper than a blade—raw and shocking, and it did not fade, even when my arm went numb. And there was a strange feeling in my chest, a heaviness, as though I couldn’t catch my breath. But the bullet had only hit my shoulder—nothing vital, or so I hoped. I clung to that as I gritted my teeth, curled on a bed of gold.

I could still hear the roar of the gun echoing in my ear, and strangely, Mr. Hart’s voice.

“My god,” he had whispered. “My god.”

But he was gone now. Wasn’t he? Run off after Cook—but not right away. He’d waited long enough to take my picks and close the manacle around my ankle. At least he’d bound my shoulder, staunching the flow of blood. Still, I was dizzy . . . light-headed . . . cold . . .

I wished I could get his voice out of my head.

But wishing did little good. I gathered my strength and struggled up to one elbow, gasping as fresh blood soaked the binding. After the dizziness passed, I searched for something I could use on the manacles. Pawing through the pile of treasure, I tossed aside diamond-crusted rings and opals like eggs; I would have traded it all for a bent pin. I was so focused on the search that I didn’t notice Mr. Hart’s return until he spoke.

“Looking for something, Mr. Firas?” His voice drifted down from the stairs.

“A key.” I didn’t bother looking up. “I can’t let your smug face be the last one I see.”

Mr. Hart didn’t laugh—but behind him, Crowhurst did. “What about mine?”

I sprang to my feet, and immediately regretted it. Bending double, I tried to catch my breath. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see them both, and Dahut too. Hopeful, I lifted my face, but her own was blank, and a little afraid. It was then that I recognized the strange, heavy feeling I’d had. It was despair.

“It won’t be either of us,” Mr. Hart said softly. “Miss Song will come back for you.”

“I know it,” I said. “But she’s smarter than the two of you together. She’ll find a way to get Cook to safety first.”

Crowhurst only smiled. “She’s a worthy opponent. A true queen.” He took the crown from his own head and put it down on mine. “But now I have her king.”

Painfully, I straightened my back, so I wasn’t bowing before him. For good measure, I spat at Crowhurst’s feet. He only made a face.

“One more thing,” he said calmly, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and using it to wipe his shoe. As he did, his keys jingled in his pocket. “Mr. Hart told me you have my daughter’s diary. She’d like it back.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, angling my body slightly, as though trying to hide the location of the book.

“Where is it?”

I spat again, and he lost his temper, bulling into me. The pain rattled my teeth, but I pretended to flail as he searched my pockets. Finally he found the diary, pulling it free and shoving me away. I fell, not entirely by accident, but I was breathing hard now. That was not a trick.