The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)(92)

“Will you try?”

I hesitated—not because I did not know the answer, but because I did not want to say it aloud. A smile crept across her lips. “Have another cup, if you like, and maybe I can tell you.”

“No,” I said then, straightening up. “But thank you.” The chimes rang as I passed through the door; as I walked through the streets of old Honolulu, the sound of the bells stayed with me all the way back to the ship.

Blake was still there, standing at the rail; I passed him right by on the way to the captain’s . . . to my cabin. Inside, Kash slept on the bunk, a copy of The Little Prince held loosely in his hand.

Quietly I went to the table, where our next map already lay—one I’d taken from Crowhurst’s yacht: New York, 2016, the lines inked in red. Dahut’s version of the map Blake had made. I was studying it when a soft knock came at the door. “Yes?”

The door opened; there was Blake, standing on the threshold, holding Kashmir’s Panama hat in his hands. My entire body tensed; I wasn’t ready. Still, here he was, at my door, and he did not speak, so I did. “What do you want, Blake?”

He spun the hat as I waited for an answer. “I want to go,” he said at last.

“Go where?”

“Home.”

“Home?” My mouth twisted. “Where’s that?”

“I have no place aboard your ship.”

“My ship.” My voice broke on the words like waves on a shore. “You want to go back to your own timeline? They’ll recognize you from the theft.”

“Not if we give it a few years. Say, 1892.”

Something about the way he said it—his tone, too casual—made me take another look. In his eyes, the regret echoed my own, reverberating in my chest until I felt like I might crack in two. To cover, I went to rummage through the remaining maps of Hawaii. “That’s a dangerous year, with the revolution. And here, look . . . 1895.”

Blake came to stand beside me, and when he spoke, his voice was soft. “It has to be before 1892.”

“We don’t have a map of 1892. You’ll have to wait until we reach it on my native timeline—that’s nearly six years.”

“I can be patient.”

Gritting my teeth, I rounded on him. “Why would you join the Wilcox rebellion? Don’t you remember? They failed. Seven men died.”

“Your book said eight, Miss Song.”

I stared at him; he did not flinch. “You think I’ll help you martyr yourself?” I said at last. “Now? When I’ve lost so much?”

“Lost so much because of me.”

“Because of you?” Hearing him say it shook something loose in me. “He—he made a choice too, Blake. Don’t take that from him.”

“And don’t take mine from me, Miss Song.” For a long time we stood there, eyes locked, but I was the first to turn away. Gently, I slid the map of 1895 back into the cupboard. Then I swallowed, blinking rapidly, focusing on the porthole, the desk—and Crowhurst’s flask full of Lethe water, glowing in the golden light of afternoon.

I had not thought to give it to Joss, for it was not half so tempting as the Mnemosyne. Or at least, it hadn’t been. I took it up, rubbing my thumb over the warm copper. Then I shook my head and threw it into the cupboard below the desk. “I have time to change your mind.”

“You may try, Miss Song.”

I shut the cupboard and dashed away my tears with the back of my hand. “Maybe a visit to New York will help. I know how much you liked the city.”

“New York?”

“Slate will need his map. The one of 1868. He left it behind when he . . . he left it behind.”

“Slate?” Blake stepped closer, hesitant. “You think he survived?”

My heart squeezed like a fist; his words choked me. I closed my eyes and saw my father’s face—the smile as he said his last words to me: I love you, Nixie. “He dies in 1868, in Joss’s opium den. Not at sea. He was lost, but he survived.”

“So we’ll wait for him there? In New York?”

“We will. But not forever.” I sighed. “There’s still something to be said for letting go.”

“I agree with you there.” Blake smiled a little and put his hat back on his head. He made a little bow on his way out. I shut the door behind him and leaned my head against it.

“Must we lose him too, amira?” Kash had propped himself up on one elbow, and he watched me with sorrow in his green eyes.

Pushing off the door, I sank down beside him on the edge of the bed, gathering one of his hands in mine. “We all have to make our own choices.”

Kashmir sighed, brushing my hand against his lips. “Then what’s next? After New York?”

“I don’t know,” I said softly. “But we have time to figure it out.”





AUTHOR’S NOTE


The border between myth and history is less like a line drawn on a map and more like the Margins themselves—uncertain gray areas that shift over time. History is indeed written by the victors—or more accurately, the dominant culture—and even primary documents can be influenced by the worldview of their authors. So in this book, what do we consider myth and what do we agree is history?