by Heidi Heilig
“He said you might. And I know he’d like to talk to you.”
“Oh?”
She laughed a little. “I almost forgot to mention it. There’s a dinner tonight. You and your father are both invited. He has something for you. A gift, and a request.”
I almost asked her what they were, but she would have told me if she’d known. I sighed, running my hand through my hair. I knew the gift, at least. Crowhurst had already offered me knowledge in his letter—it was the reason I had brought us here. But what was the request? Kashmir’s words came back to me: people do not offer great things without great cost.
And yet.
I had come so far, and the destination was so close. If I left now, without knowing for certain, would I regret it for the rest of my life? I glanced over at Slate—the gesture was almost automatic, but the sight of him made my jaw clench. I couldn’t follow the same route as my father.
“Does it make him strange?” Dahut was staring at Slate too, peering into the darkened alcove. “The—the Navigating?”
“Strange how?”
“Intense. Like a fire with too much fuel.”
“Sometimes. But I don’t know if it’s the Navigation or the . . . or something else.”
“Something else?”
“He misses my mother,” I said at last, which was only part of the truth, but the only part I felt comfortable admitting.
Dahut arched an eyebrow. “But you don’t.”
“I never knew her.”
“I never knew mine,” she said, her voice softening. “At least, I don’t remember knowing her. But I miss her just the same.” Then she sighed. “I know my father misses the rest of his family. Maybe that’s what makes them odd—your father and mine. Something missing.”
“Something missing, indeed.” I made a face. “Though it does appear Navigation has some . . . unexpected side effects.”
“Can you do it?”
“Do what?”
She made a vague gesture. “Navigate.”
“Yes.”
Her breath caught in her throat; her voice came out a whisper. “Then maybe you can help me.”
“I might, if you could remember what you wanted.”
“Can’t you guess? My head. My memories!” Urgently, she took my hands. “There must be a way to help me get better!”
“I . . .” I was about to protest, but there were cures we could try: the panacea, the Aquae Sulis, the earth and spittle of Egyptian medicine, even the vial of mercury from Qin’s tomb—any number of solutions on any number of maps. But would they work if the problem was born of Navigation itself? I licked my lips as the next thought came to me. “Has your father ever tried to help?”
She stiffened, and as the silence stretched, I felt my cheeks go pink. “Maybe you should ask him that,” she said at last. “He never answers me.”
“Maybe I will.”
She took a deep breath, her slim shoulders rising and falling under the heavy velvet. “So you’ll join us tonight?”
“Yes.” I clenched my fists at my side, resolved. Was that excitement in my stomach, or trepidation? “But the captain will stay behind.”
“Why?”
“He—he should rest,” I said, which was not a lie. “And anyway, I’m the one with the questions.”
“What do you want to know so badly?”
I led her to the door, though I hesitated on the threshold. Could I tell her? Perhaps she already knew—or wouldn’t even remember. But more than anything, I wanted to share the thought. Excitement crept into my voice as I spoke. “I think . . . I think Crowhurst has found a way to change the past.”
Her eyebrows went up, but she did not seem as thrilled as I was—she only pressed her lips together, and her large eyes dimmed. “So there’s something missing for you too.”
I stiffened, but she said nothing more as she went down the gangplank. Two guards waited for her on the pier; when one of them caught my stare, I turned back into the cabin. Then I startled. My father stood by his bed, swaying on his feet.
“Nixie,” he growled, and his eyes were fever bright. “You’re not the only one with questions.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
In my father’s voice, an accusation. But both Sun Tsu and Machiavelli knew the best defense was a good offense. I attacked. “Go back to sleep, Slate. I’m doing fine without you.”
He took a breath to respond, then coughed into his fist—just standing had taken so much out of him. But he was fueled now by an inner fire—that old familiar drive—and he did not back down. “And what the hell are you doing, exactly, on this godforsaken rock?”
“Looking for answers.”
“Don’t play games! What did you mean about Crowhurst?”
I clenched my jaw—there was no use denying what he’d heard. “He told me he knows how to change things, Dad. I’m going to learn if that’s true.”
“And then what?”
Slate’s expression was half disbelieving, half mocking, and I faltered—but of course he knew what I would change. I lifted my chin. “Then I’ll be the master of my fate. Captain of my own damn soul.”
“What happened to all your grand arguments about unmaking the world?”
“What happened to your quest to save the one you love?
His face paled, but his eyes caught fire. “You’ve fought me for years, but now that it’s about Kashmir—”
“What did you really expect, Slate?” My voice shocked me—the anger in it. “After all this time watching you, what did you think I would do?”
“I don’t know!” he shouted, flinging his arms into the air. “Maybe learn from my mistakes?”
“I did,” I shot back. “Just not the lessons you thought. And now I have the chance to learn from experience.”
“From Donald Crowhurst? Nixie.” Slate shook his head in disbelief. “He’s crazy.”
I gave him a significant look. “Yeah, well, speaking of which . . .” I tossed his map on the table. “I got this back for you. And who knows? If I learn how to change the past, maybe we go find Lin next.”
“Find . . . Lin?” He blinked at me, brought up short, and his voice was suddenly soft. His entire demeanor had changed at the sound of her name. “And what? Stay in Hawaii instead?”
“It depends, doesn’t it?”
“On what?”
“On what’s possible.” I turned then, unable to watch his face, the hope growing in his eyes. “Stay here if you want. I’m going.”
“Are you kidding me?” He went to the closet, picking a shirt from the floor and giving it a sniff. “I’ll be ready in five.”
Frustrated, I stormed out through the doorway and stomped down the ladder to find a change of clothes. I was halfway into a dress when I heard voices abovedecks—Kashmir’s low comment, Blake’s quick retort, and then . . . laughter? I poked my head out of Kashmir’s door as the boys slid down the ladder, grinning. Clutching the frothy lace of the dress in front of my chest, I leaned into the hall. “Where have you two been?”
“Drinking, amira!”
I made a face. “I wish you’d brought me along.”
Kashmir’s lanky body stilled; he frowned at me. Behind him, Blake’s eyes flicked down to my bare shoulders, then quickly back up. “What’s the occasion, Miss Song?”
“Dinner with the king.”
“Really?” Blake’s face was eager. But Kash raised an eyebrow, affecting a casual disdain.
“Isn’t that just what you wanted, amira?”
I sighed and hiked my dress higher. “Slate’s coming too.”
“Ah.” Kashmir tilted his head, his green eyes softening. It struck me then—he missed so little. He must have known how worried I’d been. “Well. It’s a pretty dress, but of course you can’t go to dinner at a palace without your best accessory.”
“Which is?”
“A handsome man on your arm.”
I raised my eyebrows, but a smile tugged at the corners of my lips. “And where
could I find one of those?”
Kash gave a half shrug and turned to Blake. “Do you think Rotgut’s free?”
“Maybe one of the fishermen at the bar,” Blake suggested, grinning. “After all, a lady can’t be expected to attend dinner with a strange man without an escort.”
“My father will be there,” I reminded them.
“Is there any man stranger?” Kash laughed as I smacked him, almost losing hold of my gown. “All right, all right, amira! I’ll come to dinner!”
“I will too, if you’ve got a free arm,” Blake said. “I’m eager to meet Crowhurst. And I’ll make sure Mr. Firas doesn’t steal the silver.”
Kashmir pretended to kick him, and Blake laughed as he dodged down the hall toward his room. I stared at Kash, half amused, half amazed. “How much did you two drink?”
He gave me a crooked smile. “Not enough to miss your wardrobe malfunction.”
I passed a hand over my eyes. “It’s all these damn buttons.”
“Laisse moi.” Kash shooed me away from the door.
I turned, pulling the embroidered sleeves up over my arms—they lay just off the shoulder, creating a wide, scooped neckline. Kashmir shut the door and stood behind me, his knuckles grazing my bare skin as he started on the buttons at the small of my back. I bit my lip, trying not to shiver, hoping he didn’t notice my goose bumps. “What were you and Blake talking about at the tavern?”
“Killing each other.”
“What?” I half turned, but he tugged at the row of button loops; I could hear the smile in his voice.
“I think a world exists where he and I could be great friends. Hopefully this is that world.” He hesitated, just a moment. “He did notice something interesting. It seems we both remember the past—the real past. The one you remember.”
“Really?” Relief welled up in my chest.
“Baleh. But only as one remembers a dream.”
“But that’s still good,” I said, hopeful. “At least the memory isn’t gone.”
“For better or for worse,” he said. Reaching my shoulder blades, he paused to brush my hair aside, his touch feather soft. “I wonder if there are some things I would rather forget.”
My hand found the pendant at my throat. “Like what?”
“Perhaps that’s a story best left for another day.” He sighed then, and his breath was warm on my shoulders. Gently he adjusted the lie of the fabric against my skin, smoothing it down my back. “Turn around?”
I did, sweeping the waterfall bustle behind me; the skirt was a lacy dimity cotton the color of cream, more nineteenth century than seventeenth, but it was my best gown. And after seeing Crowhurst’s yacht, it seemed pointless to stick to one era in clothing.
Kashmir’s eyes swept down from my throat to my hips to the lace of the hem. “Lovely,” he murmured.
“This is the one you helped design, remember? Back in Hawaii.”
“Ah, yes. But I wasn’t talking about the dress.” He grinned, elbowing me, and I smiled back.
“Thank you,” I said. “For coming with me tonight. I know you don’t trust Crowhurst.”
“Exactly why I would not let you go alone. We may not agree, but you are my captain,” he said simply. “I will always follow you.”
There was a feeling in my stomach—like being at the crest of a wave: ready to fly, frightened to fall. I fell. “You’d best get dressed, then.”
“Right.” He turned to rummage in his closet, but not before the light went out of his eyes. “We don’t want to keep the king waiting.”
Topside, my father was pacing the deck. He’d put on an old pair of dark breeches and a high-collared black jacket; they were good pieces, but they hung loose on his frame. When was the last time he’d eaten? But he’d brushed his hair and shined his shoes, and energy hummed through his body; he was alive once more. “Let’s go!” he said, starting for the gangplank the moment he saw my head pop through the hatch.
“We’re waiting on Blake and Kash,” I said. He swore, though he did not protest. I watched him as he went back to pacing. The reddish-blond beard he’d been growing since Honolulu had gotten quite thick. Beards were practically a requirement for men of the era, but with the myth of Ker-Ys in the back of my mind, I half wanted to ask him to shave. And when Kash followed Blake through the hatch in a scarlet frock coat with gold-embroidered cuffs, a shiver skittered up my spine. “No. Not red.”
Kash raised an eyebrow, but Slate had already surged forward, like a dog released from a leash. “We’re going to be late!” he said, striding onto the wharf without looking back.
We hurried behind him, leaving Bee and Rotgut playing chess belowdecks, with Billie sleeping atop their feet. When I’d asked if they wanted to come, Bee had given me a dark look. “We’ll stay with the ship, my girl.”
“What’s bothering you?”
“I don’t like the way these people sneer,” she’d said. “They whisper behind their hands. They won’t meet my eyes. I don’t want to walk about at night.”
“I’m sorry, Bee.”
She’d only waved her hand. “It’s not the first time and place this has happened. But as a utopia, it could use some work.”
Sure enough, as we made our way up the Grand Rue in our finery, people stared as we passed, their eyes dark pits in pale faces. As usual, Kashmir drew the most attention; he walked with his head high, striking in his red jacket and his black boots, seeming not to notice the glances—not even the ones I cast from under the hood of my cloak.
But as we neared the castle, the sound of music drifted to my ears, providing a welcome distraction, and when we reached the square, I gasped at the sight. The town had gathered under the velvet sky to hold a celebration in honor of the king. Bonfires roared on the corners, reaching to the sky to scatter embers like confetti. A giant pig turned on a spit in front of the cathedral, and tables groaned with pastries and cheeses, sausage and puddings, and platters of stewed fruit and nuts. Men in rich velvets danced with women gowned in shimmering sea silk, and musicians made their instruments sing: violins and pipes, lyres and flutes, tambourines and bells and a drum half the height of a very tall man.
And the château—so different tonight! Light glowed in each of the tall arched windows, and the portcullis was guarded by two men in blue-and-red uniforms. Torchlight glinted off the tips of their pikes. They saluted as we approached, striking the ground with the butts of their weapons. One escorted us across the bailey toward the great hall, though I could have guessed our destination; bright light and music spilled from the open archway. I hesitated outside, tangled in my memories of the morning. When I finally stepped through the doorway, I couldn’t help but stare.
The smell of decay, the huge wolf, the dead man . . . all were gone. The enormous hearths bracketing the room were crackling, not with dry leaves but with merry flames, and rich tapestries undulated in the warm current of air. In the corner, a young man strummed a lute, while on the ceiling, the painted mermaids splashed in bright pools. A hundred candles dripped fire from each chandelier, and the long table was laid at one end with porcelain plates rimmed in gold.
How had it all changed so fast? Even the army of servants carrying platters to the sideboard couldn’t have cleaned it up so quickly. The floor was polished, the broken chairs restored. It was like magic—it was magic, wrought by some trick of Navigation.
I stood, dizzy in the sudden warmth and the unexpected luxury. Was this how myths originated? Was Navigation where rumors of magic began?
“Welcome! Welcome!” At the head of the table, Crowhurst stood to greet us. For all the pomp, he had changed out of the blue dress coat and into a twentieth-century jacket and tie—something from his own era, perhaps—though he still wore his crown and the livery collar. The thick chain gleamed in the low light, and as he approached, I noticed that, rather than a kingly pendant, the device hanging from the chain was an old copper flask stamped with a scrolling Greek key design. He thrust out his hand. “Captain Slate! P
leasure to see you again. And Nixie. Nixie, such a joy.”
I tried to keep my face neutral. “Your Majesty.”
“None of that, none of that!” The man wrinkled his nose and flapped his hands as though the word had left an odor in the air. “Call me Donald.”
“I know who you are,” Slate muttered.
I shot him a look, but Blake stepped in. “They call you Grand l’Un in the city,” he said smoothly.
“I know! It gave me a bit of a shock to hear that name, but apparently it means Great One in the local dialect. I suppose King Donald doesn’t sound quite right. And you know Dahut.” She nodded at his gesture, and when her eyes met mine, I was glad to see a glint of familiarity. Then Crowhurst turned to Kashmir and extended his hand. “And . . . ?”
I made the introductions. Blake bowed at the waist like a gentleman, and Kashmir was all charm, bending low over the princess’s wrist and coaxing out a smile. Crowhurst greeted them both warmly—if he was surprised I’d brought guests, he did not show it.
After the formalities, Crowhurst slid into his chair and picked up a bottle. “Come,” he said, tipping it into the cut crystal glasses. Under his fingers, I read the label: CHTEAU D’YQUEM, 1811. “Let’s have a toast!”
I took a glass, trying to keep my hand from shaking. In 2011, the papers had reported the sale of a two-hundred-year-old bottle of Château d’Yquem; it had gone for more than a hundred thousand dollars, making it one of the most expensive wines ever sold. It sparkled in the light from the candles. “What are we toasting?”
“New beginnings,” Crowhurst said, setting down the bottle and raising his own glass. We all followed suit. “And new endings too.”
My mouth was dry. I took a sip—the liquid was sweet and crisp. On all our travels to various eras, I’d never once considered trying the wine.
But Kashmir did not bring his glass to his lips. “New beginnings,” he muttered as we drank. “Is that why you’ve crowned yourself king of a fairy tale?”
“Ah, that has more to do with new endings,” Crowhurst said with a small smile. “You know how the story used to go—the town flooded, the people drowned. Becoming king was the best way to change the legend.”
