by Heidi Heilig
“How does stopping Cook teach him that?”
“By watching what happens to me.” I shook my head. “My mother too, and Blake, while he’s at it. We were all born in Hawaii, though none of us are native.”
“So he’s going to keep Cook trapped in the treasury for the rest of his life?”
“Just till he misses his ship.” I scanned the page, breathless. “The Friendship—that was Cook’s commission, back when he was a journeyman in 1748. That’s how he earned his captaincy. Three days . . .” I counted back on my fingers. “Tomorrow. His ship leaves tomorrow.”
“More than enough time.” Kashmir clapped his hands together. “You had a map to the pit, yes? We’ll go find Cook first, then gather the crew, get Dahut, and go.”
“But . . .” There was a strange look in Blake’s eyes—was it loss or hope? “Cook’s arrival in Hawaii led to the deaths of tens of thousands of people.”
Kashmir cocked his head. “And the birth of many more, Mr. Hart. You among them.”
“But didn’t you tell me, Miss Song? Some people think that choices create new worlds. What if both worlds could coexist?”
“It’s just as likely we’ll have neither,” I said. “And there’s no proof, either way.”
He met my gaze. “Not yet.”
“Blake.” Words deserted me, but Blake was bubbling over with them.
“You suggested it yourself! You want to take Dahut aboard and stop her story from playing out. But how do you dare, if you really think the past can’t safely be changed? Mr. Firas.” He appealed to Kashmir. “You and I both have memories of another life. I know you wonder what they mean!”
“I’m happy to keep wondering,” Kash said grimly. “Mystery is the spice of life.”
“Then you, Miss Song.” Blake’s eyes were pleading. “You told me you wanted to be more than what you inherited. I’m not asking you to risk anything I’m not risking.”
I opened my mouth to reply—but was he right? Was I being selfish? But then I met Kashmir’s eyes, and in them, everything I stood to lose. “It’s not just me. It’s Kashmir too. It’s my mother, my grandmother. People I love.”
“What about the country I love?”
“Let’s start by saving ourselves and Dahut. If we do, we’ll save Ker-Ys too. Maybe . . . maybe if this works, we can find a way to help Hawaii. But when the gates open next, we’re sailing, and Cook is coming with us. Are you?”
Blake met my eyes, and for a long moment I did not know what his answer would be. But then he looked away and pulled the sketchbook from his pocket. “We’d best try to find the pit, then.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
KASHMIR
Nix pondered our next move, there in the captain’s cabin. There were many pieces to consider—the ship, the crew, the princess, the pit. And the Mnemosyne water too—we would need it for Cook, according to Dahut’s diary. Once the fishermen dispersed, I slipped back over to the Dark Horse for the map of Boeotia; by the time I came back with it, she had the plan outlined.
She would go to the castle and gather the crew to send them to the ship. Mr. Hart and I would find the pit and rescue Cook. From there, Blake would lead James back to the docks while I went on to look for Dahut. At first, Nix had insisted she would come with me; I declined. “I prefer to sneak alone, amira.”
“But Kashmir—”
“Remember, you’re to lose me at sea. Not in a castle.” I gave her my best smile, but her face paled.
“I’ve been wondering about that.”
Her tone of voice left me cold. “What do you mean?”
Nix folded her arms and glanced out the deadlights, toward the sea. “Gwenolé is on her way back to the city,” she said softly. “Dahut stole the keys from the king. The end of the myth might be coming. And if Dahut opens the gate at high tide—”
“She wouldn’t,” I said firmly. “She won’t. Besides, high tide is at sunset. I’ll be back at the ship by then, with Dahut in tow.”
Nix bit her lip—I saw her wrestle with the decision. Would she order me to bring her along? If she did, I would obey, but it was not the wise choice, and she knew it. “Fine,” she said, but her voice was fierce. She took my shoulders, and her eyes were dark as ink. “But if you don’t come to the ship, I’m coming back for you,” she said. “Come hell or high water.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Hart turn his head; I had never been more grateful for his gentleman’s discretion. Pulling Nix into my arms, I kissed her to make my own promises. “Don’t worry,” I whispered as my hand went to the lock on my belt. It was the matter of a moment to open it and place it in her palm. “Love has always buoyed me up.”
She smiled at me and closed her fingers around the iron. I gave her a wink. Then I turned and breezed out the door.
“Allez, Mr. Hart!”
We headed toward the warehouse as he drew his sketchbook from his pocket. The map inside showed the route we’d take through the sewers; Nix herself would take the Grand Rue toward the castle.
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?”
His response was a long time coming, but once he spoke, I wished he hadn’t. “Maybe we should reconsider.”
My hands froze, as did my blood. Not now, not here, not alone with a man who’d lost his past and another willing to risk his future. “Let me remind you, Mr. Hart, that if Cook is not allowed to find Hawaii, you will never be standing there, able to ask me not to let him do so.”
“Did you know he pretends to be a god, too? On his last voyage.”
Cook started at him. “Do I?”
“It brings you to ruin,” Mr. Hart whispered in the dark.
“Be that as it may.” I took hold of the second manacle, trying to keep my fingers steady. “On this particular voyage, you’ll go upstairs, out the door, and to the docks via the sewer.” I spoke as though by telling the story, I could make it come true. “Mr. Hart has a map. He’ll show you the way.”
“Mr. Firas—”
The manacle opened. Cook stepped free. I stood, turning slowly to face Mr. Hart. “You’ll show him the way to the Temptation,” I told him, but he shook his head. There was anguish on his face.
“I can’t.”
“Then I will. Where’s that map?” I reached for Mr. Hart, but he batted my hand aside, so I punched him in the nose.
It was only a left hook, but he stumbled back against the slick wall of the oubliette; I pressed the advantage, taking him by the shoulder and plucking the sketchbook from his pocket. “She is not philosophy,” I growled. “I am not an ethical question. I will not risk my existence to satisfy your curiosity.”
“You think that’s all it is?” He wrenched out of my grip, wiping blood from his face, but I wasn’t in the mood for questions.
Taking Cook by the arm, I flipped through the book to the map of the sewers—could he use it to reach the ship if I went on to find Dahut? “Come, James.” I shoved him in front of me, up the stairs. “We have to hurry.”
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Hart said, but that’s not what stopped me in my tracks. Rather, it was a sound—a little click, like the second hand of a clock, slicing time.
My throat went dry. Very slowly, I passed Cook the sketchbook. He stared at me, bewildered, but he took it. “Go to the ship,” I whispered to him. “Nix will meet you there.”
“Don’t move,” Mr. Hart warned, his voice echoing up the hollow well.
Slowly, I turned to face him. His chin was high, his arm raised, and the barrel of the gun a silver iris around a deep black pupil. It was a familiar sight, but not exactly the same as it was in Hawaii—his pale face was paler still, and his hand actually shook as it held the pistol.
And of course this time I had no Kevlar vest.
What did I have? Words, nothing else. At least I stood between him and Cook; he might not have hesitated if he was aiming at the erstwhile captain. “Make the other choice, Mr. Hart.”
“I’m trying to,” he replied. “I can’t make the same mistake twice.”
I kept my eyes on his face, and I found regret, but no mercy. “Cook?”
“Yes?”
I sprang toward Mr. Hart. “Run!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
As soon as Blake and Kash were out of sight, I regretted letting them go without me. Parting was neither sweet nor sorrow, but a deep unease riven with fear. But it was the only rational choice—I knew that. And I had my own job to do.
I raced from the ship to the castle. Overhead, the sky was a faultless blue, but inside me . . . a storm. My feet pounded, my heart raced, my thoughts churned. Breathless, agitated, I slowed only when I reached the suites and heard my father’s hearty laughter behind the door. It was so incongruous that it gave me pause. I entered the parlor as it faded, and all eyes turned to me.
Then I stopped on the threshold. The crew was sitting there by the fire, and Crowhurst and Dahut were with them.
“Ah, Nix!” Crowhurst stood; I took a step back involuntarily. “Seems like the dog ate quickly.”
“The dog?” I tried to catch my breath, to slow my heart, all while a little voice screamed in the back of my head. Here before me, my unmaking. I stared into the abyss of his eyes. “The dog. Right. Yes.”
Crowhurst cocked his head. “I came to apologize,” he said then. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you on the docks. Please forgive me.”
“Sure. Of course.” I took a deep breath and reminded myself to blink. “I shouldn’t have taken your yacht.”
“It’s quite all right, really. I borrowed a car or two when I was young.” There was a twinkle in his eye, and he glanced at Slate then. “Your father was just telling us a story about your last time on a powerboat.”
“Remember, Nixie?” Slate still had tears in his eyes, and his face was split in an easy grin. He was sprawled back on the chaise like a great cat, his head in my mother’s lap; I had never seen him so relaxed. “You were, like, ten, and so small the Coast Guard cap was slipping down over your forehead. I still don’t know why I agreed to let you drive.”
“Because you knew she’d be good at it,” Bee said.
“And I was right!” Slate laughed again. “Too bad about that buoy, though!”
Crowhurst chuckled along with him, and my nerves jangled like a broken bell. But I tried to return their smiles, to slow my heart, to keep my fists from clenching. Thinking back to that day helped; the memory was calming. That had been just before Bruce was bumped to dispatch for drinking on the job. “I didn’t
run anything over this time,” I said, which was only barely true. I glanced at Dahut, but she wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Just a little joyride, I’m sure. But you seemed troubled at the docks,” Crowhurst added. “It was only on the walk back that I realized why. I know you’re worried about the myth playing out.”
Rotgut raised an eyebrow. “The myth?”
“It’s nothing to worry about,” Crowhurst said. “But I’ll keep a closer eye on Dahut in the future. I’m wearing the key to the gates now.” He reached up and tapped his chest; beside the flask, the key hung around his neck. “She won’t get hold of it again. Will you, Dahut?”
She looked up from her hands then, and my heart sank. Her eyes were glassy—all recognition gone. “No, Father.”
“Right.” The word barely made it past my lips; I cleared my throat. “Are you okay, Dahut?”
Her brows furrowed. She looked to Crowhurst for an answer, which he gave. “Unfortunately, she’s had another of her spells. I think the exertion aboard the boat did her in.”
“I see.” I tried to school my expression, but he was still watching me. So was Lin, I realized with a start; when I met her gaze, she raised an eyebrow very slightly and sipped her tea.
“One more thing,” Crowhurst added then. “This may be an odd question, but you wouldn’t have seen a little book with a red cover, would you? It might help her remember things.”
I opened my mouth, but I couldn’t think of a lie. Crowhurst narrowed his eyes. “I . . . I saw it on the yacht,” I blurted out. “On the bench. She left it there.”
“Strange. I didn’t see it.”
“Maybe in the cockpit? I can’t remember. But I did see it on the yacht.”
“Well. I’ll send down to the harbor. She hates being without it.” He rocked a little on his heels, his gaze steady, piercing. Inside my boots, my toes curled. Then he and I both looked over at Lin’s sharp intake of breath. She curled her arms around her belly and bent her head, wincing.
