by Heidi Heilig
Slate sat bolt upright. “Lin, baby, you okay?”
“Apologies,” she said then, her voice breathless. “I think I need to rest,” she said, turning to Crowhurst. “Do you mind?”
“No, certainly not.” Now he was the one who looked flustered. He took Dahut’s arm and went to the door. “Shall I have the servants bring anything?”
Lin only shook her head, her expression pained. But when Crowhurst left the room, her brow smoothed. She straightened up and brushed back her hair.
My eyes widened, admiring. “You could tell?”
Bee rolled her eyes. “Everyone could tell, my girl.”
Slate frowned. “Tell what?”
“There’s something wrong,” Lin said, setting down her tea. “What happened, Nix?”
I took a breath. Where to start? “Crowhurst kidnapped James Cook to try to change the past.”
My words were met with a fragile silence. Slate was the first to break it. “Who?”
“The first European to map Hawaii! Crowhurst is trying to stop him from doing it. He has him locked up in the pit below the castle.”
Slate leaped to his feet. “What the hell?”
“That’s why Crowhurst wanted us to stay.” My face felt hot, flushed. “He wanted to see what would happen to me. Or to Lin.”
“I’ll kill him,” Slate said, rolling up his sleeves, the tattoos writhing as he flexed his arms. “I’ll choke him with that ugly chain he wears.”
Bee grunted her approval as she sat back on the chaise, stroking the scar at her throat. “Best not to leave enemies at your back.”
Rotgut waved a hand. “Excuse me, but wouldn’t it be best to focus on rescuing Cook?”
“Blake should be bringing him to the ship right now.
Lin frowned. “And Kashmir?”
I closed my hand around the pearl pendant of my necklace. “Kashmir was going to try to rescue Dahut.”
Rotgut nodded. “If anyone can rescue a princess, it’s Kashmir.”
“On a normal day,” I said. “But I don’t think Crowhurst will let her out of his sight.”
“And we have to get Cook out of here,” my father said, his voice urgent.
“There’s something else—” I began, but Slate swore again. I bit my lip, glancing toward the rippled window, to gauge the height of the sun. “It’s like Crowhurst said. I think the myth is ending.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“The myth of Ker-Ys, Dad. The flood.” I swallowed—the thought was chilling, especially with Kashmir still wandering around the castle. “Gwenolé couldn’t get past the edge of the map, so she’s on her way back to the city. And there’s a storm coming—if the story ends as written, Dahut will open the gate at high tide.”
“I thought Crowhurst changed all that,” Slate said.
“He thought he could, but there’s no evidence it’s even possible.”
“Evidence?” Lin cocked her head. “Look around. Everyone here will tell you a story about the time their fortunes changed.”
I followed her gesture—to Rotgut, who’d come aboard to escape the expectations of his former life; to Bee, who’d avenged her wife with Slate’s gun; to my father, who’d lost my mother and found her again. “But it’s not a fortune,” I said, still unsure. “It’s myth. It’s history.”
“Yeah?” Slate stood. “And who writes history, Nixie?”
“The victors,” I said. I knew the quote.
“Damn right,” Slate said. “Who cares what history says, or fate or fortune or whatever? We’re going to fight it, and we’re going to win.”
“Right,” I said softly, trying to believe it the way my father did. I had to, didn’t I? That was the most important part. “Right.”
“So what’s the plan, then?” Bee said.
I straightened my shoulders, galvanized. “We’ve got to get back to the ship and make ready to sail. Kash and Blake will meet us there with Cook and Dahut. Then we’ll make a brief stop in Boeotia before bringing Cook back to London.”
“Why Boeotia?”
“Crowhurst erased Cook’s memory,” I said. “The cure is there.”
“Fine,” Slate said, waving away my explanation; he’d never been one for complexity. “Do you have a map of Cook’s era?”
“It’s his native time. He’ll take the helm through the Margins, and we should arrive right back in London.”
“Right. Okay.” Slate grinned at me. “Good plan.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
He stood then, clapping his hands together. “Are we ready?” Without waiting for an answer, he strode across the parlor and yanked the door open. But in the hall, two guards turned to face him with stony stares and crossed pikes.
They had not been there before.
Slate looked them up and down. “Get out of the way, dammit.”
“No one leaves,” said the one on the left. “Order of the king.”
My stomach turned to ice. Why had Crowhurst sent guards? What had happened to Cook, to Blake, to Kashmir? But Slate cursed again and slammed the door. “Where is Kash when you need him? Anyone else have a knife?”
Lin gave Slate a stony look. “You’re not going to brawl to the front gate.”
“Fine,” he muttered, crossing the parlor. “Plan B?”
I folded my arms, trying to tamp down on my fears. But I had to think—two guards at the door—and how many more between the suite and the front gate? If only I’d kept the gun. Was there a solution from the myths I knew? My mind threw me ideas like a dealer throws cards. Sleeping powders or potions . . . even the Tarnkappe, the Welsh cloak of concealment. But all of my maps were on the ship. I had no way to Navigate to the Isle of Britain, much less back again. How could I—
The crash of glass shattered my reflections. Slate was standing by the broken window, glaring down. Standing by his shoulder, I peeked into the bailey, thirty feet below. Guards were gathering around a battered chair, shards of glass glittering in the light of their torches.
Slate gave them the finger and stalked away from the window. “Plan C then,” he said to me. “You can do this one.”
Outside, the sky was thick with massing clouds, nearly obscuring the sun. Cold wind from the open window whipped my hair around my face, and I could hear the distant sound of the waves rising against the walls. A selfish thought—maybe it was best that Crowhurst was keeping an eye on Dahut and the key to the sea gates.
Disgusted with myself, I turned from the window. What did we have to work with? I could Navigate away, as could Slate, but that didn’t help the rest of the crew—nor would I be willing to leave Cook and the boys behind.
But perhaps they were already back at the ship—or at least out of the castle, in the sewers. . . .
“There’s a way through the sewers if we can just get everyone to the cellar.”
Rotgut cocked his head. “What, like a tunnel?”
“It leads down to the dock.”
He grimaced, half amused. “Well. There’s a much closer entrance than the cellar.”
“What do you mean?” I followed his eyes to the door of the little room off the parlor that concealed the water closet. “Oh. Oh god, gross.”
Still, it was the best option we had. I went to the door to look inside. The room was small and square, furnished only with the primitive toilet—a polished board with a cutout in the center—and a set of wooden hooks for robes. It was medieval custom to hang one’s best dresses in the water closet—the garderobe, they called it—in the hopes the smell would keep moths away. Here, the twice-daily tides prevented much smell, thankfully. I peered down through the seat into the dank circular hole that was, indeed, an entrance to the sewers. Below that, the light faded; it was a long way down.
Slate stove in the seat, the boards falling away into the dark, and Bee, Rotgut, and I stripped the bedding from each room, ripping it to long shreds and weaving the pieces into a thick rope. We worked as quickly as we could—we had to get out before the sea gates opened and
the tide filled the tunnels—but it was equally important to make sure the rope was sturdy.
I listened for the bells that tracked the tide as it rose and began to fall again, and I breathed a little easier when high tide passed without incident. The sun was far below the horizon by the time we finished the rope, but after that things went fast. The crew was used to clambering over the rigging. Lin was the only one who needed help, so Slate went down first, boldly into the dark. Once he shouted the all clear, we pulled up the rope, made a harness for her, and lowered my mother down into his waiting arms.
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.
Mr. Hart crouched beside me, his hand soft on my shoulder as he adjusted the binding—the tenderness of his touch offended me. “Why are you doing this?” I asked through gritted teeth.
Crowhurst laughed. “You couldn’t understand, even if I explained.”
“I wasn’t asking you.” I looked up into Mr. Hart’s face, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. “How can you risk sacrificing the ones you love for a cause?”
“I don’t love her,” he said, and even though the light was low, I saw the shame on his face.
“I don’t believe that.”
“Then you should understand why I have to try, Mr. Firas.”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
I saw his jaw clench, then he sighed. “If this works I’ll know if . . . I’ll know what’s possible. And maybe . . . just maybe I can make my own version of paradise.”
“A heavy price, for a shot in the dark.” I tried to smile.
“What is? Death?”
“Betrayal. There’s a poet with your name who said something wise. It’s easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.”
He stiffened, standing. “I didn’t ask for your forgiveness.”
“Then I don’t fear disappointing you.” I watched as he followed Crowhurst and Dahut toward the stairs, the light fading away like an ember flying up from a fire. I called after him, wanting to sound brave, but my voice rose like a ghost, soft and insubstantial. “Let’s hope you live long enough to regret this.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Inside me, rage exploded, and a wild despair—then it sucked back inward, shrinking, collapsing under its weight into a cold black hole where my heart used to be. “Where is he?” I whispered. “Did he fall, or did he run?”
“I didn’t stay to watch,” Cook said, shifting on his feet. “He bade me come to the ship. The last I saw him, he was in the treasury.”
I turned with the mercury in my pocket and murder in my heart, ready to run all the way to the castle, but my father collared me on the gangplank. Struggling, I nearly fell into the harbor. “Let go of me!”
“Where are yo
u going?”
“To Kashmir!” I lunged again, but Slate lifted me off my feet and hauled me back aboard the ship.
“No, Nixie. Look!” He jerked his chin toward the plaza. Three figures stood there, wreathed in torchlight, at the mouth of the Grand Rue: Blake, Dahut, and Crowhurst.
Seeing them standing together chilled me; a part of me had hoped Cook was lying, or mistaken—that the gun had gone off accidentally or that whatever argument they’d had, it was over. The alternative was too terrible to consider; I had seen Blake shoot.
“Cast off the lines!” my father called.
“No!” I renewed my struggles, but he only held me tighter as the crew pushed off from the dock.
“Crowhurst has a key to the gates, Nixie. I’m not waiting for him to shut us in.”
“I’m not leaving without Kashmir! You said I should fight, let me fight!”
“Not with your fists!” he said, swinging me around. But then my mother came to stand beside me, and her voice was soothing.
“Make a plan, Nix. Think it through.”
It was nigh impossible to think about anything but Kashmir, but the Temptation passed through the gates and into the choppy water before my father relaxed his grip. I threw off his arms and pressed against the rail, as close as I could get to Kash without diving off the side. Slate still hovered, as though worried I would consider doing just that.
With only Bee and Rotgut at their posts, the ship was unsteady and moving slow. But of course Crowhurst was in no rush—he knew I wouldn’t leave. He ambled across the wharf as though taking in the sea air, Dahut and Blake at his side. Once we reached the open water, the three of them were obscured from view by the wall. Was he heading to his yacht? No. I caught sight of him again as they reappeared near the lookout tower.
Did he hope to parlay? The wind herded dark clouds overhead, and the waves smashed themselves against the stones; we were too far away to be heard over the rush and the roar. “We have to get closer, Slate.”
The captain gave me a dubious look: the tide was low enough that the rocks at the base of the wall were exposed, shining black and slick with algae, and jagged as broken teeth. “Dangerous bit of sailing,” he said.
