by Heidi Heilig
Water crept up toward my feet. Waves broke over the bulwark, turning to a million sparkling stars. On the horizon, the city was nearly lost in the white mist, but I could still hear, very faintly, the ringing of the bells. I ran numb fingers over the bronze: regnabo, regno, regnavi, sum sine regno. I was drenched by the time the waves wrapped themselves around my ankles, and shivering as they rose around my hips.
Still, I didn’t let go of the helm, not even as the Temptation slipped at last beneath the surface, pulling me down with her. And for a moment, as the icy water closed over my head, I wondered if I could ever let go. But all around me, bubbles rose from the sinking ship, carrying me to the surface. The Temptation herself still buoyed me up.
I struggled for air even after I broke free of the water; the cold had taken my breath away. Blinking the salt out of my eyes, I scanned the horizon, but saw neither ship nor shore. Panic played tug-of-war with despair, my heart fraying like a rope: the sea was wide and deep, and I was alone.
Like a coward, I longed to escape, to call up the mist and Navigate away. But I had not left Bee and Rotgut only to leave Kashmir as well. Being lost at sea was not the worst fate had to offer.
And Kashmir was coming. I knew it, like I knew the positions of the stars or the pitch of the deck. I did not search for a glimpse of him, rather, I waited—I believed, without doubt, with faith unshakable.
Where was he?
Around me, the waves were flecked with lines of foam, like the starry band of the Milky Way. Treading water, I kept my head above the surface, but the air was even colder than the sea. It wasn’t long before I was shivering uncontrollably; it made it harder to fight the waves. I let the next one roll over my head—just to rest for a moment—but when it passed, I was disoriented; it was only when my lungs started burning that I realized I’d been swimming down. I rolled in the water and struggled back toward the steely sky, taking a quick breath, and another—I had to keep my head above the surface.
I closed my eyes. They stung with the salt, an ocean of tears. I was so tired. Then something big brushed my leg, and my eyes snapped open. Was it flotsam from the wreck, or something worse? I panted as a rush of adrenaline hit, and I scanned the waves frantically for a flash of silver, but the Iroise kept her secrets.
Another swarm of bubbles fizzed up from below. I had read about wrecks; I knew what was happening to my ship. As she sank, the water pressure was crushing the cabin walls, releasing pockets of air. My heart squeezed too, and I saw it in my mind’s eye—the sea riffling through my books, sweeping through the maps, scattering Kashmir’s poems across the blackness of the ocean floor. Lost at sea, lost at sea.
The adrenaline faded. I kept swallowing water, my head sinking beneath the waves. The sea filled my eyes, my ears. Maybe I should have sipped from the Mnemosyne. Joss’s voice came back to me: who you’ll marry—how you’ll die. Why hadn’t I let her tell me? I couldn’t remember now. But perhaps she had been wrong after all. Perhaps I was the one to be lost.
It was a fitting end, to follow the Temptation down. After all, I was my father’s daughter. The ocean roared; my mother hummed a song—or was that the sound of a motor?
“Kash.” My throat was raw with salt and screaming—my voice was a whisper even I couldn’t hear. But the hum was louder now; I turned my head this way and that, trying to see the yacht, but the waves were too high. “Kashmir.”
Just the one word left me breathless. He would never hear me, and he would pass right by in the twilight. Still, I smiled—or I thought I did. He had escaped. I’d been right. He was alive. I only wished I could have kissed him one more time.
In the water, bubbles rose once more from the wreck below. It pained me to see them, for what destruction was there left to do? But would Kash see the effervescence—a white flag, a beacon? No . . . the wind was high and the waves were skimmed with foam as far as I could see. But then something in the water flashed—not silver, but gold.
At first I didn’t understand. I thought it was a star, reflected. But it grew brighter and brighter until it broke the surface: a sky herring, glimmering in the gloom.
She twisted in the air above my head; a slip of light, a slice of the aurora. Another followed, and another; free of the ship, they returned to the celestial sphere, gleaming brightly as they schooled, floating upward like the embers of the pyre of the Temptation. The roar of the motor crescendoed in my ears. Then it cut out, and I heard his voice.
“Amira?”
Kashmir hauled me into the yacht, and his hands scorched my skin. I lay shivering on the deck, looking up at his pale face, his wan smile—and the last stars were like a crown in his hair.
“Stay with me,” he said, trying to help me downstairs, awkward with only one arm.
“Always,” I murmured, still struggling against the dark.
With difficulty, we stumbled below to huddle in the warmth of the cabin, where the clocks swept the future into the past. Kash plugged in the kettle and helped strip my wet clothes. I forced out the words to indicate the bottle in my pocket. He wrapped me in blankets first, and I drifted in and out as he applied the mercury to his shoulder. I could tell by the way he sighed that it was working.
Kashmir brought me a cup of hot water then, and propped me up to drink. “Did they get away, amira? Did they get James Cook to London?”
“I think so.”
“But you stayed.”
“I’m not going to lose you too.” My voice caught in my throat.
Pain flashed across his face. “The crew?”
“Bee and Rotgut are safe aboard the Fool. Blake too.” It was all I could bring myself to say—but he heard what I had omitted.
“The captain? Your mother? Oh, amira.” He wrapped his arms around me. “I’m so sorry.”
I buried my face in his chest as the tears came. But Trophonius had told me the truth—saving Kashmir hadn’t been up to me. But he was safe. We had each other. And a ship of our own, just like we’d planned.
I sobbed in his arms.
Eventually I ran out of tears, but we lay together on the bunk a long time. I was warmer now, though I had never been so tired. All I wanted to do was sleep, but I couldn’t, not with the clocks ticking, ticking, ticking. “I wish you’d stolen one of the fishing boats instead,” I murmured.
The joke felt flat in my mouth; still, I heard his smile. “Hard to handle those shorthanded.” He sighed then, his chest rising and falling against my back. “What will Bee and Rotgut do after Cook is safe in London?”
“I’m not sure.”
“And Blake?” At the name, I stiffened.
“Why do you ask?”
For a while, Kashmir stroked my hair. When he spoke again, I could hear the sorrow in his voice. “Do you think he had to do it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you think he was meant to—to betray us? That it’s all a part of the way things have to be?” Kashmir propped himself up on an elbow to gaze down at me. “I was supposed to be lost—or . . . or maybe the captain was. One of us, anyway. Joss told you so.”
I bit my lip. “She did.”
“And if it’s all fate, is anyone really at fault?”
“He still made his choices, Kash. He could have tried.”
“And what about us?” he murmured into my hair. “Can we choose to forgive?”
“You can do what you like,” I said, though my voice was bitter. But his gunshot had healed, leaving not even a scar. My own wounds were fresh and raw. I’d lost everything because of Blake—or nearly everything. My ship, my family, my crew.
Kashmir pulled me close again. But under the blankets, my hand crept to my arm—the raised flesh of the tattoo of the ship—and I pushed myself up on one elbow. There, on the desk: Crowhurst’s maps. I swung my legs out of bed.
“Amira, you need to rest.”
I only shook my head. Keeping the blankets wrapped around me, I sank down into the chair at Crowhurst’s desk. “He found Cook,” I said, searchi
ng for our next map. “So can I.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Three days later, Kash and I stood on the dock at the Port of London and watched the Fool glide into the harbor. Dawn was still struggling through the shroud of gray, gleaming on the oily banks of the River Thames. But the wharf was already bustling, and the gritty air echoed with the shouts and raucous laughter of the dockhands.
The night we abandoned the Dark Horse in the Margins, Crowhurst had also arrived in the smoggy Port of London. Kash and I had stripped the yacht of valuables—including a stash of gold he’d grabbed from the treasury—and used some of the odd coins to take a room in a run-down sailor’s inn overlooking the dock. From the grimy window, I’d seen Crowhurst approach Cook at the wharf, deploying the full force of his charm. It had been difficult to stand by as my past unfolded, but I didn’t want to risk making the other choice; I wasn’t sure what sacrifice it might entail.
And now Cook stepped off the Fool and onto the muddy wharf. His face was troubled as he took his bearings. I knew why. Passage between France and England was fairly quick through the channel, but not half as quick as passage through the Margins. As he approached, I pulled my shawl up over my face to make sure he didn’t recognize me. How would I explain my appearance in London when my last known location was floundering in the Iroise?
But as he passed by, I couldn’t help it—I darted after him, reaching out to take his arm. “Your first two voyages,” I whispered to him, my voice urgent, my heart racing. “They’ll bring you fame and fortune. But if you sent out on your third, you’ll die.”
Cook wrenched his arm away, reeling, and he met my eyes. For a long time we stood there, and I wondered—had I changed his fate and my own? Had I saved Hawaii and sacrificed myself? Had I fought Crowhurst only to become my own unmaking? But who was I if I didn’t try? Finally Cook turned and vanished into the crowd—but I was still whole, and the world unchanged.
Kash caught up with me then, a question on his face, but I only shook my head and let him lead me back toward the Fool. And when he hailed her, I had never before seen nor shed as many tears. Bee howled her joy, as did Billie, and Rotgut started dancing on the deck. Even Gwen clapped me on the back. But Blake stood apart from us, pale as a ghost. “Thank god,” he whispered. “Thank god.”
It took everything in me not to make his black eye a matched set.
I blamed him still. I could not help it. Was it fair? I didn’t know—but in the days that followed, I avoided him. It wasn’t hard. There was a lot of work to do. We had to sort our salvage—there were maps and clothes and books thrown together, all grabbed in the mad dash from the sinking ship. But there were valuables too, jewels and baubles, and the crown Crowhurst had set down on Kashmir’s head. Kash took the pile to the jeweler’s district and came back with a small fortune in coin. “For you, Captain.”
The wind rang hollow in my ears, and I spent a while staring at the wealth at my feet. How could I ever replace the Temptation? But a captain without a ship was no better than a king without a kingdom, so I gathered the gold with my courage and made some inquiries. It didn’t take long to find what I was looking for: a caravel for sale in port. She was light and fast, cleverly made, and her lateen rigged sails reminded me of home. I named her the Fortune.
We tried to settle in aboard, with Bee, Rotgut, and Blake in bunks below, and Kash and I in the captain’s cabin, where I began to sort through my jumbled belongings. A few books, a paltry collection of maps—less than half of what had been. The Mnemosyne water was there too, wrapped in one of my father’s sweaters. I pressed the cloth to my face, but it only smelled of laundry soap, so I used it to wipe away the tears that had started to form. Then I took the flask, turning it over and over in my hands.
Even now, having made my choice, I felt the temptation of boundless knowledge. The bottle wasn’t safe to keep, not aboard the ship. I stood for a long time at the dock, considering whether or not to pour it into the sea, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I went to the maps.
There wasn’t much left, but it was enough. After some searching, I found a map of Hawaii in 1858. When we reached the balmy waters of the Pacific, it felt like coming home. Not in the way of returning to a place of comfort, but rather like seeing a familiar place anew, and gone was the gilded glow of childhood.
We sailed into Honolulu harbor alongside a mail ship as locals cast flowers into the sea. The soft breeze carried their scent to me—and to Blake, who came up from belowdecks like the mirror image of Persephone: he did not bring life back to the world above, but instead life was brought back into him. The sun gilded his hair and kissed his cheeks, and was that a smile on his lips? I turned away before I could see it bloom, though Kashmir’s words echoed faintly in my head. Something about forgiveness.
Whose fault was it, really? If Blake had not betrayed us, we would have gotten away clean. Then again, if I’d never brought us to Ker-Ys, Kash wouldn’t have been trapped in the first place—though Cook might have been, and perhaps then the world really would have been unmade. What would I have lost, had I chosen differently? I shook my head. It was dizzying—cause and effect, round and round, stretching back to the source.
I found Joss at her shop in Chinatown, and when I stepped through the door, I was surprised by the tinkling chime of tiny bells. Of course that wasn’t the only thing that was different—the last time I’d been here was thirty years in the future. In those days, the shop was a faded apothecary crouched over a hidden opium den, the air redolent with the sickly sweet smell of pipe smoke, the wooden shelves sagging with boxes and jars of pills and powders, and all of it covered in a thin layer of dust.
But here and now, everything was still new. The shop was lovingly kept, swept and dusted. The windows were thrown open to catch the warm trade winds. The red counter shone, freshly lacquered, and the woman behind it was startlingly young, though the gleam in her pebble-black eyes was the same as it always would be.
If I hadn’t already known who she was, I would have been able to guess. She stood there holding a cup of tea, looking so much like Lin that tears burned in the corners of my eyes. And the look on her face made it clear she recognized me too—though not for the same reason. In her expression, I saw the memories fall into place like stones into a deep well. The last time she’d seen me was in Emperor Qin’s tomb, where she’d been buried alive.
But here and now, I was the one who felt trapped—the knowledge of what had happened, or had yet to happen, was a crushing weight. She saw it. She missed nothing. “You look like you could use some tea.”
I nodded as she prepared the cup, taking leaves from a jar on the shelf behind her and pouring water from a pot resting on a stone on the counter. The fragrant, bitter scent filled the air. I took the cup, and she refilled her own, watching me with those bird-bright eyes. “I didn’t think I would see you again,” she said at last.
How much did she already know? And how much could I tell her? I tested the tea—it was hot, but not scalding—and chose my answer carefully, an echo of her own future words to me. “You will, though this is probably the last time I’ll see you.”
“Then let me thank you now, while I can. After all,” she added, her eyes twinkling. “Who can know what the future holds?”
The words were like a knife in the gut. I looked down, blinking hard, watching the tea leaves settle in my cup. “You seem to,” I said at last.
“I know some things,” she answered, and I heard the smile in her voice.
My throat was dry. I drained the tea and set the cup down on the counter. Then I drew the flask from my pocket. “I have something for you.”
“What is it?”
“Knowledge. I can’t keep it, but I think you might be able to.”
She lifted the flask to the light. “You trust me with this?”
“I know you—and I know myself.”
“Ah.” Her smile dazzled me. “Then you’re wise already.”
I laughed—I co
uldn’t help it—and I realized then, to my surprise, that I liked her. I was still turning over that thought when she spoke.
“You lost someone.”
I blinked at her—but Joss was looking down at the tea leaves at the bottom of my cup. She turned the cup around in her hands. “Someone you loved,” she added then, looking up through her lashes. “Lost at sea.”
Tears welled up in my eyes. “Yes.”
She lowered her own eyes and set the cup back down on the counter. “Do you think you’ll find him again?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“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.”
