His thick black hair and youthful face are startlingly familiar. Though he appears sterner and more severe than I visualized, that may be the interpretation of the artist or the grace of my own vision. Father Time’s pensiveness grants him an air of wisdom and agelessness. He could belong to any century and world. He is unbound, ancient yet eternal.
Markham captured his persona with a critical, unforgiving eye. This is a portrait of someone he has met and is well acquainted with. Either he has an astounding imagination or the drawings in this book are accurate representations of real people and places. I don’t want to accept that he’s the lost prince. Then I would have to consider that Amadara truly danced in the Everwoods and the myth about her tearing time to save her prince is not a tale. It is history.
Laverick nudges me. “The young man in the portrait feels like someone you know, doesn’t he? Claret and I stared at his portrait for an hour this morning. We cannot recall where we know him from.”
I study Father Time’s brooding expression. He really does exist—my ticker has professed the validity of his power for a decade. An unspoken side of me hasn’t doubted his authority, yet it is different to see evidence that a guardian of time watches over us.
I close the book. “Return this immediately.”
“Don’t you want to see the other pictures?” Claret asks. “There’s one of a village—”
“We’re rowing to land soon. You have to put this back before we leave.”
“You mean you won’t be angry at us for coming with you?” Laverick asks.
“Would it stop you if I were?”
Claret pretends to consider my question. “Well, if we’re being honest . . .”
I push the Fox and the Cat toward the governor’s cabin. Markham stands at the middeck near the longboats. He and his crew are preparing for our departure, well within sight of the door to his quarters.
“What now?” Claret whispers.
“You’re the con artists,” I answer. “Think of something.”
“We’ll distract him while you return the book,” says Laverick.
I shrink back. “Why me?”
“Claret and I are always together. The governor will be suspicious if we aren’t seen side by side.” Laverick’s claim has as much merit as a dead sea rat has voice, but we’re speedily approaching the drop-off location.
“All right,” I grumble, grabbing the book. “Keep him busy.”
The Fox tosses her long auburn hair behind her shoulders and links arms with her partner in crime. “You have three minutes.”
The Fox and the Cat stroll to Markham and engage him in conversation. While his back is turned, I dash into his quarters and shut the door.
The cabin is quiet and empty, no servants in sight. Since we ate in the officer’s dining hall yesterday, this is my first visit to Markham’s personal quarters. They are plainer than I anticipated. The bed is made without a single lump or misplaced crease. His furniture and shelves are organized and clean. No personal emblems are displayed on the desk or bedside table.
Life at sea and tight quarters require that sailors be tidy and travel with minimal possessions, but Markham’s cabin is barer than Jamison’s. He displays no pictures or maps on the wall, no boots by the door or tobacco pipe near the untouched decanter of whisky. The washbasin is so clean it shines. Next to it are a full bottle of shaving oil and a sharp razor that look as though they haven’t been used. He spent months aboard this vessel traveling back and forth from Wyeth, yet I see no signs of ownership or permanency. He could vanish at any moment and leave no trace of himself behind.
Bloody bones, I should have asked the Fox and the Cat where they found the book. I see no gap on the shelves where it would go. The bookshelves are packed with texts about geography and nautical exploration. Thinking Markham may have hidden the book in his desk, I open the drawers. The first two are full of parchment, ink, and quills. The inks are the same colors I saw in his detailed sketches in the journal.
Shoved to the back of the top drawer is an older-style book similar in size and thickness to the one I have. The outer cover is creased and stained from wear. I set the journal in the drawer and pick up the second book.
A strip of leather binds it closed. I unwind it and open to the first page. The passage is dated three hundred and forty-nine years ago.
I finally located the mainland, though I know not where. The skiff drifted many months across the high seas. Starvation and dehydration nearly took me, but time is merciless and would not let me perish. The curse pursues me everywhere I go. I wear its mark like a brand. I don’t yet know how to break free. The gate to my beloved home is far from this foreign shoreline. How will I find you again? How will I undo what has been done?
I miss you, Ama. I swear I did not know this would become of us. Dearest love, please forgive me.
“Drop anchor!” a sailor shouts outside.
I jump onto my toes and listen for someone to come in. All the footsteps go past the door. I turn to another date in the journal, a few days after my father returned from Dagger Island.
I behaved horribly, Ama. I am sick with shame. I fear my need to return to you is hardening my heart.
A friend betrayed me. He was the only person in decades who I entrusted with the unabridged truth of our downfall. He understood my need to find you and wanted to help me. Together I believed we could break the curse. But greed overcame him. After all I’d done, he intended to cut me out. I couldn’t allow him to do that, Ama. I couldn’t let him go to you and leave me behind. The thought of him returning to my home without me drove me mad. I had to silence him. I had to keep him from the treasure.
My eyes burn from not blinking. I cannot pull my gaze from the page. Given the date of the entry, Markham must be referring to my father, but he has not used his name or referenced him as his partner. For me to turn this in as evidence, I need specifics.
After he was gone, and I was stained in ash and blood, I wished I could leave this life. Please don’t think me weak for seeking an end to my wandering. I know your suffering is beyond comprehension, but I am weary of this prison of flesh. My every attempt to join the stars has been foiled.
Father Time is torturing me. He did this to us, Ama. His jealousy and spite divided us. I will undo his treachery. On Mother Madrona’s hallowed crown, I swear I will return.
“Find anything of interest?” Markham asks from the open doorway. He enters and shuts us inside.
“I—I didn’t mean—”
“Of course not. You invaded my quarters, searched my desk, and read my private journal by mistake. What an unfortunate mishap for you.” He strides over and sees his journal open to the passage I last read. “That was a low day for me. Your father and I had countless discussions about my kingdom. While Brogan pretended to sympathize with my plight, he was plotting to return to my world without me.”
“Nothing he did merits your killing him or my family. My mother and siblings never did anything to you.”
“Unfortunate casualties.” Markham slams the journal closed. I bury my fear under my skin and it rises in gooseflesh. “Brogan was weak. You’re stronger than him, Everley. Out of everyone aboard this ship, or at the penal colony, or in the realm, and perhaps in all the worlds, you more than any other person understand why I couldn’t let him stand in my way. You know what you want and you let nothing block your path.”
His compliment rankles. Stubbornness is not a quality I would shine up and wear like a medallion. “Unlike you, I don’t feign to have good intentions.”
“Your integrity may be what I admire about you most.” His finger trails down my front to my clock heart. The ticktocks boom as his mouth leans near my ear. “Clocks are fragile pieces, as delicate as the time they mark. Think on that before you invade my privacy again.”
“I will find a way to kill you.”
“I have every faith you’ll try.” His dry lips brush against my earlobe, and my insides sour and slosh. “But you won’t succ
eed today.”
“Are you going to pull your pistol on me again?” I ask, hungering for the excuse to jam my elbow into his nose.
Markham pulls back and lifts my hand to inspect my skinned knuckles from beating on him last night. “Don’t be in such a rush to hurt yourself again. I need you whole.”
I yank from his touch. “You’re worried about bruises? You’re taking us into the Thornwoods. This expedition can only lead to more suffering.”
“You’re a child,” he answers hotly. “Walk the worlds more than three centuries and you will know true despair.”
His journal entries return to my mind, foremost his anguish and hopelessness. I cannot comprehend his ingratitude. My ticker could give out at any second, breaking beyond repair. He need not dread dying before fulfilling his aspirations. He does not live in fear of departing too soon.
“Don’t envy me, Everley. Too much time is a curse.” Markham opens his pocket watch and reads the frozen hour. His tone turns melancholy. “It’s the limited time we have that makes life precious. Eternity is a lonely bedfellow.”
I sense his thoughts are on Amadara. He loves her, and that love will compel him into the Thornwoods, putting me and our party at risk. Does selfishness negate love? How much blood must a man spill before he is irredeemable?
Markham snaps his pocket watch closed, his head down. The light streaming in from the windows calls attention to a tear sliding down his cheek.
“Leave me,” he says.
My astonishment holds me there. Monsters do not cry. They stalk and howl, feed and ravage, rampage and kill. They do not weep, especially not in front of their prey. But his solitary tear, so average, so human, disintegrates my doubts.
Markham is the lost prince of legend. He will lead me and a thousand more people to our graves so he may return home to his princess and break the curse on the isle.
I wobble out of his quarters into the sunshine and gulp down briny sea air.
“Evie?” Tavis asks.
I didn’t notice him leaving the neighboring cabin. He pulls me against him and leads me to mine. We sit on the bed in weighted contemplation, my inner turmoil rising to an unbearable pressure. Silence can speak for itself, but right now, I need my brother to explain.
“You know Markham’s real identity,” I state flatly.
“I didn’t at first. After that night, he took me in as his apprentice. It wasn’t long before I observed his strange habits. Killian doesn’t sleep or cut his hair or grow tired. He hardly eats except for the occasional apple. And he doesn’t bleed.”
“I know,” I grumble, rubbing my sore knuckles.
“You must understand, Evie. Father had his reasons for discovering the Ruined Kingdom. Before he left home, he promised Mother he would return with a treasure that would guarantee his retirement, but he came home empty-handed and needed to go back to retrieve it. He and Mother were making plans for him to return to the isle.” Tavis’s voice becomes younger sounding, like when we were children. “Isleen and I were in town purchasing gifts for Mother’s birthday when we saw Markham and his men. I mentioned that Father was eager to return to Dagger Island with him. Not until later did I find out that Father intended to go without Markham, without the aid of the navy, and without permission from the queen.”
I stay quiet, aghast that Father would double-cross the realm.
“Killian said he would visit the manor to speak to Father about it. He came that night for his sword, but Father wouldn’t give it up. He said he needed the sword to direct his path to the gate. Killian called his men in from where they were waiting outside. I promise I didn’t know their argument would escalate.”
I blink slowly, all my tears currently dried up. “He spared you.”
“He thought I could lead him to the gate with the sword. His men had searched our manor and couldn’t find it.”
“No,” I say, remembering it differently. “Markham had no time to search. He stabbed Father and then started the fire.”
Tavis lowers his chin to his chest. “I saw you on the floor beside Mother and Father, Evie. I called to you, but you didn’t move. You were in shock, so stunned you weren’t even crying. Markham’s men searched the manor for nearly an hour, tearing everything apart. They couldn’t find the sword, so they dragged me out and set the fire. I begged Markham to spare you, but he needed only one of Father’s children. He selected me because I was older.”
My brother’s timeline of that night creates a gap in mine. “I—I don’t remember seeing you. I heard the gunshots—”
“I fought back and the soldier fired wide. Carlin and Isleen were already gone.” Tavis’s voice trembles. “You asked if I dream of her. I do. Every night for years, Isleen and Carlin and Mother return to me. You did as well, but since you’ve come to the isle, the dreams of you have stopped.”
He didn’t mention Father harassing him in his dreams. Tavis really does blame him. How he can find him culpable but not Markham astounds me.
“I’ve missed my family,” Tavis says, reaching for my hand.
I shy away, too sickened by him to allow his touch. I believe my brother didn’t anticipate what Markham would do or how that night would end. But Tavis’s betrayal wasn’t surviving. It was siding with our family’s destroyer.
Jamison throws the cabin door open and halts in the threshold. “I, ah . . . I can come back later.”
“Tavis was just going,” I say.
My brother stands gradually, straightening like an old, fragile man. He tips his hat in farewell at Jamison and strides out.
Jamison shuts the door behind him. “Pack up. We’re rowing to shore.”
“I want you to stay behind.”
He wipes his brow, damp with perspiration from working on deck. “We discussed this already, Everley.”
“The trek could worsen your sore knee.”
“I can keep up.”
Fear strangles me and won’t let go. “I don’t want you to come.”
He throws the pack on the bed and sends me a quizzical expression. “Why not?”
Because I don’t trust Markham not to use you against me. I don’t say this, of course, and instead shorten my reply. “I don’t trust Markham.”
Jamison’s mouth and eyes stretch in comprehension. “Are you trying to protect me?”
“No.” My answer was a reflex, but am I?
At seven years old, I woke with my newly installed clock heart and my uncle told me my parents were dead. I vowed never again to rely on another person for protection or let them rely on me. Life was definitive then. Myths were stories, my father wasn’t a traitor, princes were not murderers, and monsters could be slayed. I miss those days of certainty.
“You shouldn’t come, because I cannot be sure what dangers we’ll face,” I explain.
“Nor can I, but I’m still going.”
Jamison resumes packing our bags. My mind floods with confessions about Markham’s possible princedom, my father’s secret return voyage to the isle, and the mysterious treasure. I won’t tell him any of this unless I know all of it is absolutely true.
Nothing will feel certain again until I find the Kingdom of Amadara and look upon the ruined world myself.
Chapter Eighteen
Our expedition party stands at the frontier of the Thornwoods. Claret and Laverick, Markham and Harlow, and Jamison, Tavis, and I heft our gear in preparation for infiltrating the heart of Dagger Island.
After rowing ashore, we hiked up the rocky peninsula to the tree line. The women followed my example and exchanged frocks for breeches, shirts, and waistcoats, along with cloaks, boots, and packs full of water flasks and hardtack. Harlow wears the masculine garb with flair, a yellow kerchief tied at her collar and her hair tied up under a wide-brimmed hat. She and Markham make a striking pair, despite her ignoring him. She must be holding a grudge from their exchange at dinner.
We are indeed on the windward side of the isle. The gusts toy with our hair and clothes, pushing against u
s. I am already perspiring, the day stifling despite stormy clouds masking the sun. An occasional raindrop splatters on my head as I peer into the crooked trees. The Thornwoods do not smell of clean pine or warmed dirt, but like a bog—stinky feet and wet peat. Birdcalls and the whir of insects spill from the ferny undergrowth. The evergreen canopy stretches so high I can imagine the trees truly do hold up the sky.
A throb seeps up from the ground, as subtle as a rabbit’s pulse. The faint resonance does not disturb me as much as the way Markham looks carrying my sword. He had a servant polish the gold hilt, so the green tinge has been replaced by a splendid gleam, bright as the first eventide star. Though I am reluctant to accept that the weapon is the hallowed sword of Avelyn, the noble relic would give authenticity to his pedigree.
Markham draws my sword and crests the Thornwoods. Harlow follows him armed with a rapier. I start to set out, but Jamison grabs my pack and holds me back.
“We should have a signal in case we’re separated,” he says. “Do you know how to whistle?”
“Tavis taught me.” I glance at my brother carrying his walking stick. Laverick and Claret go around us into the woods. “I have a good sense of direction, Jamison. I’ve never been lost before, and I’ve memorized the map of the isle.”
Markham calls from ahead. “Come along!”
“Another moment!” Jamison answers, and then says to me, “Good sense of direction or not, if we’re divided, whistle and I’ll come.” He pats my shoulder, as though committing me to memory, and then we head into the trees.
Tavis trails us, the last party member in line. Up ahead, Markham slashes at branches and ferns. The spare cutlass I borrowed from the weapons stockpile on the ship is clunky and uninspiring, but complaining about the wretched blade would be pointless. Harlow would delight in my whining and Markham would know how much it still irritates me that he has my sword.
Before the Broken Star (The Evermore Chronicles Book 1) Page 16