The Girl from Everywhere (12 page)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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"R
otgut, I need a big pot.”

“Of what?”

“Just a pot.”

He was standing over a pan where pork belly and pancakes popped and sizzled. The heat in the galley was hellish, and he was wearing only his orange
du bi ki
, the loincloth rag he’d made out of one of his old pure-cloth saffron robes. It was covered in grease stains, and his arms were spattered with tiny dark scars from frying oil. He was so skinny it was hard to imagine he’d ever eaten before.

As if to help me picture it, he grabbed a piece of bacon and tossed it, still sizzling, into his mouth. “Just a pot, hmm? Let’s see.”

He clanged through his collection, some hanging from hooks, some stacked haphazardly on shelves, some shoved
in the corner behind the barrel of oil. He scooped a stack of coconut bowls out of a large cast-iron pot and handed it over.

“This’ll rust.”

“You need it to hold water?” He put the cast iron back on the shelf and ran his fingers down the row to a beaten copper kettle.

“Saltwater.”

“Saltwater! Just a pot, you say. You need glass.” He passed me a bowl.

“Too small.”

His hands fell to his sides. Rotgut was usually quite patient, but there were limits; he’d left his monastery for a reason. “What,” he said, very deliberately, “do you need it for?”

Gently, using one hand, I lifted my shawl away from my neck, revealing the golden dragon sleeping on my shoulders.

When I’d returned to the ship, I’d rushed to my room to raid my jewelry box. Swag had decided to help; he’d pushed his nose through the jewelry, snuffling and digging. I caught a glimpse of the long strand of pearls Kashmir had given me last year, likely stolen from a flapper or a society girl, before it began disappearing down Swag’s throat.
I tugged back, worried he’d swallow the string, and the strand burst, scattering pearls across the floor. The little dragon rampaged through the room, claws clattering on the decking, chasing them down. Once he’d had his fill he wobbled onto my shoulders, his stomach so distended it threw him off-balance.

He couldn’t stay up there forever, though. Sea dragons needed water, and so I needed a pot.

“Look at this!” Rotgut exclaimed, his eyes full of joy. “You know, your mother had one like—”

“Exactly like this,” I said. “I met Auntie Joss today.”

Some of the joy fell from his face. “That old pusher? I’m surprised she isn’t dead.”

“She seems like a survivor to me.”

“That’s true. How did you find her?”

“By—by merest chance, really,” I said. “I was walking through Chinatown and I noticed her sign.”

“Really? Out in the open?”

“She’s an apothecary now.”

“Ah.” He leaned against the doorframe. “Makes sense. Even the last time we were here, they were making it illegal to sell opium without an expensive license.”

“Who was?”

Rotgut shrugged. “Probably people who wanted to keep their monopoly on opium.”

I snorted and Swag startled, then dropped his head back to my chest. Rotgut chucked the little beast under the chin. “We had one, you know. In the river behind the temple. Bigger than this, of course, but only three claws, not five. Why were you in Chinatown anyway?”

“Just . . . looking around.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

“You know, I could probably use a bucket.”

He found me a wooden pail with a brass handle; I’d be able to tie a rope to it and dip up fresh seawater whenever Swag needed it, which is what I did. Then I lugged the bucket to my room and eased the dragon off my neck and into the water. He barely batted an eye as he sank beneath the surface and curled up on the bottom, his nose almost directly under his fat belly.

I’d never had a pet before. I’d seen ships with cats and dogs and parrots and, once, an ancient tortoise, but we’d never kept animals on board, aside from the sky herring, or that aboriginal water toad, ugh. With a little luck, I wouldn’t accidentally kill Swag. Although if he’d lived through sixteen years of neglect after my mother’s death, he had to be tough.

Sitting there, gazing at the little creature, my eyes began to sting.

I put the remaining pearls in a dish nearby. Then I ran back to the kitchen for another small bowl full of fresh water, just in case. I put it beside the pearls; then, as nervous as a new mother, I moved both of the dishes closer to the bucket, then away a bit, in case he knocked into them getting out.

As I was worrying over the arrangement, a voice drifted in.

“Hallooooo! Halloo, the
Temptation
!”

I listened, but no one else answered. Of course not; it was Slate’s watch. I left off my fussing and headed topside.

“Halloo, the ship!”

I went to the rail and peered down. A man in his early forties stood on the dock below me, dressed in slim-cut black trousers and a fine frock coat, all of it wool, and though the sun was still quite high, he didn’t appear to notice the heat. “Who are you?”

He squinted up at me and shaded his eyes, making a moue behind his dark blond French-forked beard. “Good day. I’ve a message for the captain of the ship.”

I narrowed my eyes; he hadn’t answered my question. “From who?”

“I represent a group of persons interested in arranging a
business transaction,” he said, as easily as a lawyer.

“And
who
are these persons?” I reiterated, with deliberate slowness.

“I am not at liberty to say,” he responded, as though he found that disappointing. “May I come up and speak with him?”

Bee leaned over the rail beside me. I gave the man credit; he didn’t so much as blink when he saw her. “Go on,” she said to me, putting her hand on the holster at her hip.

“Pardon?” Her voice hadn’t carried to the man’s ears.

“I’m coming down,” I shouted.

I made my way down the gangplank and stood before him on the deck. He was a full head taller than I was; I had to shade my eyes as I looked up at him. Had the man purposely positioned himself so the sun would be over his shoulder? “I’m the captain’s daughter. What can I do for you?”

The curve of the man’s smile was half a degree from condescending. “A pleasure to meet you. When might the captain be available?”

“It’s impossible to say,” I said as sweetly as I could. “Until I know what he is making himself available for.”

“I see.” The smile was still there, but the mirth had gone. “Then you may tell him I was sent by a mutual friend.”

“The captain doesn’t have any friends here.”

“On the contrary, he has many friends! He has not yet met them all, but I am eager to make the introduction. I’ve heard so much about him.” His voice was deceptively light. “Quite extraordinary, the stories of his exploits. Almost . . . unbelievable.”

The skin behind my ears prickled. What did he know? “Well,” I said, trying to match his tone. “I wouldn’t make a habit of believing every bit of gossip I heard.”

“Oh, I don’t.” He let his eyes rove over the
Temptation
: the carved keel, the brazen figurehead. He nodded toward the mermaid. “The things she must have seen, eh?”

I swallowed the sudden tightness in my throat. “If there’s nothing more—”

“Just one thing. Please do tell him we will reward him generously for his help.”

“We don’t need money.” I turned to leave.

“I’m not offering money.”

I paused with one foot on the gangplank, unwilling to ask. He told me anyway.

“We have in our possession a treasure map.” He steepled his fingers in front of his lips. “And the treasure is one only your captain can claim, because he’s the one who lost
it, back in 1868.”

Damn everything.

A mutual friend. I gritted my teeth. She’d said it, even before I’d asked her for maps—a tall stranger and a long journey—but this was not Adelphi and she was no oracle. It wasn’t hard to see the future when you were the one planning it. She must have been ready for Slate’s return, as patient as a spider on a web. But I was the one caught, unable to escape the threads of my past.

Then I had an odd thought, a ray of hope. “The map. Is the drafter’s name Sutfin?”

“No,” he said, with a smile that was practically a twinkle. “It is not.”

I felt like Ulysses myself then, between Scylla and Charybdis, the beast and the abyss. I closed my eyes, struggling for composure. “Come back tomorrow.”

The man took his leave, strolling merrily away, while I climbed the gangplank with heavy steps. Bee was shaking her head. “Never trust a man with a beard. They’re always hiding something.”

“And not just his chin. He wouldn’t tell me his name or his business.”

Bee rolled her shoulders. “Might be best if he never
does.”

I grimaced. “He doesn’t strike me as the type to give up easily.”

“I could take us out to sea,” she offered. “The gentleman won’t be swimming in that suit.”

“And the next time we’re in New York, the map will be waiting for us at Christie’s for twice the price. I can’t escape it, Bee.” I started toward the captain’s door.

“Then fight it.”

“That doesn’t work.”

“That’s because you’ve been fighting
with
him.” She sighed, the air rasping in her throat. “You don’t have to help him. You’re not responsible. It isn’t your fault your mother’s gone.”

My breath hitched in my throat, and she reached out with unusual tenderness and put her thumb on my chin. Then she clapped my shoulder.

“But if you still want to escape, take the afternoon. Waking him up, it’s not going to be pretty.”

I bit my lip. “I . . . I took leave this morning.”

“I won’t tell on you.” Bee walked over to my hammock and kicked the lowermost curve. “Kashmir!”

He flipped himself out of the sling and onto his feet, his
eyes wide and his hair mussed. “What?”

“Budge yourself and take this girl ashore. She’s getting underfoot.”

He blinked twice and then saluted. “Aye, captain!” With little effort, he swept me up and hoisted me over his shoulder, knocking the air out of me. “Shore leave!” he shouted as he trotted down the gangplank.

“Kashmir!”

“Ah!” he said as I pounded him on the back. “That was my kidney!”

“Put me down,” I said breathlessly, “or I’ll take out the other one!”

“You should know,
amira
,” he said, emphasizing the Persian accent he often kept hidden. “We don’t negotiate with terrorists!”

I smacked his rear as he trotted ashore. On deck, Bee was shouting. “Ayen, pull back his blankets. Rotgut! Start some broth! And get a bucket of cold water!” I thought again of Ulysses, and of the sirens. Would Bee tie the captain to the mast until he was himself?

Kashmir set me down on the dock and put his hands on the small of his back. “I know one of our options on leave is brawling, but usually that’s later,
after
the drinking and the
gambling.”

I straightened my skirt, staring toward the ship, wanting to run back, wanting to run away. “Do you think they’ll be all right?”

“I have an idea,” Kashmir said, pulling at my sleeve. “Let’s find you some new clothes.”

“You can’t distract me with shopping,” I said. “I hate shopping.”

“And it shows! I’m not trying to distract you, I’m trying to help you.”

I knew what he was doing, but I gave in anyway. “I’m only helping you look good by comparison.”

“I don’t need any help to look good. All you’re doing is making it seem like I keep unfashionable company.”

He jumped back before I could swat him.

The street was much livelier than this morning. Wharf rats milled around the esplanade, ready to dive deep after a penny tossed into the ocean, and fishmongers were selling shellfish out of bushels on their backs. Riders cantered regularly down the dirt roads, men and women alike riding astride rather than sidesaddle, with long hair and garlands of flowers streaming behind them. Nearby were the distinctive sounds of a ukulele being played; I scanned the street
and found the shop, wedged between a bar and a feed seller. An old man was smiling and strumming, smiling and strumming, while inside the shop, his sons bent their heads over their saws.

This time, we turned away from Chinatown and toward fashionable downtown. Merchant Street was graveled to keep mud off lacy hems and shiny leather shoes. Discreet shingles offered the services of lawyers and bankers, factors and financiers, giving way on Fort Street to more ornate and fanciful signs advertising milliners and engravers, jewelers and dressmakers. Kashmir paused in front of a lovely shop with a bay window shaded by a fragrant jasmine vine, and on the scent rode an incongruous memory of racing through the hot streets of Calcutta.

He took a moment to finger comb his hair and button his jacket; even creased from long wear, it was still quite debonair. “Let me do the talking,” he said then. “I’m afraid if you make any decisions, you’ll end up with a whiskey barrel and a pair of galoshes.” Then he breezed in through the door.