The Girl from Everywhere (21 page)

“What?” Then I noticed that Kashmir wasn’t looking at me anymore, but over my shoulder.

“May I?”

Kashmir stepped back and bowed. “Aye, Captain.”

I slipped my fingers into my father’s palm. Slate danced almost as awkwardly as I did, but he closed his hand around mine tightly. “I’m glad to see you having fun. Kashmir’s right, the dress is lovely.”

“He practically designed it.”

“The kid has good taste.”

“You clean up nice too.”

He guided me gently around another couple who waltzed by in a whirl of blue silk and blond curls; Mrs. Hart was on the floor. Slate’s eyes were troubled. He took a deep breath, then let it out. “I’m sorry. About what I said about Kashmir.”

I stiffened in his arms. “Of course you are. Now that you need him.”

“It’s not that.” His expression was wistful. “I saw you dancing. You two are close.”

“We’re friends.”

“Oh? Good friends, then. It reminds me of . . .” He trailed off.

“Of who?” I asked, though I knew the answer. He met my eyes, then dropped his own to his feet.

“Of better times,” he said finally. “But things will get better again. Nixie—I’m sorry we fought. I hate fighting with you.”

“Try agreeing with me instead.”

That made him smile. “You have to know I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

“Then don’t do this,” I said, surprising myself. I took a breath, and the scent of the blossoms around my neck was sweet on my tongue. “Leave the map. Tell them no.”

He stopped moving at my words, and we stood still on the grass, the eye of a storm where wind and rain were laughter and music. “I thought you’d understand, now, why I can’t do that.”

“Why?” Then I realized. “Because of Kashmir? Dad,
that’s . . . insulting.”

“Love is insulting?”

“It’s not love!” I said, too loud; people beside us tittered, and my cheeks burned. I lowered my voice to a fierce whisper. “I’m not like you. I wouldn’t sacrifice everything for some romance.”

“I’m not sacrificing anything—”

“Oh, really? Well, even if you don’t give a damn about
me
, this is a kingdom. An entire country. You called it paradise, and yet you’d—”

“Nixie!” He put his finger on my lips, and I did stop then, though it was a struggle. After a long moment, he took my hand, gathering it in both of his. The tattoos, black in the moonlight, peeked out from the edge of his cuffs: my name on one wrist, my mother’s on the other.

“You have to understand,” he said faintly. “Every day the options narrow. Chance becomes certainty and fate makes choices for us, but I cannot imagine a reality where . . .” He trailed off and was quiet as he stared fixedly at a point past my head.

“Where what?”

“Where the kingdom of Hawaii does not fall,” he finished, although I didn’t believe that was the sentence he
started. I followed his gaze; Mr. D was raising a glass at him from across the lawn, where he stood near the champagne table with two other men, one young and barrel-chested, with the feverish eyes of a zealot, the other smaller and as quivery as a squirrel.

“Come, Nix,” Slate said softly. “Let’s meet our new friends.”

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"A
h, Captain!” Mr. D said as we approached. “What a pleasure to see you here. And young Miss Song.”

He bowed. I bent my knees, but barely; the captain didn’t bother with any pleasantries. “Which one of you is Mr. Hart?”

Mr. D laughed. “Our host is in his study, tragically far from the refreshment. Before we go in, may I offer you a drink?” Again he raised his glass of pale gold champagne, and I noticed it was still full, while the squirrelly man beside him tipped back his own glass, tossing the bubbly down his gullet. I regarded the rows of fine crystal glasses and the iced bottles with French labels. The drink alone must have cost a mint.

“Thank you, no,” I said, and Slate half raised his hand, dismissing the proffered glass.

“A rare sight, a sailor who won’t drink!” Mr. D joked, but the youngest man was nodding.

“A rare sight,
anyone
who won’t drink, at least in Honolulu.” The man’s intense eyes were lit by a fire within. “The problem worsens by the year, ever since the merrie monarch repealed the prohibition against serving alcohol to the natives. They’re worse than sailors.”

“It’s a problem common among aboriginals,” said the squirrelly man as he picked up a fresh glass.

“But not exclusive to them,” the younger man replied with a glare.

“Some men cannot control their appetites,” Mr. D said pointedly. “Wouldn’t you agree, Captain?”

Slate’s spine had gone ramrod straight, but his face was blank while he chose his response. “Local issues are . . . of no interest to me.”

Mr. D nodded sagely. “That is likely for the best. Let us to business, then. Come.” He pointed toward the house with his still-full glass.

“A moment,” Slate said, scanning the crowd. “There is a third member of our party. Do you see him, Nixie?”

I didn’t, at first. Then I caught sight of him, in a swirl of sky-blue silk; Kashmir was dancing with Mrs. Hart.

“The tutor?” Mr. D said. His eyes twinkled. “He seems otherwise occupied.”

“Don’t worry, he’s in artful hands,” the squirrelly man said. “Mrs. Hart is a
very
capable host.”

Although the third man was silent, he looked like he’d bitten a lemon. I kept my own face still.

“There should be no need for dance instruction at our meeting,” Mr. D said, and he led us inside as the song ended. I didn’t glance over my shoulder to see whether Kashmir and Mrs. Hart had parted.

We followed Mr. D into the grand hall. He knocked at the door closest to the front of the house and farthest from the party, but opened it without waiting for an answer.

The study was lit with gas lamps that threw gold light across a blond maple floor laid with a thick green rug. It had that library smell, like the map room did, but the undercurrent of brine was replaced by wood smoke that must have come from the fireplace—a fireplace! In Hawaii! Not for warmth, but for wealth. There was even a small fire burning in it.

A huge window at the south of the room had been shuttered, and a small side door that must have led to the next room—door number two from the grand hall, likely a library
or a drawing room—was also shut. I filed away that side door, an extra entrance to tell Kashmir about later.

The walls were a deep hunter green above the wainscot, and there was a large desk with bird’s-eye grain, on which sat a cut crystal decanter, a smooth round stone the size of a fist . . . and a black leather artist’s portfolio tied with a red ribbon. The captain’s eyes were drawn to it like iron to a lodestone.

The man behind the desk stood to greet us. He was flushed, or sunburned, and he had a dun-colored mustache of the sort that continued right past the corners of his thin lips, across his red cheeks, and connected up to the hairline in front of the ears. Those lips stretched in a smile that was almost a grimace.

“Captain,” said Mr. D. “Meet Mr. Hart.”

Mr. Hart shook the captain’s hand, then took my hand in his and bowed over it. I resisted the urge to scrub my palm on my gown; his own had been unpleasantly moist. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his high forehead as well. Studying him, I had the incongruous thought that Blake had been lucky to get his mother’s looks.

Mr. Hart was peering at me, though, a quizzical expression in his watery eyes, the color of weak tea. “Would the miss not prefer to be dancing?”

Slate raised his eyes from the portfolio for the first time since he’d entered the room. “No. She is more an expert than I am, with maps. She stays.”

I tried to ignore the stares the gentlemen gave me, but Mr. D shrugged. “In such complex matters, the more expertise, the better.” He clasped his hands. “Now that we are all gathered, let me make the introductions.”

“Not full names, please!” said the nervous little man.

“He has
my
full name,” Mr. Hart objected.

The little man scoffed. “Well! It is your house, sir, it could hardly be avoided!”

“As it is my house, I bear most of the risk here,” Mr. Hart said. “Should we not share it more equally?”

“The captain has agreed to confidentiality,” Mr. D said. “There is little risk.”

“Then why don’t we share it?” Mr. Hart asked again.

“One cannot be too careful,” Mr. D said, not a bit ashamed that he was speaking out of both sides of his mouth at once.

Beside me, Slate shifted, impatient, but I put my hand on his arm. Of course their names did not matter—Slate would not risk the map in an attempt to blackmail the men, but I hoped they did not know how completely they had him in thrall. After all, if they did, we would be in no position to bargain.

“Have I not commanded you? Be strong and of good courage,” quoted the youngest man, his brown eyes shining, but he tempered faith with prudence: “I am . . . Mr. T.”

“And I’m Mr. D,” said the squirrelly one.

“I’ve been introduced as Mr. D,” Mr. D said.

“Then . . . call me Mr. M.”

“Call him Milly, we all do,” said Mr. Hart.

“Sir!”

“Can we move on?” Slate interrupted.

“Yes, let’s,” said Milly. “I am a very busy man.” Having drained his champagne, he unstoppered the cut crystal decanter and filled his glass. The sharp smell of brandy tickled my nose.

“First things first,” Mr. D said. “Mr. Hart. The map.”

Mr. Hart drew out the red satin ribbon and flipped open the portfolio. Slate crowded close and pulled me alongside him. He held his breath as he studied the map. He held my wrist too. Would he dare try to Navigate here and now? Was it even possible? Could he call up the fog in a stuffy room? I twisted my arm a bit; he wouldn’t let go. I clutched the edge of the desk with my other hand.

The map was a sketch, really, without much by way of topographical elevation or contour, but the coastline was
fairly accurate and the roads of downtown were inked in, along with, clearly marked, what appeared to be every saloon, brothel, and opium den in town. I saw it then: Hapai Hale. Pregnant House. Quaint, indeed. That was where my mother was supposed to be.

The ink was dry and faded, and the paper smelled old. I released the wood of the desk and stretched out my hand; I didn’t touch the page, but I was close enough to feel the heat of my palm trapped between my skin and the paper.

I drew my hand back. “The maker was your brother?”

Mr. Hart’s eyes jerked toward me. “He was.”

“And . . . he frequented these places? He knew them well?”

His thin mouth twisted. “Yes. Yes, he did. He had an artist’s temperament and was familiar with much he would better have left alone.”

Milly snickered, and Mr. Hart blinked rapidly. It may have been a trick of the firelight, but for the barest instant, his eyes seemed filled with pure rage.

But the captain chuckled. “Hart. Blake, yes. I remember the man.” Was he remembering old days—old friends? “He died?”

“He drowned,” Mr. Hart said. His eyes flickered over to
Mr. D, who did not exchange his glance.

“A tragic accident,” Mr. D added simply.

The sweat shone on Mr. Hart’s brow. My own eyes narrowed. On the surface, this map didn’t seem like a fake, no matter how much I had hoped otherwise. But why was Mr. Hart so nervous? Was I being overcautious? After all, he was hosting traitors in his home. I scanned the map again. There was nothing I could hang a doubt on, at any rate, if I’d been inclined to lie.

I nodded, grudgingly; the captain relaxed, taking a deep breath through his teeth. He released my arm, and we both stood back.

“I should very much like to . . . to come to an arrangement for this map,” the captain said.

There were sighs of relief, and tight smiles behind beards, but Mr. D was still gazing at Slate intently. “So we are agreed on the terms?”

But Slate hesitated, glancing at me, then back to Mr. D. “Actually, gentlemen, now we’re together—all together, here—and before we get into a dangerous situation, I want to . . . to extend to you a counteroffer.”

My eyes cut to the captain. A counteroffer? He hadn’t mentioned that to me. But when his words sank in, Mr. Hart
flipped the portfolio closed and put his hand to his waist; under his jacket, did I see the glint of a metal barrel? “I am already in a dangerous situation, sir!”

“Now, now,” Mr. D murmured, but Mr. Hart ignored him.

“You are in my home, you know my name! I hope you can appreciate the delicate position I am in!”

The captain held up his hand. “I appreciate it, sure. And my offer is a lot safer. The map for a million dollars of my own money.”

Mr. D’s nostrils flared, and his voice was colder than the champagne. “I believe we already discussed this, sir.”

“You and I did. But
we
didn’t,” Slate said, gesturing to the other men. Their faces went as still and pale as wax; they must have been mirrors of my own.

I saw the question in their eyes—how did a ship’s captain attain such wealth? But I knew better. He hadn’t had more than a few hundred in the bank.