The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(13)

I kicked the whole mess back under the bed, hard enough it hit the wall.

My palms were damp. I wiped my hands on the bundle of bedding and let it drop back to the floor. Then I took a deep breath to clear my head. The breeze off the ocean, cooler now the sun was down, had swept away the musty smell in the room, but Slate still hadn’t stirred except for the gentle rise and fall of his chest under the 1868 map. I could no longer contain myself; I took one corner between my thumb and forefinger, lifting it gently away, and he started awake, his hands closing reflexively on the edges.

“I’m going to put it on the table,” I said. His eyes focused on mine, and he released the map, trading it for the plate I’d brought. I glanced at the page, and my heart sank.

It was nothing like the others. Inked, faded, signed, dated. A. SUTFIN, the drafter, had printed in neat block letters and drawn in a very precise hand. And the map was original. But even that was no guarantee it would work. Suddenly I was absurdly grateful for the inexplicable failure of the 1981 New York.

“It’s a good map, isn’t it?”

I looked up at him; Slate was balancing the plate, untouched, on his knees, waiting for me to agree. I dropped my eyes back to the page and chewed my lip. “I hope it’s worth what it cost.”

“It is priceless, Nix.”

“Right.” Not a crease, nor even a crinkle. Someone had preserved this map quite well.

“Thank you,” Slate said then.

That gave me pause. “For what?”

“For the map.” He picked up the fork. “And for dinner.”

I pursed my lips. Why had I been surprised? He could afford to be kind now he had what he wanted. “Of course, Captain.” My voice was vague as I studied the map. It was only the island of Oahu, and in fine detail. Beautiful lines.

His duty done, he stabbed a dumpling with the fork. “This is good.”

“Good.” My eyes roved over the contours on the page, seeking flaws and finding none. The mapmaker had even labeled Honolulu’s main streets—Nu’uanu, Beretania, King—as well as the post office and the major churches. The city was centered around Iolani Palace, the seat of the King of Hawaii; there, just a few blocks northwest, was Chinatown. I ground my teeth.

“You know,” he said, his mouth full. “The last time I had a pastrami sandwich from Katz’s was when I was your age. This is from Katz’s, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Why so quiet?”

But then his face fell and his fork paused in midair. For a long time, neither of us spoke. He put down his fork and squeezed his eyes shut. “There was a party.”

I shrugged as if I didn’t care. “It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry, Nixie.”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Captain.”

“Kashmir told me, but I forgot.”

“I can see that.”

“I said I was sorry!” He threw his hands up, suddenly defensive. Then he clenched his fist and brought it in front of his mouth. “And I am,” he added quickly. “I was distracted, is all. The map is very distracting.” He set the plate aside and smiled hopefully. “But it’s beautiful, isn’t it? And it’s almost like a gift.”

“A gift?”

“To you.”

I couldn’t help it; my lips twisted like a juiced lime and the response was too bitter not to spit out. “To me?”

“Well . . . don’t you want to meet your mother?”

His question seemed designed to induce guilt, and it cut deep enough to reveal a splinter of cruelty, hard as bone. “My mother’s gone, Slate.” I put the map down on the drafting table, smoothing it with my palm. “On the map I came from, she’s dead.”

Slate blanched, but he answered evenly. “That’s why we’ve got a new map.”

“A new map . . . a new version.” I traced the line of the Tropic of Cancer. “A new wife?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been thinking about it. The map where you met is the map where she died. A different map means a different version of her.” And of me, but I did not bother saying it. I doubted it would matter to him.

He stood, arms crossed, drumming the fingers of his right hand on his left arm. “It’s the exact same place.”

“So?” I opened one of the cupboards—the fairy-tale maps—and unrolled one at random. “Greece with gods on Mount Olympus, Slate. And here.” I pulled out the map right beneath it. “Two hundred years later, the next cartographer replaced Zeus with Jupiter. And then we have—” I opened another cupboard, the less-fanciful histories, and pawed through them. “Mount Olympus during the Ottoman Empire, where you’ll find brigands and highway robbers and no gods at all.” I let the map roll itself up. “Going back to the same place doesn’t mean you’ll find the same thing.”

“It does if it’s the same time!”

I smiled grimly as he started to pace. A perverse part of me was enjoying myself. “Remember where we found Kashmir? That French map of Persia in 1740, in the Vaadi Al-Maas, but here, a historical map of Nader Shah’s empire, 1740, look,” I said, pointing. “Same place, same time, but there’s no such city. The shoreline’s different. Do you think Kashmir exists there, somewhere in the middle of the Persian Gulf?”