The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(14)

“Those are two completely different mapmakers. You can’t compare some Frenchman’s fantasy of Arabia to—”

“Mitchell and Sutfin are two different mapmakers.”

“But they were mapping the same version of Hawaii.”

“Which version? My history? Or your fairy tale?”

“It is not a fairy tale!”

The volume of his voice brought me up short. His eyes were wild; I could see the whites all the way around, and suddenly none of it was amusing. “And if you succeed?” I said softly. “Then what?”

“What do you mean, then what?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. In Sanskrit mythos, they say breath is life, and I didn’t want to give life to my fears; I didn’t want to say it aloud. Then what will happen to me?

After our shouting, the silence rang in my ears. He took a deep breath, then another. “Then we all live happily ever after,” he said finally, calm once more. “You’ve done a lot of studying, Nix, and you know the maps, but I know what I believe, and that’s all that really matters.”

My breath hitched in my throat to hear it stated so plainly. “Good to know how insignificant my thoughts are to you,” I said bitterly.

“That’s not what I meant.” He reached out an uncertain hand, as though I was a bird in the bush. But he let the hand fall back to his lap, and cupped it in the other, squeezing until his knuckles cracked. “If I tell you a secret, will you feel better?”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m not twelve, Captain—”

“It’s about Navigation.”

That brought me up short, and my anger dissipated like mist under the sun. I had asked so many times; why now? Was it gratitude? Or guilt? Certainly it was the only gift I wanted from him. But it didn’t matter—I wasn’t about to question it. I found my voice. “What? What is it?”

He turned back to his bed and stared for a moment at the plate he’d left there. Then he broke a piece of bread off the sandwich and put it into the caladrius’s cage. She cocked her head shyly on her slender neck before dipping it down, delicate and precise, to eat from his hand. A winch in my gut wound tighter, but I was afraid if I asked again, he’d change his mind. “Navigation is not just about the maps,” he said finally, as though to the bird. “Part of it is belief.”

“Belief?” My mind was racing. “What do you mean?”

He brushed the crumbs from his palms and sat back down on his bed. “I’ve never been able to get to a place I didn’t believe existed. Doubt can stop a map from working.”

The edge of the Sutfin had started to curl; I ran my finger down the side. “So . . . you believe this map will work. That’s no secret.”

“If belief affects whether a map works, I’d think belief also affects what you find there.”

“You think, or you know?”

“Fine, I know.” He scrubbed his hands through his hair. “I know she’ll be there, and I know everything will work out.”

“How can you be sure?”

“It’s fate.” He looked at me—no, through me, as though just behind me was his future. “It’s inevitable.”

I ground my teeth, feeling tricked. “This isn’t about Navigation, it’s about delusion.” Disappointment was bitter on my tongue, but he didn’t flinch in the face of my scorn. Another breeze purled through the room, and I shivered. “I suppose if you’re going to see Lin again, we might as well throw all that overboard.” I flicked my hand toward the box under the bed. “You know she would hate to see it.”

His eyes refocused, and he met my stare with a steady gaze, but the silence stretched between us like a rope about to snap. Was that doubt? I turned my face so he wouldn’t see my expression, but when my eyes fell on the Sutfin map, my smug smile wilted. I wanted the map to fail, but why take joy in tormenting him? At heart, all he wanted was an escape, and that I understood—only too well. “Tell me more about Navigating,” I said then, too eagerly, breathless at the thought of freedom.

Slate laughed a little. “Why should I?”

“Because . . . because I asked.” He laughed again, louder, and I stiffened. “Please?”

He did not answer me. He was so quiet I couldn’t even hear him breathing. Finally I faced him; he was watching me and his expression was serious. “Why, Nixie?” he asked again, but it was clear he already knew.

Still, I did not answer. If I told him the truth—that I would leave him behind and never look back, that I longed to go anywhere and everywhere he was not—he would argue; worse, if I confirmed it, he would never teach me. “Because I helped you,” I said at last.

He made a face. “We don’t strike bargains, Nixie, not between you and me. We don’t haggle over things.”

I clenched my jaw. “I’ll try to remember that the next time you ask for money to buy a map.”

“This is a good map, Nixie,” he said, stabbing another dumpling. “There won’t be a next time.”



I went back outside, leaving Slate to his dinner. There was no sign now of the party; the deck was clear for tomorrow. I leaned on the rail, staring without seeing at the cars moving along the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. The warmth of the day had long faded, and the night air was quite cool; the condensation gave the headlights halos.