The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(20)

He blinked slowly at me and sat up, crossing his legs. “Come in,” he said, almost politely.

“I am in.” I spread my hands, standing there on the threshold.

“No, come here. I want to show you something.” He opened the box, and the implements gleamed in the low light. My lip curled.

“Slate, I don’t want—” I was stepping back out the door, but he had pulled out the map of 1866.

“You should.” He unfolded the paper with excruciating care, his face intent, and laid it across his lap. “You should see.”

I hesitated. I’d never actually seen the old map, he was so protective of that box. Stepping slowly back into the room, I closed the door, but only halfway. “What is it?”

“It is . . . what was.” The map was faded at the creases, almost torn in places, from being folded and unfolded so many times. “Here,” he said, stroking the page with one finger.

I took a step closer to see.

“We took out a flat a block away from Chinatown. You could smell the ocean, and there was a little garden in the back. Your mother ripped up the rose bushes and planted bitter greens. The landlord was pissed, but the roses had been dying anyway. The air was too salty for them.”

The boards beneath me creaked as I shifted on my feet. He never, ever spoke about her.

“I can see her now.” His eyes slid shut, and he smiled crookedly. “God, she was beautiful. And she knew it too.”

I only stared at him. He had no pictures of her, of course. I used to look in the mirror when I was younger, picking apart my own face—trying to recognize what was his, so I could discover what might have been hers.

“I offered her anything,” he went on. “Do you know that? I told her I could take her anywhere, give her whatever she wanted. She only ever asked for one thing.” His eyes snapped open and cut to the box beside him. With sudden violence, he grabbed it and threw it across the room—it hit the wall and I jumped back, my shoulders hitting the door as the contents scattered. A syringe rolled under the bed; the steel spoon clattered on the floorboards. I groped behind me for the doorknob, but the captain hung his head, slumping, all the fire gone out. “I was a better person with her.”

My heart fluttered in my throat like a bird, but my feet were rooted to the floor. He focused on the map again, tracing a road from the harbor to the mountains with one calloused finger. “I wanted to buy her a house. That’s why I left. Somewhere up in Nu’uanu Valley. Something expensive, with a big garden and room for kids.” He didn’t look at me when he said it, but I felt the implication—for me. He left because of me.

He put the map aside and lay back, staring up at the ceiling in a fragile silence. It took all of my willpower not to take the map myself, to try to see what he had seen, but I didn’t move—I barely breathed—afraid he wouldn’t say anymore.

“I thought this was it, Nixie,” he said finally. “I really did. I hadn’t been this close to her in fifteen years.”

Neither have I. Still, I said nothing.

His head lolled to the side. “You would have loved your other life,” he said, and in that moment, I believed him. I could almost see it, the place he’d described, as clear as if he’d drawn me a map.

“You were right, you know,” he went on. “It was a fairy tale. A beautiful country, a faraway kingdom, true love.” He closed his eyes to better see the past. “A world in a grain of sand, and a heaven in . . . in . . . what’s that line?”

“A wild flower,” I said, my voice hoarse.

“Yes.” He sighed. “And I had infinity in the palm of my hand.” He was quiet again; soon, his breathing evened out. Still I lingered, hopeful, but he said nothing else, and so I shifted, slowly, carefully. The doorknob clicked as it turned, and he stirred. “I wish I could show you.” His breath made the corner of the map tremble. “I wish you could see what it was like.”

I stepped quickly across the threshold and took a deep draft of the cool night air, trying to relieve the sudden ache in my chest. Then I eased the door shut behind me, and as the latch clicked, I whispered so softly even I barely heard it: “Me too.”



There was something charming about waking to the sound of a rooster.

Even if that rooster was so ancient he creaked more than crowed. And even if it came before the dawn was more than a twinkle in the horizon’s eye.

The air was mild and I was comfortable, still half in a dream I couldn’t remember, but did not want to leave. I shut my eyes again and listened to the world awaken.

“Cock-a-daaaaaaaack! Cock-a-daaaaaaaaack!”

First the rooster, along with the quiet chime, rhythmic and close by, of metal against metal, maybe the wind moving a rope with a brass clip back and forth. Then pots clanging against pans: someone had started breakfast in the galley of the frigate beside ours. The far-off sound of a horse’s hooves, and the rattling of a cart coming down the road with early morning deliveries. And, sudden and loud over the water, a shouted curse from someone in the schooner on our other side.

I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and sat up, making my hammock sway. Farmers may rise to roosters, but sailors rise to swearing.

The sun was rising too, turning the clouds in the east the color of cream. The ship felt quiet. I didn’t think anyone else was awake yet. Last night Kash had snuck ashore, and he hadn’t come back by the time I’d fallen asleep, and I’d heard Bee and Rotgut murmuring over their worn game board into the early hours, playing Go and taking each other’s stones. And of course the captain wouldn’t be awake, not for some time—not after last night.