The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(24)

I hesitated, then gave the simplest answer. “At sea.”

“Ah! That explains it.”

“Why we’ve never met?”

“Why you seem out of place.”

I pursed my lips as he stood there with his shiny shoes and his pressed linen suit in the middle of the ramshackle block between the bars of Fid Street and the open sewer of Nu’uanu Stream. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

He laughed and followed my eyes down to his boots. “Very fair. Though I might claim to be braver than most haoles—whites,” he explained at my quizzical look. “Chinatown can be as picturesque as the rest of the island, if you know how to look at it. Don’t laugh. There’s always at least one good sketch to be done here.” He put his hand over his heart—no, over the book in his breast pocket; the outline of it was visible under his linen jacket. His fingers were dark, smudged with ink.

“You’re an artist, then?”

“Only when my father isn’t watching.”

I shrugged one shoulder. “The best artists had family who disapproved.”

“That’s true. Then again, very likely so did the worst.”

I snorted, then covered my mouth; he grinned back at me. “Well, now of course I’m curious.”

It took a moment, but he reached into his jacket and pulled out the booklet. It was clearly homemade, a sheaf of paper folded in half and bound with ribbon. I opened it to the beginning. On one page, moonlight pooling on a secret bay, seen from under the feathery fronds of palm leaves; on the next, a village of grass houses huddled close in a clearing, and here—

“A map?”

“Ah, yes. On one of our rides through Ka’a’awa Valley, we discovered a trail leading to an ancient temple, back behind the abandoned sugar mill. I’ve sketched it on the next page. They say human sacrifices were made there. At the temple, not the sugar mill.”

It was gorgeous work, if gruesome—both art and cartography. The lines were thick and dramatic, with drips and drabs of ink like the spatter of blood. “You have other maps here,” I said, turning the pages eagerly; the next one was bordered with delicate seashells.

“That one is a path to a hidden beach, and”—he reached over and flipped a few more pages—“that is a partial map of the tunnels in Kaneana Cave. No one has ever fully explored them. Yet.” He gave me that shy smile again, and for some reason I found myself blushing.

I dropped my eyes and turned another page; the image gave me pause. Black ink slashed the paper like the stroke of a cutlass: a ship as sleek as a shark, bound tightly to the pier. I could almost hear the creak of the rope as she strained at her bonds. At the prow, the mere suggestion of a solitary figure, as ephemeral as a wisp of smoke. It must have been me. “This is beautiful,” I said, but the word fell short. “It is . . . true.”

“You’re too kind,” he said, looking up at me through his lashes; they were long enough they nearly brushed his cheeks when he blinked. “She makes a lovely subject.”

I glanced up from the page, suspicious, but his expression was earnest. The next page was blank. I handed back the book with a sigh. “I can see why you’d call me a tourist.”

He laughed. “Should you need recommendations, there are few requests I cannot fill.” He tucked the book back in his pocket and made a shallow bow, removing his hat to do so. “Blake Hart, at your service.”

“Perhaps another time,” I said with regret. Then a thought occurred to me. “Although . . . do you know an A. Sutfin, by any chance?”

“Sutfin? Sutfin . . .”

“He’s a cartographer. No? Then . . . how about a public library?”

“Not many people visit Hawaii to go to a library. Probably partly because there is no library, but I’m guessing that’s not the main reason.”

“You aren’t making good on your claim.”

“Well!” he said, but he grinned back at me. “I do apologize. You are posing hitherto unfamiliar challenges.”

“Don’t trouble yourself over it,” I said. “There are always other tourists.”

“But none I’d so like to impress.”

My God. He was flirting. “I . . . uh . . .” My face burned as my fickle words scattered like a school of fish in the deep water of his blue eyes. The moment stretched like a rack and I writhed upon it. Where was the banter I found so effortless with Kashmir?

“I apologize,” he said again, finally saving me from the silence. He spun his hat in his hands. “I am . . . not usually so bold. If you hadn’t dropped your purse, I likely never would have spoken to you. Isn’t it funny, what can happen by merest chance?”

“Indeed it is. Thank you—” I cleared my throat; something was sticking in it. “Thank you again, Mr. Hart.”

He stepped back slightly and made another little bow, suddenly formal again. “A pleasure, miss. Good day.” He put his hat on his head and tipped it. “I hope to see you again. Perhaps by merest chance.” Then he continued down the road. I watched him go, but he didn’t look back.

Of course, then it came to me, the reply I should have made. “None I’d so like to impress,” he’d said, and then I should have said “You certainly left your mark.” h. And I would have patted the coins he’d returned to me. Clever, you see, because an impression is a mark, and a mark is another word for coin. At least, it is in Germany . . . no, not till 1920; before that it was the Thaler. Hmm. Maybe it was best I’d said nothing.