The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(27)

She rubbed her fingers over the coins. “I forgive you for calling me a charlatan. His name is Swag. It has no meaning in Chinese. Good-bye.”

I almost left without another word, but I paused in the doorway. “I am looking for something else. Maps, if you have any to sell. Or if you know anyone who does.”

Her eyes were wide and entirely disingenuous. “Maps of what?”

I clenched my jaw. “You know what sort of maps. I’ll pay for good information.”

She nodded like she’d won. “I’ll send tothe ship for your consideration. I may have something for you.”

The way she said it made me uncertain whether I should have asked. But I pulled the shawl tight and left the shop, very aware of the smooth weight of the little creature around my neck, and by the time I’d gotten safely back to the Temptation, I’d forgotten to wonder about what she might send my way.



"Rotgut, I need a big pot.”

“Of what?”

“Just a pot.”

He was standing over a pan where pork belly and pancakes popped and sizzled. The heat in the galley was hellish, and he was wearing only his orange du bi ki, the loincloth rag he’d made out of one of his old pure-cloth saffron robes. It was covered in grease stains, and his arms were spattered with tiny dark scars from frying oil. He was so skinny it was hard to imagine he’d ever eaten before.

As if to help me picture it, he grabbed a piece of bacon and tossed it, still sizzling, into his mouth. “Just a pot, hmm? Let’s see.”

He clanged through his collection, some hanging from hooks, some stacked haphazardly on shelves, some shoved in the corner behind the barrel of oil. He scooped a stack of coconut bowls out of a large cast-iron pot and handed it over.

“This’ll rust.”

“You need it to hold water?” He put the cast iron back on the shelf and ran his fingers down the row to a beaten copper kettle.

“Saltwater.”

“Saltwater! Just a pot, you say. You need glass.” He passed me a bowl.

“Too small.”

His hands fell to his sides. Rotgut was usually quite patient, but there were limits; he’d left his monastery for a reason. “What,” he said, very deliberately, “do you need it for?”

Gently, using one hand, I lifted my shawl away from my neck, revealing the golden dragon sleeping on my shoulders.

When I’d returned to the ship, I’d rushed to my room to raid my jewelry box. Swag had decided to help; he’d pushed his nose through the jewelry, snuffling and digging. I caught a glimpse of the long strand of pearls Kashmir had given me last year, likely stolen from a flapper or a society girl, before it began disappearing down Swag’s throat. I tugged back, worried he’d swallow the string, and the strand burst, scattering pearls across the floor. The little dragon rampaged through the room, claws clattering on the decking, chasing them down. Once he’d had his fill he wobbled onto my shoulders, his stomach so distended it threw him off-balance.

He couldn’t stay up there forever, though. Sea dragons needed water, and so I needed a pot.

“Look at this!” Rotgut exclaimed, his eyes full of joy. “You know, your mother had one like—”

“Exactly like this,” I said. “I met Auntie Joss today.”

Some of the joy fell from his face. “That old pusher? I’m surprised she isn’t dead.”

“She seems like a survivor to me.”

“That’s true. How did you find her?”

“By—by merest chance, really,” I said. “I was walking through Chinatown and I noticed her sign.”

“Really? Out in the open?”

“She’s an apothecary now.”

“Ah.” He leaned against the doorframe. “Makes sense. Even the last time we were here, they were making it illegal to sell opium without an expensive license.”

“Who was?”

Rotgut shrugged. “Probably people who wanted to keep their monopoly on opium.”

I snorted and Swag startled, then dropped his head back to my chest. Rotgut chucked the little beast under the chin. “We had one, you know. In the river behind the temple. Bigger than this, of course, but only three claws, not five. Why were you in Chinatown anyway?”

“Just . . . looking around.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

“You know, I could probably use a bucket.”

He found me a wooden pail with a brass handle; I’d be able to tie a rope to it and dip up fresh seawater whenever Swag needed it, which is what I did. Then I lugged the bucket to my room and eased the dragon off my neck and into the water. He barely batted an eye as he sank beneath the surface and curled up on the bottom, his nose almost directly under his fat belly.

I’d never had a pet before. I’d seen ships with cats and dogs and parrots and, once, an ancient tortoise, but we’d never kept animals on board, aside from the sky herring, or that aboriginal water toad, ugh. With a little luck, I wouldn’t accidentally kill Swag. Although if he’d lived through sixteen years of neglect after my mother’s death, he had to be tough.

Sitting there, gazing at the little creature, my eyes began to sting.

I put the remaining pearls in a dish nearby. Then I ran back to the kitchen for another small bowl full of fresh water, just in case. I put it beside the pearls; then, as nervous as a new mother, I moved both of the dishes closer to the bucket, then away a bit, in case he knocked into them getting out.