The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(32)

“And stayed for breakfast?”

Kashmir grinned easily. “The food was good.”

“Hmm.” Slate tasted his coffee and made a face. Then he jerked his chin toward the hatch. “Better get some rest.”

“Aye.” But Kashmir hesitated; I shook my head just a fraction of an inch, and he left. Slate stared after him for a long time. At last he spoke.

“You and him?”

“What? No.” I kept my voice casual, but he narrowed his eyes and searched my face.

“Best not to get too attached,” he said finally, hunching his shoulders over his coffee and staring at the water.

I rolled my eyes. “You’re one to talk.”

He didn’t rise to the bait. I shifted my weight on tired feet, but he only sat there, blowing air over his coffee. He always brewed it hot to make it bitter, but he never drank it till it was cold.

“What do you want, Slate?” I said finally, my voice loud in the night air.

He looked up at me suddenly, like he’d forgotten I was there. “Tell me about the man who came yesterday.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything!”

“Didn’t Bee tell you?”

“She didn’t say much.”

“Neither did he,” I said. “But he knew.”

Slate didn’t need to ask me what I meant. He stood and started pacing. “So he could ask for anything. Literally anything.”

“Maybe he’s just an opium smuggler,” I said, wanting it to be true. “Joss sent him, after all.”

He stopped in his tracks, then swiveled on his heel. “He said that?”

I bit my lip. “Not exactly. I—I met her yesterday.”

“Where?”

“In her apothecary! Christ. What are you afraid of? She might expose me to opium?” I ran my fingers through my hair; they stuck in the tangles. Exasperated, I dropped my hands to my sides. “Don’t meet with him, then. When he comes back, we’ll send him away.”

Slate stared at me. “You know I need that map, Nixie.”

“You haven’t even seen it. What if it’s another dead ender?”

“If it’s good, I’ll need it.”

I just shook my head; it was starting to throb. “Can I go to sleep now?”

He chewed his lower lip, staring at the lightening sky. “Fine, but only a couple of hours. He’ll be back soon.”

“So?”

“So I need you at the meeting to figure out how to get him what he wants. Don’t look at me like that, Nixie. You know I can’t plan a route without you.”

I crossed my arms. “If you want me there, teach me to Navigate.”

The desperate smile faded. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“I’m not asking, Nixie.”

“Good,” I said, light-headed with exhaustion and beer and this new feeling, rebellion. “Because I’m not either. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

“I am your father,” he said; I only laughed. “I am your captain!” His shout echoed in the harbor.

“So what are you going to do?” I jutted out my chin; victory was within my grasp. “Keelhaul me? Hang me from the yardarm? Leave me in the next port?”

“No!” Slate threw down the pewter mug. It bounced and tumbled to the bulwark; coffee splashed across the deck. Somewhere on shore, a dog started barking. “No,” he said again, quietly this time, and the coldness in his voice froze the laugh in my throat. “Not you.”

“Who then?” I asked, but his eyes flickered to the hatch where Kashmir had just gone, and I gasped.

He folded his arms and stared at me. “I warned you not to get too close.”

“No.” It was barely a whisper; I don’t even know if he heard.

“I told you he might not be around forever.”

“You’re disgusting.” For a moment, I couldn’t move, turned to stone by the ugliness of the implication. I pushed my way past—I couldn’t get away from him fast enough—but he grabbed my arm.

“Now you understand,” he said, his eyes bright. “The pain of losing someone you love.”

My mouth twisted. “Oh, I’ve understood for a while, Captain,” I said, spitting the words out like broken teeth. “But you always come back when you want something. Maybe one day I’ll lose you for good.”

He released my arm, and for a moment, neither of us moved. Finally he dropped his eyes, ashamed, but not enough. “I’m going to try to catch some sleep,” he said, picking up the coffee mug. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

For once, I went to my cabin. Wide awake, I dug out my map from my trunk and traced the lines of Carthage: the scoop of the bay, the wide main street leading up from the harbor, the market where I would make my fortune and buy my own ship and cast off this anchor dragging me down.



After my argument with Slate, there was no chance of sleep—and no chance I would miss the meeting—so by the time the sun was fully risen, I was waiting on deck for the man to arrive.

I had even tidied up the captain’s cabin, perhaps more forcefully than necessary. I’d had to work around Slate, and more than once, I caught him watching me out of the corner of his eye, though neither of us dared speak.