The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(34)

“Obviously there won’t be any deal without me seeing the real map first,” Slate said.

“Certainly, sir,” Mr. D replied. “I wouldn’t expect any different from you.”

“Nine hundred thousand.” Slate glanced at me, his expectation clear: it would be my job to gather Mr. D’s ransom. I gritted my teeth, my mind racing. It was an outrageous amount.

We’d have to stay on the island; we couldn’t leave and come back, not without another map. Although if we had another map—could we find another map we knew would work? One that would bring us to a time after we’d made the deal? It would have to be inked tomorrow or later, that was the real trick of it; but not too much later, or Mr. D might grow impatient.

“And how long before you expect payment?” Slate said, but I was only half listening. Why did they want nine hundred thousand dollars in the first place? As Slate had said, it was a princely sum, especially for the era. That kind of money could change history.

“We aren’t unreasonable. Say, before the year is out?”

“Well,” Slate said. “I despise haggling. Bring me the map—the original. If it’s good, you’ll have your money.”

Mr. D lifted his hand, palm out. “Ah, one moment, Captain. Unfortunately, sir, it’s not that simple.”

“And why not? Has the price gone higher in the last few moments? If the map is authentic, you can have a million.”

I swallowed. Damn his pride.

“The price is unchanged, and the map is authentic. I am a very honest man.” Mr. D smiled. “The only quibble is, we want that money to come from a very specific place.”

“And where is that?” the captain asked, biting into each word.

“From the vault at Ali’iolani Hale. The Royal Hawaiian Treasury.”

I gasped audibly, but Mr. D didn’t seem to notice; his eyes were locked on the captain’s. I swallowed again as the words sunk in. Nearly a million dollars from the treasury.

“Treason,” Slate said at last.

“You are not a subject, sir. It is merely piracy.”

“Merely,” Slate repeated, and laughed. “I wasn’t talking about myself.”

The genteel charm dropped from Mr. D’s face. “I have offended you,” he said, his voice clipped. “I will remove myself from your presence.” And he plucked the map from the desk and crumpled it in his fist.

“No! No . . . sit, please,” the captain said, trying to soothe Mr. D, or perhaps to soothe himself. “I’m not offended, just . . . surprised. I’m not usually involved in politics.”

“Ah.” Mr. D settled back into the chair so readily I suspected he hadn’t intended to leave in the first place. “Would that I could say the same! Unfortunately, circumstances have forced my hand. Politics are always complicated, sir, but even you can understand that Hawaii needs a strong leader.”

“I would think the king would be weakened with an empty treasury,” Slate said, his tone cautious.

“I said a strong leader, sir,” Mr. D said, passing the ball of paper back and forth in his hands. “Not a strong king.”

I went cold, but Slate only stared for a moment, then nodded once. “One thing I would like to know,” he said. “What part does our mutual friend have in all this?”

Mr. D laughed. “Ah, well, she is a businesswoman! All she wants is to be paid.”

I raised a finger. “One more question, sir.” Slate shook his head, but I pretended not to see it. “Why us?”

“Why? Well!” Mr. D said with a small laugh. “I was under the impression you’d want the map.”

I dropped my hand to my lap. So it was not our strengths that brought him here, but our weaknesses. Who else would consider doing something like this for a scrap of paper?

Slate rubbed his hands over his head. “Before I give you an answer, I’ll need to see it. The map. The real one.”

“Very well.”

“Meet me tomorrow?”

“Ah, tomorrow is Sunday, I will be at church.”

Slate stared at him. “Of course you will.”

“An idea occurs to me,” Mr. D said smoothly. “In a week’s time, on the night of the full moon, the owner of the map—the artist’s brother—is hosting a soiree at his home. Perhaps you’d like to attend? You can meet my colleagues face-to-face. You can assure yourself of the map’s authenticity. And you can give us your answer.”

Slate chewed his cheek. “Yeah, fine. That’s fine.”

“I’ll ensure an invitation is delivered tomorrow. And I’ll send a carriage for you.” Mr. D stood. “I look forward to your attendance—and your answer—at the ball.”

Slate, lost in thought, did not respond. “As do we,” I lied for him, for I had a sinking feeling I already knew what the answer would be.



With Slate trailing behind us, I escorted Mr. D out of the room. Though the distance from cabin to gangplank wasn’t more than twenty feet, I was protective of the ship. Slate had told me from a very young age not to talk to strangers about Navigation. Obviously he hadn’t always followed his own advice.

Once safely ashore, Mr. D paused for a moment at the edge of the dock, still holding the wadded copy of the map. The man made sure to meet Slate’s eye before he smiled brightly and tossed the ball of paper into the sea. Then he gave us a nod and stepped into his coach. Slate watched the street long after the carriage was out of sight.