The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(36)

“I really am sorry about calling you—”

“It’s all right. Really. What I meant is, I wasn’t at home right away.” He reached out to play with the tattered edge of one of the cushions. Kashmir, like me, had come to the ship with no belongings, but now the room was full of riches and reminders. The pillows were sewn from scraps of silk, and scattered around the room were wooden statues and stone bowls and bone knives and strings of seeds, tiny treasures that could be slipped into a pocket. On the walls were pages torn from books; as I leaned closer, I saw they were poems.

All I had collected were dust and costumes. I sighed. “Do you feel at home now?”

He met my eyes. “You help me to.”

“Oh. Good,” I said, nonplussed. I leaned back, gazing down at the book in my hands, trying desperately to think of something to say. “You know, Kipling was a horrible racist.” Oh, for God’s sake. I threw the book aside.

But it made him laugh; I was relieved. “Well, I stole the book, so he wasn’t paid. Besides, that version was published in the 1960s. He was long dead by then.”

“He’s out there now, though. He and Mr. D would get along.”

“This is the age of empire. There are a lot of people who share their views.”

“And a lot of people being ground down under their feet.”

“Maybe at the bottom of it, it’s all just the law of the jungle.” He sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees. “While you were doing your laundry, Slate called me in to talk.”

My breath hitched in my throat. “And?”

“I’m sure you can imagine the general idea. Why are you making that face? The captain has been good to me. He didn’t have to take me in. And he doesn’t have to let me stay.”

My cheeks went hot, and my skin felt too tight. “You heard him last night.”

“And I’m glad for the chance to earn my keep. I never learned to beg.” He shrugged. “Besides, like you said, it’s for love.”

“Love?” The word was bitter as hemlock. “It’s just another addiction.”

He sighed, but he didn’t protest. We both sat under the heavy blanket of silence until a breeze stole in and rustled the pages on the walls. I stared at his stolen trinkets. “Kashmir. You’re a good thief.”

“Good at thieving? Or good and a thief?”

“Don’t fish. We both know you’re good enough to think you can steal a million dollars in gold and silver.”

“Or foolish enough.” He grinned.

“So . . . you shouldn’t have any trouble with a single roll of paper?”

“Ah,” he said, but his smile faded. “Clever.”

“Of course . . . the captain wouldn’t like it.”

“That depends,” he said cautiously.

“On?”

“On whether or not we succeed.”

“Do you doubt whether we can?”

“No,” he said, tilting his head. “But I do wonder why we should. I thought you were done helping him.”

“Well, it’s less dangerous than trying to steal the gold.”

Kashmir let the silence stretch, studying me. “And?” he said at last.

I sighed. “And . . . if he’s willing to do anything for the map, I’d rather he negotiate with us than them.”

He gave me an appraising look. “You do understand the law of the jungle.”

Hope rose in my throat. “You’ll do it?”

“For you?” I blinked, unsure how to respond, aware of how unfair it was to ask, but Kashmir did not wait for an answer. “I’ll try.”

“Thank you!” I threw my arms around him and he laughed—or maybe it was a grunt.

“Can’t breathe!”

“Sorry!” I rocked back on my heels, buzzing with energy. “So. How are we going to do it?”

“So eager now, Miss Relative Morality!”

“Stealing a map versus robbing a kingdom? I’ll throw myself on the mercy of the law.”

“Mercy? You’ve never really dealt with the law, have you? Ow,” he added, even though I hadn’t hit him that hard. “Well,” he went on. “I don’t know just yet, but I’ll figure it out. And I think the best time to do that is at the ball. I heard you needed a date?”



I woke the next morning with Kashmir’s breath tickling my ear.

We’d talked late into the night, and I had only meant to rest my eyes for a minute, but it had been so warm in the nest of silk beside him. He’d tossed his arm over me as we’d slept; in those first moments of wakefulness, I didn’t have the willpower to throw it off. My eyes drifted open and focused on his hand, inches from my nose. His fingers were curved into a soft, relaxed shape as he slept. I stared at them, memorizing the lines in the skin, the rounding of the knuckles, the little white scars.

A small part of me was ashamed at enjoying the closeness I never would have accepted had we both been fully awake, but I tried to ignore it, tried to let sleep steal back. Time passed as it does in a dream, until the sound of heavy footsteps on the deck above roused me. It must have been the captain, pacing by overhead, toward the cabin—or the hatch.

I was bolt upright half a second before he opened the door.