The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(38)

I glared at her. “There’s nothing to mind.”

“As you say.”

I went below and dumped the laundry in my room. From the clean pile, I picked out a yellow cotton dress with a tiny floral print that fit much better than the pinafore. I yanked it over my head, still fuming. I didn’t know why her assumptions annoyed me; it was only to be expected. I had spent the night in Kashmir’s room. From the crew’s perspective, the meaning there was clear, even if Kashmir and I had never so much as kissed.

Though for a moment last night, we might have. He was making a joke about something, something silly, I couldn’t even remember what it was, because I had turned my head to reply when I found myself staring directly into his eyes, and he into mine.

And in that moment, I saw the horizon unbounded and I reeled with the vastness of it. What new shores would I discover if I could only travel those few inches? A storm—a tempest in the pit of my stomach—but I was the skiff tossed on the waves, and my father’s lesson like thunder in my ears: don’t get too close. Still, the temptation was there. Kash must have realized it a second after I did; his eyes widened, but he did not lean in, nor did he turn away. He left it to me.

Bee and Ayen had nothing to laugh at.

I was debating folding my laundry or finding some breakfast when there came a familiar howl through the porthole: “Roo! Rooooo!” I ran to the galley and found one forlorn chunk of sweetbread to bring topside. I leaned over the rail, ready to toss Billie the crust, and was surprised to see she wasn’t alone. There, on the pier, were the boy and his chocolate mare.

“Hello,” he said, doffing his hat. “Oh, wait—”

The dog was already halfway up the gangplank by the time Blake Hart dismounted. He ran up after her as she rammed my legs, her whole body wiggling. “Sorry!” he said, trying to pull her back. “She followed me from Beretania. It seems she remembers the bun.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Hart.” The entire hunk of bread was snatched from my hand. “I don’t think I’m as hungry as she is.”

“Tantalus isn’t as hungry as she is!”

I laughed. “Indeed. Welcome aboard. But what has brought you here?”

“Many thanks,” he said, tipping his hat. “Well, I—no!”

He lunged for the dog, but she slipped his grasp. Slate had emerged from his cabin, followed by Kashmir, and Billie bounded across the deck to cozy up to them. The captain looked askance at the little beagle as she thumped his legs with her tail. “What is this?”

“Billie!” Blake snapped his fingers. She lifted her nose from Kashmir’s shoes. Blake pointed sternly to the pier, and she trotted off the ship to wait by his horse. “That’s Billie. She took quite a liking to the young lady the other day.”

“Did she?” Kashmir murmured, wiping his shoes with his silk handkerchief.

“Blake . . . Mr. Hart,” I said. “Meet my father, Captain Slate.”

“Ah! The captain himself. Just the man I wanted to see.” He offered his hand heartily. I waited for it, the look back and forth between my father and me, but it didn’t happen. “A fine man for a fine vessel.”

“Blake Hart?” Slate took his hand. “The name is somewhat familiar.”

“I don’t think we’ve met, sir, I would recall, but it’s a pleasure to do so now. And Mister . . . ?”

“Firas,” Kashmir said, folding his handkerchief neatly and making a crisp bow.

Blake’s brow furrowed as he took in the fine clothes. “A sailor?”

“Her tutor,” Kashmir said smoothly.

Blake cocked his head. “You’re much younger than any of my tutors.”

“Baleh, I am wise beyond my years,” Kashmir said. “And of course I have a natural inclination to it. My people did, after all, invent algebra. Including the zero.” He was smiling too, but not with his eyes.

“Blake Hart!” Slate said then, snapping his fingers and pointing at Blake. “But you’re too young.”

Blake looked at him quizzically. “Too young for . . . ?”

“Maybe it was your father.” Slate nodded to himself. He stood close enough now, I could see the signs; his eyes dark, his brow shining, his reactions a touch too slow. I cut in.

“What can I do for you?”

“Well,” Blake said carefully. “Speaking of my father, I’m here at his request, to deliver an invitation.” He pulled a white card, the color of bleached coral, out of the breast pocket of his jacket.

“An invitation?” From his father . . . who was hosting the ball. The brother of the mapmaker, then. I glanced at Kashmir, but he gave no sign of recognition—then it occurred to me he might be doing that on purpose. I pretended to have a sudden, keen interest in my fingernails.

“Yes. He asked me to say he’d be honored by your attendance at our little party. All of you.” Blake grinned at me. “As would I.”

“Oh, I’m certain you would,” Kashmir said.

“Thanks,” Slate said, fascinated with the card, tilting it and letting the gilt writing catch the light. Then he shoved it into his pocket. “Okay. Let’s go.” I winced as Slate started walking down the gangplank; Kashmir followed, though more slowly.