The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(39)

Blake inclined his head, his expression still polite. “Good day, gentlemen.” Then he offered me his arm. “Allow me?”

“To what?”

“To help you down the gangplank.”

“Oh, I’m not going with them,” I said, watching Kash and Slate cross the wharf toward town, just two fine gentlemen on a stroll. I sighed. “They’re on business that doesn’t involve me.”

“Is that so?” Blake’s raised his eyebrows. “Their loss.” He put his hands in his pockets and glanced at the mast, the sails, the wheel. “You know, I’ve never been aboard a ship before.” I couldn’t help but grin when he jumped up and down a little on the deck. “I’ve been on canoes, the outriggers the Hawaiians favor, but nothing that could cross the Pacific. Mind giving me a tour?”

“Ah, unfortunately, I’d have to ask the captain—”

“Of course, of course.” He tapped his finger on his lips, then he offered his arm again. “Well, if you’re not otherwise occupied, allow me to make up for Billie’s transgression against your breakfast? There’s a cafe just up the street.”

I hesitated a moment, wondering how proper it would seem to take Blake’s offer, before throwing caution overboard and slipping my arm in his with a little thrill. Kash and Slate weren’t the only ones who could reconnoiter. The map was hidden somewhere at Blake’s house. If I could discover its hiding place, we might not need to wait for the ball.



Arm in arm as we were, the gangplank—being only wide enough for one—took a bit of negotiating. I didn’t need Blake’s steadying hand as I stepped onto the pier, but I took it anyway, marveling at his calluses, where he must have held the pen . . . so different than mine. Blake looped his horse’s reins around his free hand and we started up Fid Street, Billie leaping at our heels like a dolphin in our wake. My mind was racing: I wanted to ask about his father’s map—where it was kept, if it was authentic, if an original even existed—but how? What would he know—and what was safe to say? I couldn’t imagine Blake, with his honest, open face, being part of a cabal, but Mr. D had been clear about the risk if we made any mention of our meeting.

“I found Alexander Sutfin,” Blake said, interrupting my thoughts. “He’s a drafter downtown, on Queen Street and Richards. Second floor.” I blinked at him, and he smiled. “Well, I can’t very well claim to be an expert if I can’t answer your questions.”

“I . . . thanks. Thank you.” Although the information about Sutfin was useful, I was more concerned now with the other map. And now that he’d opened the topic—

“But I have one of my own,” he continued before I could speak. “What’s your name?”I wondered, as always, whether to lie. But no, Mr. D already knew. “My name is Nix Song.”

He cocked his head. “Nix? Interesting.”

“Nix was a water sprite in Germanic myth,” I said. “She lured men into the lake to drown.”

“We have water spirits here too, although they’re shaped like lizards.”

“Harder for them to lure men, then.”

“Depends on the man, I suppose,” he said, making me laugh. Then he hung his head in mock regret. “Alas, I was only named after my uncle.”

“The dead one?” I said, too quickly. His smile faltered, and my mouth went dry in the ensuing silence. “I—I beg your pardon. Clearly I’ve been too long at sea—”

“No, no,” Blake said. “I never knew the man, although my mother tells me I take after him quite a bit.”

The drunkard who mapped the opium dens? Thankfully I kept that thought behind my teeth. “How so?”

“I have his artistic bent. My father can’t draw a square on a grid. But . . . how did you know about my uncle’s death?”

I stumbled; he steadied my arm as I tried to think of an answer. “The . . . the newspaper, I think it was.”

“Must have been a very old newspaper,” he said, looking at me sideways.

“I . . . yes. It was . . .” I tried to think past all the curse words. “It wasn’t the newspaper, I remember now. My father and yours are discussing a business venture, and he mentioned your uncle’s misfortune.”

“So you’ve met my father?”

“Well . . . no. It was a mutual friend who is making the introduction.” Damn damn damn. “I don’t know anything about their business,” I added in an attempt to forestall any more questions.

“Something to do with the captain’s excursion today, no doubt!”

“Difficult to say,” I said weakly.

But he was smiling. “Well. That’s good news, especially if it means you’ll be in Honolulu awhile. Ah, here we are.”

He pulled me into Nolte’s Coffee Saloon. Billie knew better than to follow; she wandered off after a departing patron holding a biscuit. Blake ordered coffee and scones, and we sat at one end of a long table occupied by a few other patrons: a young gentleman reading the paper, two sailors staring bleary-eyed into steaming cups, an old man warming his gnarled knuckles. Blake added enough cream to shade the brew the color of maple, while I took mine black and hot.

I blew over the cup and then stopped, reminded of my father, and tried to gather my thoughts for a new attempt. “So. Your uncle was an artist as well?”