The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(41)

“You admire the king?”

“You’re surprised?”

I bit my lip. Earlier, I had been nearly certain Mr. D had sent him to test me, but now I was not so sure. Unless, of course, it was just a ruse? Or perhaps this was only conversation, and my own involvement was making me paranoid.

“He has his faults,” Blake continued. “But love of his own culture is not among them.”

As we traveled south on King Street, a keening cry on the wind, like hungry gulls, resolved into the high, sobbing song of professional mourners. The smell of thousands of cut flowers was carried toward us on the humid breeze. “Iolani Palace,” Blake said.

“I had guessed.”

The palace was draped in swathes of black bunting that hung over the wide windows. Beneath the somber trappings, Iolani Palace was a grand structure: two tall stories with four corner turrets connected by wide verandas and lined with delicate columns.

“It’s very European.”

“The king toured Europe before he had Iolani built. Some foreigners expected a hovel, so he spared no expense. That was going to be the palace, over there,” he said, pointing across the street to a smaller—though still lovely—building across the street. “The Ali’iolani Hale. But he put the government offices there instead.”

“Ah.” I licked my lips; my mouth was dry. “The treasury and so forth.”

“Yes.”

Beyond the palace, we passed rich town houses, including the black-draped windows of the home of the banker Mr. Bishop, Princess Pauahi’s widower. “This is the wealthiest block on the island,” Blake said. “Many of these families will be attending the ball, if you’re interested in that sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?”

“The comings and goings of high society.” I couldn’t see his face, but in his voice—was it a hint of scorn?

“Oh. Not generally.” Then I frowned. “Your father is . . . an important man?”

Blake paused before answering. “He has important friends.”

Traveling north, away from the sea, we emerged into cooler air as we climbed out of the city. The shops gave way to the mansions and manicured gardens; the breeze shivered in the leaves of lush ferns by the side of the road. “This is Nu’uanu Valley,” he said.

I sat up straighter. “My father once hoped to make a home here.”

“Why did he decide against it?”

“My mother died before he could.”

“Ah, is that why he took you to sea? If things had been but a little different, we would have been neighbors. That’s our house, there, on the left.”

I peered down a wide drive lined with chunks of coral that curved through an emerald-green lawn studded with flowering plants. Under a mantle of trailing vines rioting with flowers, I caught glimpses of a boxy white Victorian house with a deep veranda, in front of which was parked an empty calash and a delivery wagon hitched to a sleepy mule. It struck me then—I might be able to learn exactly where the map was kept. Pilikia leaned in toward the driveway, but Blake kept her on the road, pulling gently at the reins and, for a moment, bringing his arm close around my waist.

“Isn’t your house included on this tour?”

“It’s in a bit of a state, with the preparations for the party,” he said apologetically. “You’ll see it soon enough. Just a moment.” He pulled the horse toward the opposite side of the road, where the trees drew in close. “There’s a natural spring here,” he said, dismounting and leading us into the trees.

It was only a dozen feet to the water, where Pilikia dropped her head and drank deep, but once inside the forest, the greenery wrapped around us like a soft embrace, and I could no longer see the road. “The island is peppered with them. There’s one farther up in the valley that the chieftains used to bathe in. Back then, commoners weren’t allowed to touch the water due to its mystic healing properties, on pain of decapitation.”

My ears perked. “Is it true?”

“What part? The healing or the head chopping?” he teased. “They believed it. And that’s what matters. I’m not going to risk it, anyway. Wouldn’t that be the worst way to cure a head cold? I have tried this spring,” he continued, nodding toward the water at our feet. “It won’t heal so much as a paper cut, although the water’s quite pure. Are you thirsty? Wait here.”

He disappeared into the thicket in a direction I’d have assumed he’d picked at random but for the certainty with which he went. The sound of his footsteps, muffled by the damp humus that lay like a down blanket on the earth, quickly faded, and for a few minutes, Pilikia and I were alone in the forest. It was an odd feeling, the rich green life pressing close around me, hiding everything from view—so unlike the open sea. The burbling of the stream, the call of hidden birds, and the susurration of the wind in the treetops were no louder in my ears than the sound of my own breath.

Then, as suddenly as Blake had gone, he returned, holding handfuls of mottled yellow fruits, each the size of my fist. He took a small knife from the saddlebag and sliced one in half to reveal pink pulp studded with tiny yellow seeds.

“Oh, guavas!” I said. “I’ve only ever seen them green.”

“Different species, I think.” He crouched near the water and rinsed the pulp from the rind, which he then filled with clear water and handed to me as though it were a teacup. The water was cool and sweet.