The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(48)
Slate had put on a frock coat and a stylish ribbon necktie, but his manic energy was barely hidden beneath his proper exterior; it welled up like the spring in the woods. He fidgeted uneasily as we crept through town, one knee bouncing madly as he peered out the window.
It had been nearly a week since I’d spend this much time with either of them, but the silence was thicker than the funk of the moldering velvet; I couldn’t speak plainly to Kashmir in front of Slate, not about the map. Kash patted my leg then, gently but firmly; I’d been jigging it up and down in rhythm with my father.
I looked into Kashmir’s eyes and found reassurance there. I gave him a grateful smile and let myself relax, then sat up quickly as I remembered about the bow.
The carriage had arrived at the Temptation about an hour after sundown, and it took us another half hour to get to the edge of town. Nu’uanu Street was even more crowded than usual, and the revelry did not end there. Once we moved beyond the laughter and shouting near the docks, the sound of brass music brightened the dusk—one of the concerts Blake had mentioned. Bee was likely there; Rotgut was on dog watch tonight, and Ayen had demanded a night out.
We rolled past late-night picnickers, groups heading toward the beach in their bathing costumes, young men and women on horseback enjoying a night ride, and a plein-air performance of what appeared to be a comedy (at least, the audience was laughing). The entire city had come alive to make merry under the silvery light of the full moon.
Nu’uanu Valley was no exception. Families sat on their lanais, playing music or cards, and farther back, in the darkness between the trees, torchlight writhed. The sound of a man singing and drumming, a distinctive rhythm—one, two, one-and-two—drifted out of the dark, making me shiver as I remembered the story of the Hu’akai Po.
The house I had glimpsed the other day had been transformed from a white box into a shining luminaria, and the coral drive was lined with lanterns at the edge of the lawn. All of the doors and the shutters were thrown open to the warm night air, allowing the guests to move in and out as freely as the breeze. The carriage pulled up to the door, where we were welcomed by a Hawaiian butler sporting stockings to display his well-turned calves.
He showed us into the foyer and announced our arrival to a delicate, exuberant blond woman in a rich gathered gown of sky-blue silk. Blake stood just behind her to her right, his hair perfectly parted, his scrubbed cheeks glowing, his hand over his silk waistcoat: the very picture of a fine young American gentleman, except for the garland of deep crimson blossoms hanging from his wrist.
Mrs. Kitty Hart, wide-eyed and giddy, was so very pleased to make our acquaintance, and I immediately saw the resemblance to her son, although Blake’s eyes were much more sincere. “A ship’s captain, how romantic!” she said to Slate, making a deep society courtesy, her ruffled skirts swishing above her tiny satin shoes. “It must be such an adventure, sailing the seven seas. How serendipitous the tides that brought you to my little party!”
“Indeed.” My father made a perfunctory bow and waved his lips over her hand. “Very lucky.”
“You don’t know the half of it, sir! It was quite fortunate the mourning ended yesterday! Why, can you imagine? If the princess had died but a day later, we would have missed the full moon and had to push our party off a whole month. It was bad enough with all that wailing. One could barely think for the clamor! Ah, and Miss Song.” I waited for it—the flick of the eyes, to my face, to my father’s, and back—and she did not disappoint, although she covered well. “So happy to make your acquaintance. My son speaks often of you.”
Blake made a little bow, very formal. He lifted up the lei in both hands. “May I?”
“Ah . . . of course.” I tilted my head, a bit self-conscious. The petals were cool as silk on my neck; I lifted them to my nose and breathed deep. “They’re beautiful.”
“The ohia blossoms are sacred to Pele,” he said.
“The volcano goddess?
“The very same,” he said. “Creator. Destroyer.”
“I see,” I said cautiously. “My thanks.”
Mrs. Hart looked on. “One of the few charming customs the savages have shared with us,” she said brightly. “And you, sir, welcome,” she continued, moving to Kashmir, her eyes roving from his face, down his lean build all the way to his fine shoes. Her pink lips curved prettily. “Are you really an Arab?” The way she said it, the word rhymed with Ahab. “My son tells me you teach mathematics and dance. What an unexpected combination.”
Kashmir’s careful expression barely faltered. “It is certainly unlikely!” he said, kissing her hand. Her cheeks glowed a delicate pink, as if on cue.
“Perhaps you can teach me a few steps later?” Mrs. Hart said. “Here on the islands, we’ve been dancing the same rounds for years. It’s always exciting to have a fresh turn around the floor.”
We were ushered into the grand central hall, which was filled with enough floral arrangements for a wedding . . . or a funeral. With one casual hand, Kashmir lifted the garland of flowers around my own neck, leaning in as if to smell them. “The young Mr. Hart suspects something,” he whispered, then let the lei drop. “But I can’t tell what.” We continued through the hall, quiet for a moment. “Dancing and math?”
“It’s a long story.” I pretended to admire the decor, but I stopped long enough to give him a side eye. “Was she flirting with you?”