The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(50)

“Of better times,” he said finally. “But things will get better again. Nixie—I’m sorry we fought. I hate fighting with you.”

“Try agreeing with me instead.”

That made him smile. “You have to know I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

“Then don’t do this,” I said, surprising myself. I took a breath, and the scent of the blossoms around my neck was sweet on my tongue. “Leave the map. Tell them no.”

He stopped moving at my words, and we stood still on the grass, the eye of a storm where wind and rain were laughter and music. “I thought you’d understand, now, why I can’t do that.”

“Why?” Then I realized. “Because of Kashmir? Dad, that’s . . . insulting.”

“Love is insulting?”

“It’s not love!” I said, too loud; people beside us tittered, and my cheeks burned. I lowered my voice to a fierce whisper. “I’m not like you. I wouldn’t sacrifice everything for some romance.”

“I’m not sacrificing anything—”

“Oh, really? Well, even if you don’t give a damn about me, this is a kingdom. An entire country. You called it paradise, and yet you’d—”

“Nixie!” He put his finger on my lips, and I did stop then, though it was a struggle. After a long moment, he took my hand, gathering it in both of his. The tattoos, black in the moonlight, peeked out from the edge of his cuffs: my name on one wrist, my mother’s on the other.

“You have to understand,” he said faintly. “Every day the options narrow. Chance becomes certainty and fate makes choices for us, but I cannot imagine a reality where . . .” He trailed off and was quiet as he stared fixedly at a point past my head.

“Where what?”

“Where the kingdom of Hawaii does not fall,” he finished, although I didn’t believe that was the sentence he started. I followed his gaze; Mr. D was raising a glass at him from across the lawn, where he stood near the champagne table with two other men, one young and barrel-chested, with the feverish eyes of a zealot, the other smaller and as quivery as a squirrel.

“Come, Nix,” Slate said softly. “Let’s meet our new friends.”



"Ah, Captain!” Mr. D said as we approached. “What a pleasure to see you here. And young Miss Song.”

He bowed. I bent my knees, but barely; the captain didn’t bother with any pleasantries. “Which one of you is Mr. Hart?”

Mr. D laughed. “Our host is in his study, tragically far from the refreshment. Before we go in, may I offer you a drink?” Again he raised his glass of pale gold champagne, and I noticed it was still full, while the squirrelly man beside him tipped back his own glass, tossing the bubbly down his gullet. I regarded the rows of fine crystal glasses and the iced bottles with French labels. The drink alone must have cost a mint.

“Thank you, no,” I said, and Slate half raised his hand, dismissing the proffered glass.

“A rare sight, a sailor who won’t drink!” Mr. D joked, but the youngest man was nodding.

“A rare sight, anyone who won’t drink, at least in Honolulu.” The man’s intense eyes were lit by a fire within. “The problem worsens by the year, ever since the merrie monarch repealed the prohibition against serving alcohol to the natives. They’re worse than sailors.”

“It’s a problem common among aboriginals,” said the squirrelly man as he picked up a fresh glass.

“But not exclusive to them,” the younger man replied with a glare.

“Some men cannot control their appetites,” Mr. D said pointedly. “Wouldn’t you agree, Captain?”

Slate’s spine had gone ramrod straight, but his face was blank while he chose his response. “Local issues are . . . of no interest to me.”

Mr. D nodded sagely. “That is likely for the best. Let us to business, then. Come.” He pointed toward the house with his still-full glass.

“A moment,” Slate said, scanning the crowd. “There is a third member of our party. Do you see him, Nixie?”

I didn’t, at first. Then I caught sight of him, in a swirl of sky-blue silk; Kashmir was dancing with Mrs. Hart.

“The tutor?” Mr. D said. His eyes twinkled. “He seems otherwise occupied.”

“Don’t worry, he’s in artful hands,” the squirrelly man said. “Mrs. Hart is a very capable host.”

Although the third man was silent, he looked like he’d bitten a lemon. I kept my own face still.

“There should be no need for dance instruction at our meeting,” Mr. D said, and he led us inside as the song ended. I didn’t glance over my shoulder to see whether Kashmir and Mrs. Hart had parted.

We followed Mr. D into the grand hall. He knocked at the door closest to the front of the house and farthest from the party, but opened it without waiting for an answer.

The study was lit with gas lamps that threw gold light across a blond maple floor laid with a thick green rug. It had that library smell, like the map room did, but the undercurrent of brine was replaced by wood smoke that must have come from the fireplace—a fireplace! In Hawaii! Not for warmth, but for wealth. There was even a small fire burning in it.

A huge window at the south of the room had been shuttered, and a small side door that must have led to the next room—door number two from the grand hall, likely a library or a drawing room—was also shut. I filed away that side door, an extra entrance to tell Kashmir about later.