The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(51)

The walls were a deep hunter green above the wainscot, and there was a large desk with bird’s-eye grain, on which sat a cut crystal decanter, a smooth round stone the size of a fist . . . and a black leather artist’s portfolio tied with a red ribbon. The captain’s eyes were drawn to it like iron to a lodestone.

The man behind the desk stood to greet us. He was flushed, or sunburned, and he had a dun-colored mustache of the sort that continued right past the corners of his thin lips, across his red cheeks, and connected up to the hairline in front of the ears. Those lips stretched in a smile that was almost a grimace.

“Captain,” said Mr. D. “Meet Mr. Hart.”

Mr. Hart shook the captain’s hand, then took my hand in his and bowed over it. I resisted the urge to scrub my palm on my gown; his own had been unpleasantly moist. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his high forehead as well. Studying him, I had the incongruous thought that Blake had been lucky to get his mother’s looks.

Mr. Hart was peering at me, though, a quizzical expression in his watery eyes, the color of weak tea. “Would the miss not prefer to be dancing?”

Slate raised his eyes from the portfolio for the first time since he’d entered the room. “No. She is more an expert than I am, with maps. She stays.”

I tried to ignore the stares the gentlemen gave me, but Mr. D shrugged. “In such complex matters, the more expertise, the better.” He clasped his hands. “Now that we are all gathered, let me make the introductions.”

“Not full names, please!” said the nervous little man.

“He has my full name,” Mr. Hart objected.

The little man scoffed. “Well! It is your house, sir, it could hardly be avoided!”

“As it is my house, I bear most of the risk here,” Mr. Hart said. “Should we not share it more equally?”

“The captain has agreed to confidentiality,” Mr. D said. “There is little risk.”

“Then why don’t we share it?” Mr. Hart asked again.

“One cannot be too careful,” Mr. D said, not a bit ashamed that he was speaking out of both sides of his mouth at once.

Beside me, Slate shifted, impatient, but I put my hand on his arm. Of course their names did not matter—Slate would not risk the map in an attempt to blackmail the men, but I hoped they did not know how completely they had him in thrall. After all, if they did, we would be in no position to bargain.

“Have I not commanded you? Be strong and of good courage,” quoted the youngest man, his brown eyes shining, but he tempered faith with prudence: “I am . . . Mr. T.”

“And I’m Mr. D,” said the squirrelly one.

“I’ve been introduced as Mr. D,” Mr. D said.

“Then . . . call me Mr. M.”

“Call him Milly, we all do,” said Mr. Hart.

“Sir!”

“Can we move on?” Slate interrupted.

“Yes, let’s,” said Milly. “I am a very busy man.” Having drained his champagne, he unstoppered the cut crystal decanter and filled his glass. The sharp smell of brandy tickled my nose.

“First things first,” Mr. D said. “Mr. Hart. The map.”

Mr. Hart drew out the red satin ribbon and flipped open the portfolio. Slate crowded close and pulled me alongside him. He held his breath as he studied the map. He held my wrist too. Would he dare try to Navigate here and now? Was it even possible? Could he call up the fog in a stuffy room? I twisted my arm a bit; he wouldn’t let go. I clutched the edge of the desk with my other hand.

The map was a sketch, really, without much by way of topographical elevation or contour, but the coastline was fairly accurate and the roads of downtown were inked in, along with, clearly marked, what appeared to be every saloon, brothel, and opium den in town. I saw it then: Hapai Hale. Pregnant House. Quaint, indeed. That was where my mother was supposed to be.

The ink was dry and faded, and the paper smelled old. I released the wood of the desk and stretched out my hand; I didn’t touch the page, but I was close enough to feel the heat of my palm trapped between my skin and the paper.

I drew my hand back. “The maker was your brother?”

Mr. Hart’s eyes jerked toward me. “He was.”

“And . . . he frequented these places? He knew them well?”

His thin mouth twisted. “Yes. Yes, he did. He had an artist’s temperament and was familiar with much he would better have left alone.”

Milly snickered, and Mr. Hart blinked rapidly. It may have been a trick of the firelight, but for the barest instant, his eyes seemed filled with pure rage.

But the captain chuckled. “Hart. Blake, yes. I remember the man.” Was he remembering old days—old friends? “He died?”

“He drowned,” Mr. Hart said. His eyes flickered over to Mr. D, who did not exchange his glance.

“A tragic accident,” Mr. D added simply.

The sweat shone on Mr. Hart’s brow. My own eyes narrowed. On the surface, this map didn’t seem like a fake, no matter how much I had hoped otherwise. But why was Mr. Hart so nervous? Was I being overcautious? After all, he was hosting traitors in his home. I scanned the map again. There was nothing I could hang a doubt on, at any rate, if I’d been inclined to lie.

I nodded, grudgingly; the captain relaxed, taking a deep breath through his teeth. He released my arm, and we both stood back.