The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(52)

“I should very much like to . . . to come to an arrangement for this map,” the captain said.

There were sighs of relief, and tight smiles behind beards, but Mr. D was still gazing at Slate intently. “So we are agreed on the terms?”

But Slate hesitated, glancing at me, then back to Mr. D. “Actually, gentlemen, now we’re together—all together, here—and before we get into a dangerous situation, I want to . . . to extend to you a counteroffer.”

My eyes cut to the captain. A counteroffer? He hadn’t mentioned that to me. But when his words sank in, Mr. Hart flipped the portfolio closed and put his hand to his waist; under his jacket, did I see the glint of a metal barrel? “I am already in a dangerous situation, sir!”

“Now, now,” Mr. D murmured, but Mr. Hart ignored him.

“You are in my home, you know my name! I hope you can appreciate the delicate position I am in!”

The captain held up his hand. “I appreciate it, sure. And my offer is a lot safer. The map for a million dollars of my own money.”

Mr. D’s nostrils flared, and his voice was colder than the champagne. “I believe we already discussed this, sir.”

“You and I did. But we didn’t,” Slate said, gesturing to the other men. Their faces went as still and pale as wax; they must have been mirrors of my own.

I saw the question in their eyes—how did a ship’s captain attain such wealth? But I knew better. He hadn’t had more than a few hundred in the bank.

“Think about it,” Slate urged. “There would be no risk to any of you. You could spend the money however you want, as soon as you want, without worrying that anyone might put two and two together.”

How on earth could he manage that sum without robbing the treasury in the first place? I would bet double that amount he had no plan. That would be like him: promise something impossible, and expect me to come up with his solution.

Still. It was a more honorable option, and it was heartening to know Slate had given it thought. Maybe he’d even been swayed by me. This time, I was the one holding my breath.

For a while there was silence. Even Mr. D had no pithy response, but then Mr. T shook his head vehemently.

“No. No, sir! Do you not see the issue at hand? This is not about the paltry sum of a million dollars,” he said, his voice breaking in his scorn.

“Not so paltry, surely,” Mr. Hart said. His face had broken out in a fresh glow, and he had dropped his hand from his holster. My heart beat faster at the look in his eyes; he was going to take Slate’s offer.

“Do not be swayed by mere riches, sir,” said Mr. T. “This is about the very future of the islands.”

“Yes,” Milly said. “And we stand to make much more if all goes to plan.”

“The rest of you do,” Mr. Hart said. “I am not so well positioned.”

“You may always continue borrowing from us.” Milly raised his bushy brows. “Under the new government, we should have enough to suit even your wife’s prodigious appetite. At least, for money,” he added snidely.

Mr. Hart looked as though he was being strangled by invisible hands, and I waited for him to burst, to shout, to push back, but Mr. D stepped in firmly. “Gentlemen, let us put this topic aside, please.” He leaned in to Slate with a self-satisfied air. “I told you, sir, we seek stronger leadership. Money is not our aim.”

“Not our only aim,” Milly said. He made a move toward the brandy decanter, but Mr. Hart took it himself and set it down out of reach before taking a folded square of linen from his pocket and dabbing his forehead. Still, he said nothing more.

“We may all have different motives,” Mr. D said. “But we have a common purpose. We are not brigands, Captain. We are visionaries. Your money will not be sufficient.”

My father sighed. “Then,” he said, and my heart sank, “I have no choice but to agree.”




Back out on the lawn, the night air made me shiver. I hadn’t realized how hot the study had been.

The meeting had dispersed shortly after Slate had acquiesced. Mr. T had been eager to discuss the plan then and there, but Mr. Hart refused to have the discussion in his own home, and besides, Milly was entirely drunk. Mr. D promised we’d meet again midweek to talk through the particulars in a place offering more privacy.

Mr. D escorted us back to the party, where the dancers still reeled as though nothing had changed. I gathered my thoughts. I had to find Kashmir and tell him where the map was. Putting what I hoped was a blithe look on my face, I asked Slate if we could stay.

He didn’t answer right away. We stood at the edge of the grass, beneath the cloud of lanterns, as numerous and brilliant as if the fixed stars had dropped to earth.

“This is a good map, Nixie,” he said at last. “This is the one. I can tell.”

I sighed. “Dad—”

“I know it. This is the last one. I promise you that.” Something in his voice made me look up into his restless eyes, and when I saw his expression, I very nearly believed him. Gooseflesh rose on the back of my shoulders, but then he grinned. “Enjoy the party.”

The captain made his way back toward the house, stopping to talk to Mr. Hart on the patio. I scrubbed my hands on my skirt and scanned the crowd—where was Kashmir?—but instead, there was Blake trying to catch my eye.