The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(63)

“It was valuable enough to you when you all came to me with this scheme—”

“Gentlemen,” Mr. D said, perhaps to remind them. “Mr. Hart, we need a member of our party to represent our interests, and you will do nicely. You are, after all, the bravest of our group, at least as judged by willingness to take risk.” He brought his teacup to his lips, although he only pretended to drink.

“And will Mr. Hart bring the map at that time?” Slate said, his voice a touch too loud.

“I think that is unwise. What if it were to be damaged in the scrum?” Mr. D asked. “We will meet again after the event, at which time we will trade the map for the location of the treasure.”

“What do you mean, the location?”

“In case there is an investigation, Captain. You cannot expect us to hide two tons of gold and silver in our gardens! Once the uproar dies down, we will retrieve it from its hiding place.”

Slate clenched his fists. “When exactly do I get the map?

Mr. D spread his hands, palms up. “We can meet within a week. Perhaps two. Longer, if you are suspected of the theft. Patience is a high virtue, Captain.”

Slate ground his teeth. I waited for the captain to refuse, to change his mind, but he said nothing more, so I did. “We cannot accept your proposal.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nixie—”

I held up my hand, silencing my father, but I kept my eyes on Mr. D. “Since Mr. Hart will be coming with us for the theft, he might easily learn the location of the gold. This does not affect you—one man cannot carry it away, at least not without our special abilities. But it does affect us. If he tells you the hiding place, you have no reason to give us the map.”

Mr. D looked at the captain, a hint of scorn in the curve of his mouth. “I didn’t know you let your daughter make your deals.”

Slate’s face was stony. “I’ve told you before. She’s more of an expert than me.”

Mr. D wet his lips. “I don’t suppose you’d accept my word of honor? Fine,” he said when I laughed. “Hart will hand the map over after the gold is hidden.”

“After it’s stolen,” I countered. “Or we’ll leave it on the palace steps.”

Behind his beard, Mr. D clenched his teeth. “It doesn’t matter to me,” he said, all appearances to the contrary. “After it’s stolen, then. How long will it take for you to make your preparations?”

Kashmir and Slate both looked to me for the answer, and despite the circumstances, I felt the glow of pride. “It won’t seem long to you,” I said. “All we need to get started is a map. One of here and now, so we can return after we fetch what we need. I trust you can commission another from Mr. Sutfin.”

Slate glanced at me, and then at Mr. D; I hadn’t had the chance to tell him about the map. But Mr. D didn’t even bat an eye. “Why not use the one you have?”

I shook my head. “It has to be inked now, after we’ve made all our arrangements.”

“But it takes the man half a year at least!” Milly said.

I shrugged. “I’ve heard patience is a virtue.”

Mr. D’s veneer of civility was thinning quickly. “The longer we wait for the theft,” he growled, “the longer you wait for the map.”

The captain glared at him. “If you think six months is a long time, try waiting sixteen years!”

Mr. Hart sat forward, catching Mr. D’s eye. “I know someone who can draw,” he said hurriedly, perhaps trying to defuse the tension. “He made the copy you showed the captain. He’s not busy.”

Mr. D nodded. In my chest—a sinking feeling.

“Good,” Slate said. “Send him to the ship tomorrow. We’ll all cross our fingers he can work fast. I won’t be sorry to weigh anchor on this port.”

And finally Slate gave in and reached out for a cup of tea—not his, which was empty, but mine. He downed the lot in one gulp.



The next dawn, when the caladrius alighted on the rail, I was ready with a biscuit in a box.

The bird considered my proposal long and hard before deciding that hopping into the crate—which I’d found in the hold and emptied of penicillin—was an acceptable trade for a bit of bread. But when he did, I closed the box gently and set out for Chinatown.

I had to wait for Joss to open the shop, but she didn’t seem surprised to find me on her doorstep. “You have money?”

“Better.”

She laughed. “What is better than money?”

“A cure.” I opened the box, and the caladrius tilted its head up toward her face and stared for several heartbeats. I watched the film spread like a caul over the pebble-black eyes. The bird ruffled its feathers, then shot straight up out of the box and toward the sun to burn away the blindness.

I regarded Joss. Her eyes were as wide and clear as a cloudless night sky.

“Ah,” she said, after a very long moment, still staring at the empty box. She blinked twice, and on her wrinkled lips, the hint of a genuine smile. Her eyes roved over my face. “You do look like her. Your cheeks. Your chin. But . . .” The smile faded.

“You do not have her confidence. You are adrift, like your father. You are his daughter more than hers.” She turned away. “Come inside,” she said, leading me into the shop.