The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(65)

“So it’s possible? He could erase my past?”

“That I cannot say,” she said, and her regret nearly seemed real.

“Because you don’t know? Or because there’s nothing else you want in exchange for the information?”

“Because it would only be what I believe, and that is not what matters when you are traveling through the fog. But I do believe that some things are meant to be.” She blotted the letter, then rolled it and tucked it into the leather case. Then she sighed. “Leave it on the shore, don’t forget. I was close to him, you see, because I was his favorite.”

“Whose favorite?”

“Do you still have the numbers I gave you? Remember them well,” she said, ushering me out the door. “Good-bye, Nix. I don’t think I will see you again in the time I have left. Although you may see me.”

I returned to the ship, walking slowly. She had known what I was planning. Of course she did. She’d seen it years ago. She’d even sold me the map.

But she’d given me this one. The map she needed to escape, and a note to tell herself how. The leather case was heavy across my back.

What would happen if I threw it overboard and let it sink to the bottom of the bay?

I took the case in my hands as I reached the dock, the hungry sea rolling at my feet. Something wild inside dared me; I might discover, in an instant, for a moment, what was truly possible.

But I couldn’t do it.



I was still standing on the dock when the mapmaker arrived.

“Miss Song?”

I gripped the leather case in my hands like a talisman. Blake was carrying a black portfolio under his arm and a box of pens. “If I am to draw you a map,” he said, “you must first promise me that you’ll not become sentimental over it.”

A smile began to creep unbidden across my lips; I bit them hard to chase it away. “I suppose you’d best come up.”

Hearing our voices, Kashmir looked over the rail and laughed. “Ah, Mr. Hart. If I’d known to expect you, I’d have gotten a lei, though I suppose I could still dredge up a handful of seaweed.”

“I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot, Mr. Firas,” Blake said blandly. “I can see now that your propriety is matched only by your good manners.”

Kashmir grinned as he sauntered off to knock on the captain’s door. Slate met us on the deck, his eyes bleary and flat. “You.”

Blake didn’t flinch under his unrelenting stare, but the captain was studying him as though he was a new species.

“What are you, an amateur cartographer?” Slate said finally.

“Even worse, sir. An amateur artist.”

Slate scoffed, waving a vague hand in my face. “You’re . . . taking care of this?”

“Aye, Captain.”

“Good,” he said, peering at Blake again. “There’s a drafting table in my cabin. But don’t lay a finger on anything else.”

“I assure you, Captain,” Blake said. “My intentions are honorable.”

Slate cocked his head; understanding dawned on his face. “I meant don’t touch my stuff.” He rolled his eyes. “I need some coffee.” Then he strode off toward the hatch without a backward glance.

But Kashmir was watching, his arms folded, standing against the door to the captain’s cabin. As we approached, he smiled thinly. “Don’t they say the road to hell is paved with honorable intentions?”

“That’s good intentions,” I said, making a face.

“Ah, yes. Of course.” He turned the knob and opened the door with a flourish. “But perhaps Mr. Hart can go to hell anyway.” I stepped inside easily, but Kashmir forced Blake to squeeze past him. I put my hand on the door, but he lingered in the doorway.

“Thank you, Kashmir,” I said.

“I can come in to protect you from his intentions if you like.”

“I can handle it.” I shut the door firmly, with him on the other side of it.

The air in the cabin was cool, and Blake’s expression was chillier still. “I think your father does you a disservice, letting him near you.”

I folded my arms. “He’s my best friend.”

“You don’t exactly seem spoiled for choice.” But he held up his hand. “I apologize, Miss Song. I will not further impugn your crewmate.” His eyes moved past mine, to the shelves lining the walls. “You have so many maps,” he said then, moving around the room. He inhabited the space differently than I did; he was tentative, considerate, as though everything was delicate and of great value. He laid his pens and his hat on the drafting table and reached toward the shelves—I took a breath—but his fingertips stopped inches away from a touch. “Where are you going for the money?”

“What?”

“My father said you need a map so you may return, and it would seem you haven’t yet purchased his map, since he is still in debt. You must be sailing to retrieve the payment. Where are you going?”

“New York,” I said; it was the first thing that came to mind. “My father has his accounts there.”

“Such a long journey. Couldn’t he have the funds wired to California?”

I wasn’t about to get mired in more lies; instead, I went on the offensive. “Do you want to tell my father how to manage his finances?”