The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(66)

It worked. “Forgive me,” he said. “It’s just that part of me hadn’t been expecting something so . . . prosaic. I was imagining treasure maps and gold doubloons,” he said, gesturing at the cupboards. Then he sighed. “And when do you sail?”

“As soon as you’re done with the map.”

“Is that so? No wonder my father was so eager. It might be satisfying to delay,” he said, raising one eyebrow. “And not only to spite the league.”

I tried to look stern. “Mr. Hart—”

“I’m eager to spite your tutor.”

I did laugh then, and his smile bloomed. Then he opened the portfolio and removed a wide sheet of vellum; it floated like a petal in his hands. He smoothed it onto the table, his inky fingers in sharp contrast to the pure cream of the page. “Instruct me, Miss Song. What am I to draw for you?”

“Here,” I said, opening one of the cupboards and selecting a map. “Let me show you what we need.” I unrolled the paper. “Here’s the map we used to get here.”

“Ah.” His eyes roamed over the page, and after a moment, he raised his eyes to mine. “Sutfin, 1868? But he’s only been in business since 1877. It’s painted right there on his window.”

“He misdated the map,” I said.

“What an odd thing to do.”

“Indeed.” I sensed his questions coming, like a swelling wave, but there was nothing for it. “Now, we’ll need a current map of Oahu to return.”

“But . . .” Blake scanned the page. “This seems . . . but for the date—”

“Yes, it’s a very good map,” I said. “But we still need a new one. You may use the Sutfin as a template,” I continued hurriedly. “But don’t copy it exactly. Anything you know has changed recently on the island, you should make the change on the page.”

His brow furrowed. “Changes in the harbor? Or on the island itself?”

“Either.”

He laughed. “You can’t be worried about running aground on Princess Pauahi’s mausoleum.”

“If it has changed since Sutfin did his map, please just draw it.”

“What happens if I don’t?”

“If you don’t . . .” I hesitated, but in this case, perhaps the truth could indeed set me free. “If you don’t, we will not be coming back once we go. The map must be accurate, or we cannot return.”

He looked at me sideways and, perhaps seeing my expression, for once he did not ask why. Instead he gave me that half smile. “The mystery deepens, Miss Song.”

His eyes were so inviting that for a moment, everything in me wanted to reveal this part of myself, as though the truth was a butterfly, wings fluttering, green and gold and quivering to be free. I was a closed book, a rolled map, a dark territory, uncharted; I was surprised by my urgency, but after all, to be known was to exist.

A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. Kashmir didn’t wait for an answer; he breezed into the room juggling a lantern, a pair of buckets, and a piece of flat glass.

“I thought you could use this.” He upended the buckets on the floor, put the lantern between them, and balanced the glass over the whole assembly. “You can backlight the original and mark off the measurements,” he said. “Should make it all go faster, and the faster the better.”

“Thank you,” Blake said. “Did your people invent this too?”

“Get to work, Mr. Hart.” Then he propped the door open and went back outside, leaving a long silence in his wake.

I sighed. “Do you have any more questions about the map?”

Blake didn’t answer immediately; he was tapping one finger absently on the table, and his eyes were far away. “I believe you’ve implied,” he said slowly, “that your payment to the Hawaiian League depends on the accuracy of my work.”

“Have I?” My eyes went to the open door, but he had kept his voice low. “You should strive for . . . integrity,” I said. “But if the map is inaccurate, the captain won’t know until it’s too late.”

Blake worked for days. He spent half his time practicing in his sketchbook, sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, his knees bent like an easel with the book propped upon them. Once his techniques were perfected, he’d turn to the map, hunching over the drafting table with intense focus.

He took pains with the path of each meandering stream, careful with the curves of the scalloped shorelines, and traced the lacy edges of bays and inlets with a slow, steady hand. He wrote the names of each region and city with even block letters. He smudged ink into the valleys and shaded the elevation of the mountains using a technique I would have called pointillism, if I could have remembered whether the term was in wide use yet. Instead, I settled on admiring the details in the work.

“Sutfin should have done better. See here.” He swept his pens and inks to one side of the table and unrolled the old map side by side with his version. “On the older version, you see this structure marked ‘Old Ruin’? It’s the foundation of Kamehameha III’s summer home, Kaniakapupu.” He pointed. “I’ve put that in. And here, where his map shows nothing, there’s actually another ruin of a heiau. And of course the waterfall I showed you, and lots of villages Sutfin missed. I hope it’s not too much?”