The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(67)
“You are an expert. You did all this from memory?”
“Ah, well.” He grinned at me. “When you like something well enough, certain details become . . . unforgettable.”
I couldn’t help it; I laughed, delighted.
“I can start over, if you’d like? Try again? With the map, I mean.”
“The map. Of course. No,” I said. “I love seeing the islands through your eyes.” My gaze fell on his sketchbook on the corner of the table, and I reached for it. “In fact, the maps you—”
His hand darted out under mine to cover the book. I froze; his face had gone serious—no, trepidatious. But after a long moment, he removed his hand and turned back to the map. “Go ahead,” he said, almost brusquely, picking up one of his pens to refill the ink in the reservoir.
I took the sketchbook. Suddenly I was nervous too. But my curiosity overcame my hesitation. I opened the book and found what I’d hoped, what I’d feared. “I thought you’d been practicing drawing the map,” I said softly as I flipped through the pages.
“I never thought I’d find a more compelling subject than the islands,” he said, still pretending to focus on the pen. Then he looked up through his lashes. “I wanted to capture you before you are gone.”
My lips parted, but not to speak. Warmth crept into my stomach like sunlight through deep water, but I turned my head, confused, and immediately regretted it.
It took another half day to place the last flourishes. He added a tiny square to represent Princess Pauahi’s new tomb at Mauna ‘Ala, as well as a detailed, decorative compass rose. He did seem to be dawdling as he worked, taking his time at meals, and breaks for fresh air, though he no longer spent time sketching. Eventually, though, despite the distractions and delays, there was nothing left to add but his name, and the map was complete.
It was a work of art, rich in details only he knew. Had he drawn accurately, or had he added something in, something imperceptible to me, to keep us from returning and prevent the Hawaiian League from collecting its payment? I couldn’t tell, and I wouldn’t ask.
Blake chewed his lip as Slate studied the paper, spread across the drafting table. The captain gave it his highest praise, considering he was in one of his darker moods: a nod and a hint of a grim smile. He showed Blake and me to the door. “Make ready!” he called to the crew. Then he shut the door hard behind us.
Blake raised his eyebrow. “You’re leaving so soon?”
“Before the day ends.” I led him off the ship, dodging around the sudden flurry of activity, and we both stood on the dock, at the base of the gangplank, reluctant to say goodbye.
“I should have worked more slowly.”
I thought of Joss then, gazing clear-eyed at her future. “Why hold off the inevitable?”
“Why, for the sake of the ephemeral, Miss Song,” he said. “And in the hope of making it last.”
My paths diverged, and for a moment I imagined I too could see the future, but two versions, the ship and the shore. I stood frozen for what seemed like an hour—an eternity.
Was I more like my father than I thought? No. The beauty of the ephemeral was in its impermanence; I couldn’t have let myself feel for Blake had I not known there would be an end. And I could admit it now: I did feel for him. There was safety here, at the end of our short story, and it made me bold. Though my heart shook like a luffing sail, I would not leave the moment with only my regrets, so I rose up on my tiptoes and kissed him before I could think twice.
It was strange and stomach churning and over too soon; still, his pale cheeks went even paler, and then the bright pink spots reappeared, deep as the blush on a ripe apricot. “You have changed me,” he breathed. “I never thought I would look longingly out to sea.”
I gathered my own longings in my fists, clenched by my sides. “Goodbye, Blake.”
The seconds stretched, but then he tipped his hat. “Nix.”
When he rode away, he did not look back. I knew because I watched until he was out of sight.
MAP TO COME
We clipped along under our unfurled sails, their bellies full with the breeze, and soon the city of Honolulu was just a dark smudge on the thin gold band of the shoreline. Then I realized Slate and I were both watching the shore as it receded, so I turned to face the sea, and the sight of the open horizon was as heady as the salt wind.
After Blake had gone, I had placed the map we’d be using—the map Joss had sold me, the ancient, crumbling piece of paper, probably among the very first pieces of paper ever made—on the wide drafting table. I’d unfolded it carefully, teasing it apart; it was stamped in faded red at the bottom and brushed with quick, bold strokes of ink in choppy handwriting.
As Joss had promised, the map did indeed depict the tomb of Emperor Qin, who had died in the second century B.C. The Chinese historian Sima Qian had described it in his historical opus, the Shiji.
After his death, and just before all he built had crumbled, Emperor Qin had been buried in a massive underground complex underneath Mount Li in Xianyang. He rested in a representation of his palace placed in the center of a scale model of China itself, with rolling hills cast of bronze, mountains assembled out of fine cut stone, and rivers and seas of mercury. Along with the rich clothes, fine jewels, and masterly weapons with which most prestigious persons were buried during that era, Emperor Qin was guarded in death by some eight thousand terra-cotta warriors. They were what had caught my interest.