The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(68)

As Joss had mentioned, the legend said that in the lofty vault of the tomb, these warriors had sprung to attention to serve the emperor in his afterlife, along with the various terra-cotta acrobats, jugglers, musicians, and concubines. This clay court was rounded out by a coterie of living attendants who’d been sealed up with the emperor as a reward for being his most favored.

I gazed at the familiar handwriting. When Joss had sold me this map, she’d said it had come from a dying woman. Suddenly I was appalled that I’d considered throwing the leather case into the sea.

After I laid the old map down on the table, I covered it with a sheet of glass to protect it from the sea air, or from coffee spills. Then, following my internal script, I cleared the cabin of cups and plates and put away all the books on the shelves, secure behind their rails. But most importantly, Slate and I sat together, he in the attitude of a Buddha, cross-legged, and I with my knees drawn up to my chin. This wasn’t our typical exchange, however, where I told him all I’d learned about the legend and era we were visiting and he listened. Instead, it was my father teaching me.

He was, as usual, an abysmal teacher, and soon enough I found myself shaking my head. “What do you mean, you just let go?”

“Once you know where you’re going, and you’re sure it’s there, you have to let go of where you’re from. You look straight forward, you keep the land ahead in sight, and you don’t look back.”

“Literally or metaphorically?”

“Both. Once you sight your shore, you keep an eye on it. But you’ll never see it if you’re still in port.”

“Running away and running to.”

“Sort of, yeah.”

I frowned at him, but he seemed in earnest. Furthermore, he had no reason to lie; I’d shown him the map and he’d admitted he had no chance of Navigating there. My father knew almost nothing about ancient China; he had never read the Shiji. “How did you learn?” I said then. “Who taught you?”

“I . . . no one.” He sounded surprised at the question. “I taught myself.”

“How?”

He ran his hand through his dark blond hair, and for a moment, I saw lines of blue ink on his scalp. “I . . . tripped.”

I made a face. “I should have known.”

“No. I really—I fell. I was on the stairs. Maybe it was a little of both. I was at the library.”

“New York Public?”

“With the lions, yeah. I used to go there when my—Christ, it was ages ago—when my own parents . . . they hated each other. Fought all the time. I would go to the library and . . . It was different back then. 1981. The librarians didn’t watch too close.” His jaw worked as he searched for words, but I stayed quiet, waiting—he spoke so rarely about his past.

“I found an old—it was in a storage room—an old map, one of those architect drawings of the library from when it was being built, 1903, I think. There were photos too. I must have been staring at it for hours. It was very real in my head. When I was leaving, I fell down the stairs, and there was a moment I could see the picture of Fifth Avenue—no concrete—and when I landed it was facedown in the mud. It was an accident, that first time. All I really wanted was to be somewhere else.”

His eyes were faraway, as though he could see that elsewhere from where he sat. In the silence I heard the gentle lapping of the water against the hull. “If you can go on foot . . . why did you build a ship?”

“It’s a safe space, no matter where I go. And I can bring everyone I need with me.” He sighed. “It was easier back then. Nowadays . . . I don’t know where I’d go without you.”

“Without me, you’d already be where you want to go, Captain.”

“No. Without you I wouldn’t be anywhere at all.” He dropped his gaze, and I was at least as uncomfortable as he was. I didn’t know what to say—or rather, how to say it. I had imagined leaving so many times, but the excitement I’d anticipated had not rushed in. I felt hollow.

He could have everything he wanted, but only without me, and I hesitated to leave—why? Was it the fear I might be unmade? Or was it because when I was free to go, I could remember all the reasons I had to stay?

“Let’s look at the map again, shall we?” he suggested then, and I sprang to my feet too eagerly.

It was a challenging first trip, to put it mildly. Fairy-tale maps were always the most difficult, and living terra-cotta warriors were certainly a fairy tale. But I was confident; the captain said I had to be. And Joss had said she’d seen me at the helm.

We were to use all possible precautions for the journey. Kashmir had his long knife hung on his belt, and I’d watched Bee check the bullets in her revolver. Slate had a long piece of oak, a length of an old yardarm, and Rotgut, having carefully considered the strengths and weaknesses of a terra-cotta army, had picked up a hammer.

I was the only one uncomfortable with a weapon. Fighting wasn’t my strength. I wasn’t even certain we’d need to. The warriors were there to protect the emperor; we didn’t plan to threaten him, but it was always best to be prepared, especially when traveling so far. After all, what else might we encounter in a place where clay soldiers came to life? What else did the mapmaker believe?

As Slate took the helm and pointed us away from shore, I didn’t wait for Bee to tell me to start hauling in the sails. Kashmir and I worked side by side in silence, clearing the deck (including my hammock and the washing lines), battening the hatches, securing the halyard, cleaning the drains and the scuppers, and tying off lines. It was as easy as the waltz we’d shared; we slipped past each other through tight spots without having to push, hauled lines together that neither of us could haul alone, and knew what the other needed without having to be told.