The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(82)

Then hoofbeats broke the silence in the street: a single rider approaching. A lone, brave guardsman? A reckless reporter?

Rotgut and I shared a glance. He shook his head ruefully, and my skin went cold before I even peeked over the rail.

“No,” I whispered, and I dropped back down to the deck, trying pointlessly—foolishly—to hide as hooves thudded on the wooden planks of the pier.

“You there, lad!” Blake’s voice rang over harbor. “I saw you. Stand up!”

I slapped my palm down on the deck, but there was nothing for it: the damage was done. No. I had done the damage. Slate told me often enough: he couldn’t have done this without me.

I pulled off the cap that was hiding my hair and stood to face Blake. Then my eyes widened. “Don’t shoot!”

He stared at me from over the barrel of a small double derringer. Then he blinked and lowered his gun. “Miss Song? What are you doing here? It’s not safe. I heard there were . . . pirates in Honolulu.”

Realization crept across his face like a tide, and he raised the gun again.



The gun gleamed in Blake’s grasp. The four warriors I’d stationed on the quarterdeck were quiet, their eyes like dying coals. He could take one shot before they reached him, and all it took was one. But would he?

“Mystery indeed,” Blake said bitterly. He scanned the ship, his eyes gray as flint in the moonlight. “Where is your father?”

“With yours at the treasury,” I shot back.

“That doesn’t shock me. I know the depths to which he’d stoop.”

The scorn in his voice bit like an eel. “I was going to return the gold.”

He laughed. “Of course you were!”

“I wrote you a letter giving you the location.” I lifted my chin. “It will be delivered tomorrow.”

“Is that so?” he said sarcastically. “Perhaps I should go home then, and wait for it.”

“Or just shoot me and find out later I was telling the truth.”

He stared at me, incredulous. “Have you ever once told me the truth?”

“Many times,” I said. “Most notably when I told you how to prevent us from returning.”

“Don’t try to make me responsible, Miss Song. I knew it was about money, but I didn’t think your return would lead to this.” Pilikia danced beneath him, but he kept the gun steady. His eyes, though, were less certain, and behind them I recognized it—not anger, but pain.

“What did you think it would lead to?” He didn’t answer, but the heartless moon illuminated every expression—regret, shame, longing. I cocked my head. “You’re not going to shoot me.”

He ground his teeth. “No,” he said with new resolve. “I’m going to take you prisoner so your father will return what he’s stolen.”

“He won’t,” I said, certain now. “And you still won’t shoot me.”

Blake’s eyes narrowed, and he stared at me for so long, I began to doubt. But then he lowered his gun, shoving it in the holster. Then both of us looked up at the sudden sound, a few blocks away, of the tinkle of smashed glass and a scream. Suddenly Blake slammed his open hand down on his thigh; Pilikia reared back, but he kept his seat. “Why? Of all the places you might go to loot, why this one? Why mine?”

“Blake . . . it’s inevitable,” I said, repeating the words I’d learned. “You’ve seen it on the horizon. You know what’s coming. Paradise is always lost.”

“That’s a convenient turn of phrase,” he said. “But paradise is never lost. Only destroyed.” My cheeked burned with shame, but he continued, merciless. “But for what, Miss Song? Not money, I wouldn’t believe that of you. What is the map really for?”

“You know what it’s like,” I said, desperate, not for clemency, now, but for understanding. “To try to hold on to something as it disappears.”

He shook his head as Pilikia pawed the deck; he pulled the reins sharply, turning her in a tight circle, keeping his eyes on my face. “There is more to this story. Something you’re still hiding. No one does something like this for a memory.”

I bit my lip, the answer on the tip of my tongue, but why shouldn’t I tell him? “He needs it to save a life. To save my mother,” I said at last. “My reasons are less altruistic,” I added with difficulty, but I owed him the truth. “I’m doing this to save myself.”

“To save yourself? Who threatened you? And how does the captain—”

Then the sound of shouting and a high, manic laugh from the town made him turn his head. “That’s my father.” Blake’s voice was distant, as though he was listening to a song I couldn’t hear.

Another smashing sound, like furniture being overturned. “What are they doing?”

Blake’s shoulders sagged like an empty sail. “I would imagine he’d find it difficult to stop at the treasury.”

“Why?”

“There are some men in town who . . . who have . . . wronged him. He’s been at the edge for quite some time. It would not take much to push him over.”

I felt uneasy then, as though the deck were rolling beneath my feet; but no, we were in harbor. “You should go home. Wait for my letter and rescue the kingdom. You’ll be a hero.”