The Girl from Everywhere (The Girl from Everywhere #1)(88)

I clenched my fists as I watched the city grow smaller and smaller behind us. The league had won, though they hadn’t gotten the money. Of course the annexation of Hawaii had never been in doubt—but now I was complicit in the monarchy’s downfall. I would be reminded of that every time I had to bail the bilge.

Blake was still so pale. I checked his breathing, although Billie, who lay pressed against his body, growled when I came close. His chest rose and fell, the motion shallow but steady. Beneath the rags of his shirt, there wasn’t even a bruise.

Kashmir approached, walking gingerly. He’d stripped bare to the waist, and he was still holding his side. Peeking out beneath his fingers was an ugly weal, red and purple.

“Oh, Kashmir—” I reached toward him; I couldn’t help it.

“Ah ah ah!” He shied away from my hands, but then he smiled wryly. “I’ll be fine. My worthless carcass will recover.”

“Don’t, please.” I put my hand to my mouth, then down to the pendant at my throat. “Don’t joke about that. Not right now.”

His smile softened. “Of course, amira. I’ll be fine,” he said again. Then he turned his gaze to Blake and raised an eyebrow. “Damn. He looks better off than me.”

“Yes, you were both very brave,” I said, suddenly angry at the memory of my fear. “And very stupid!”

“Not as stupid as he was. I had a vest on.”

“It’s not a competition!”

“What’s not a competition?” Blake said, his voice soft and slurred. I swallowed the bitter taste on my tongue. Billie half stood, then sat again, then stood, her tail vibrating.

I knelt down beside him. “Nothing. How do you feel?”

He tried to sit up, but I pushed him down gently. His hand crept up along his ribs. “How . . .” He cleared his throat and tried again. “I thought I was . . .”

“The healing spring,” I said. “The one you showed me.”

“The spring? It works?”

“It does. On your map, at least.”

“On . . . my map?”

“Yes. The one you drew . . .” My voice trailed off. Did the healing spring exist before Blake drew it? Had he brought the Night Marchers into being? Was this version of Hawaii the real one, or only a fairy tale he’d told? “I don’t know, really. Just rest now.”

He nodded vaguely. “I’m cold,” he said.

“Here.” I picked up his stained jacket from the decking and shook it out, pulling it up to his chin. Then I saw it, in the pocket where he’d always kept his sketchbook: a tightly folded piece of paper, one corner brown with blood.

“I took it from the fireplace,” he said. “It was atop a pile of kindling.” I unfolded it gently. It was creased, but it was whole. HAPAI HALE, BLAKE HART, 1868. The map of my mother, and I, the anchor. The page trembled in my hands. It was so fragile; I could destroy it in an instant. Kashmir met my eyes, a question in his own, but I wasn’t ready to answer. I folded the map carefully and slipped it into my own pocket.

“Where are you taking me?” Blake asked then.

I hesitated. “We’ll make sure you get home.”

“Home?” he said. “Where is that?”



After what seemed like hours, we arrived at Hana’uma Bay and came alongside the Temptation. Bee threw a line over the bollard and leaped over the gap, taking me by the shoulders and inspecting me closely. Once she was satisfied I was unhurt, she wrapped her arms around me and pulled me close. Then she pushed back to arm’s length, clapped me on the back, and went to help Slate bring Blake over. Kashmir climbed after them, leaving Rotgut and me standing there on the deck of the junk beside the general. I surveyed the contingent with regret.

“I’m sorry I can’t bring them home.”

“Maybe it’s better that way,” Rotgut said.

“How so?”

“Well, in their case, home is a tomb. Given the choice, I know I’d prefer to stay under the infinite stars.”

“Maybe so.”

Side by side, we sailed the two ships into the indigo waters past the bay, where the coral skirt ringing the island ended and the lava shelf dropped off and the seafloor plunged away a mile and more. When we reached a likely spot, I stood before the general, hesitating.

When I had envisioned this scheme, the warriors had been an abstract, faceless force to stand behind me for backup, or between me and trouble. But, as was so often the case, the reality was different than what I’d imagined. In doing their duty, they had created a debt in me. I wanted to thank them, to honor their journey, but would it mean anything to the soldiers? They were only made of clay. Then again, perhaps the same could be said of all of us.

“Thank you,” I said finally, because it felt right, and the general saluted, putting his fist to his chest. I did the same. “You can rest now.” He inclined his head, bringing the mark on his forehead to the level of my eyes. I used my thumb to remove the five. As I turned the “me/not” into a smear of soot, the light went out in his eyes.

Then, simultaneously, the fifty-three remaining warriors reached up to drag their hands down their own foreheads, and their lights went out forever.

Then we set about smashing the warriors to potsherds while Kashmir went to work on the hull with an ax. It wasn’t long before we climbed back aboard the Temptation to watch the remains of the 54 sink beneath the blue waves. Would someone find it someday and wonder what had happened? The sea was wide and we were over deep water, but there were no guarantees.