The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)(12)

“My children!” Bee’s voice was a rasp over the ropy scar at her throat, covered now by a stranded necklace. She glanced at our fingers, entwined, and winked. “Working hard, I see.”

Nix pulled back her hand to dash it across her eyes. “Nearly done with the sails.”

“Mmm.” Bee took in Nix’s expression. Then she turned to me, and the scars dotting her brow emphasized her frown.

I gave her an innocent look, and I wasn’t even pretending. Whatever was bothering Nix was nothing I had done—at least, so I hoped. “Where are you off to?” I asked Bee, to remind her that she was leaving. “All dressed up.”

Her frown melted away. “I finished my own repairs, so I’m taking my wife out to celebrate. It’s a great day for us.”

“Oh?”

“With young Blake aboard, we now have three children.” Bee’s chest filled with pride. “Our marriage is finally tied.”

“Congratulations, Bee.” Nix’s smile was real, and I was glad to see it, even if it wasn’t for me. “Are you taking her dancing?”

“Too early for that. Ayen wants ice cream—yes, yes,” Bee added, but not to us. “A triple scoop with the rainbow sprinkles, I heard you. I told her she has no stomach, but she never listens to me.”

“That’s how you’ve stayed married so long,” I said—another easy joke, but at least Nix laughed this time. Bee only swatted at me, still grinning even though she missed. Then she turned on her heel, walking down the gangplank by herself, but not alone.

Bee and Ayen were the only married people I knew—or instead I should say, the only married couple: Ayen was a ghost, slain by a jealous man soon after their wedding. But they were happy together, still in love after so many years. Too bad Nix could not take their example closer than her father’s.

“We should do something nice for them,” she said then.

“For who?”

“For Bee and Ayen. To celebrate.”

“What’s better than a triple scoop with rainbow sprinkles?”

Now Nix swatted at me, but instead of slipping away, I caught her fingers in mine. “She helped throw me a party for my theft day,” she said. “It’s important.”

“I know, I know.” I considered the plan, despite the distraction of her hand. Had I ever held such wealth in my palm? But a celebration would be welcome, after the last few weeks—it might lift everyone’s mood, including Nix’s. “I’ll finish mending this last tear. You go below and tell Rotgut we’re having a feast. Get him to pick up a roast. Maybe something from that barbecue place in Williamsburg?”

“Good idea.”

“Of course it is. And you and I . . .” I trailed off, drawing my thumb over her knuckles. Courage, Kashmir! “You and I should . . . we should—”

“Go to Chinatown.”

“What?”

“We should go to Chinatown,” she repeated firmly, though her eyes flicked left, then right. “There are good bakeries there. I can pick up some cakes and the like. For the party.”

“Ah yes,” I said, nonplussed. Chinatown in summer was not the most romantic choice, the pavement slick with the melting ice of the open fish markets, and the smoggy haze of the bridge traffic hanging in the air, but I hadn’t been quick enough on the draw. Still, SoHo was nearby, with little boutiques and cafés. I could work with that. “Chinatown it is.”

Nix crossed the deck and slid down the ladder to find Rotgut while I finished up the last few stitches on the sail. Then I went below to my own cabin, changing into a new white shirt and smoothing my hair under my best Panama hat. A quick check of my teeth in my shard of mirror, and a few cloves in my pocket for my breath, and I was out the door, where I found Mr. Hart standing at the bottom of the hatch.

He glanced at me with hollow eyes, but he did not go up, nor did he stand aside; he only shifted in his borrowed shoes. “I overheard Miss Song saying she was on her way to Chinatown,” he said at last.

“Ah.” I kept my face still. But Honolulu’s Chinatown was where the two of them had met. Did he hope New York’s modern version would be something like home? I sighed; perhaps the fates were telling me that discretion was the better part of valor this day. I doffed my hat to them, and set it back down on Mr. Hart’s head. He raised an eyebrow, surprised, but I clapped him on the shoulder. “A gentleman without a hat is like a thief without his lock picks. Viens, allez!”

We found Nix above, and she glanced from me to Mr. Hart, her eyes lingering on my hat. On her lips, was that a smile? They say generosity is its own reward, but her approval was even sweeter.

Together we walked down the sun-drenched sidewalks of Brooklyn. New Yorkers considered it rude to walk three abreast, so I let Nix lead, falling in stride with Mr. Hart. She was still distracted, so I kept an eye on him.

Though I’d spent the last three years sailing from unlikely scenario to improbable adventure, one of the strangest circumstances yet was becoming Mr. Hart’s keeper. Still, I had to admire his composure in the busy streets. While he blushed at young people in deconstructed summer fashion—and in the hot fug underground, I could see the pulse under his jaw as the train roared into the station—by the time we reached Chinatown, awe had replaced the terror. Standing on the corner of Canal Street, he stared down the length of it, toward the water. “Is that the Brooklyn Bridge, there?”