by Heidi Heilig
He bowed. I bent my knees, but barely; the captain didn’t bother with any pleasantries. “Which one of you is Mr. Hart?”
Mr. D laughed. “Our host is in his study, tragically far from the refreshment. Before we go in, may I offer you a drink?” Again he raised his glass of pale gold champagne, and I noticed it was still full, while the squirrelly man beside him tipped back his own glass, tossing the bubbly down his gullet. I regarded the rows of fine crystal glasses and the iced bottles with French labels. The drink alone must have cost a mint.
“Thank you, no,” I said, and Slate half raised his hand, dismissing the proffered glass.
“A rare sight, a sailor who won’t drink!” Mr. D joked, but the youngest man was nodding.
“A rare sight, anyone who won’t drink, at least in Honolulu.” The man’s intense eyes were lit by a fire within. “The problem worsens by the year, ever since the merrie monarch repealed the prohibition against serving alcohol to the natives. They’re worse than sailors.”
“It’s a problem common among aboriginals,” said the squirrelly man as he picked up a fresh glass.
“But not exclusive to them,” the younger man replied with a glare.
“Some men cannot control their appetites,” Mr. D said pointedly. “Wouldn’t you agree, Captain?”
Slate’s spine had gone ramrod straight, but his face was blank while he chose his response. “Local issues are . . . of no interest to me.”
Mr. D nodded sagely. “That is likely for the best. Let us to business, then. Come.” He pointed toward the house with his still-full glass.
“A moment,” Slate said, scanning the crowd. “There is a third member of our party. Do you see him, Nixie?”
I didn’t, at first. Then I caught sight of him, in a swirl of sky-blue silk; Kashmir was dancing with Mrs. Hart.
“The tutor?” Mr. D said. His eyes twinkled. “He seems otherwise occupied.”
“Don’t worry, he’s in artful hands,” the squirrelly man said. “Mrs. Hart is a very capable host.”
Although the third man was silent, he looked like he’d bitten a lemon. I kept my own face still.
“There should be no need for dance instruction at our meeting,” Mr. D said, and he led us inside as the song ended. I didn’t glance over my shoulder to see whether Kashmir and Mrs. Hart had parted.
We followed Mr. D into the grand hall. He knocked at the door closest to the front of the house and farthest from the party, but opened it without waiting for an answer.
The study was lit with gas lamps that threw gold light across a blond maple floor laid with a thick green rug. It had that library smell, like the map room did, but the undercurrent of brine was replaced by wood smoke that must have come from the fireplace—a fireplace! In Hawaii! Not for warmth, but for wealth. There was even a small fire burning in it.
A huge window at the south of the room had been shuttered, and a small side door that must have led to the next room—door number two from the grand hall, likely a library or a drawing room—was also shut. I filed away that side door, an extra entrance to tell Kashmir about later.
The walls were a deep hunter green above the wainscot, and there was a large desk with bird’s-eye grain, on which sat a cut crystal decanter, a smooth round stone the size of a fist . . . and a black leather artist’s portfolio tied with a red ribbon. The captain’s eyes were drawn to it like iron to a lodestone.
The man behind the desk stood to greet us. He was flushed, or sunburned, and he had a dun-colored mustache of the sort that continued right past the corners of his thin lips, across his red cheeks, and connected up to the hairline in front of the ears. Those lips stretched in a smile that was almost a grimace.
“Captain,” said Mr. D. “Meet Mr. Hart.”
Mr. Hart shook the captain’s hand, then took my hand in his and bowed over it. I resisted the urge to scrub my palm on my gown; his own had been unpleasantly moist. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his high forehead as well. Studying him, I had the incongruous thought that Blake had been lucky to get his mother’s looks.
Mr. Hart was peering at me, though, a quizzical expression in his watery eyes, the color of weak tea. “Would the miss not prefer to be dancing?”
Slate raised his eyes from the portfolio for the first time since he’d entered the room. “No. She is more an expert than I am, with maps. She stays.”
I tried to ignore the stares the gentlemen gave me, but Mr. D shrugged. “In such complex matters, the more expertise, the better.” He clasped his hands. “Now that we are all gathered, let me make the introductions.”
“Not full names, please!” said the nervous little man.
“He has my full name,” Mr. Hart objected.
The little man scoffed. “Well! It is your house, sir, it could hardly be avoided!”
“As it is my house, I bear most of the risk here,” Mr. Hart said. “Should we not share it more equally?”
“The captain has agreed to confidentiality,” Mr. D said. “There is little risk.”
“Then why don’t we share it?” Mr. Hart asked again.
“One cannot be too careful,” Mr. D said, not a bit ashamed that he was speaking out of both sides of his mouth at once.
Beside me, Slate shifted, impatient, but I put my hand on his arm. Of course their names did not matter—Slate would not risk the map in an attempt to blackmail the men, but I hoped they did not know how completely they had him in thrall. After all, if they did, we would be in no position to bargain.
“Have I not commanded you? Be strong and of good courage,” quoted the youngest man, his brown eyes shining, but he tempered faith with prudence: “I am . . . Mr. T.”
“And I’m Mr. D,” said the squirrelly one.
“I’ve been introduced as Mr. D,” Mr. D said.
“Then . . . call me Mr. M.”
“Call him Milly, we all do,” said Mr. Hart.
“Sir!”
“Can we move on?” Slate interrupted.
“Yes, let’s,” said Milly. “I am a very busy man.” Having drained his champagne, he unstoppered the cut crystal decanter and filled his glass. The sharp smell of brandy tickled my nose.
“First things first,” Mr. D said. “Mr. Hart. The map.”
Mr. Hart drew out the red satin ribbon and flipped open the portfolio. Slate crowded close and pulled me alongside him. He held his breath as he studied the map. He held my wrist too. Would he dare try to Navigate here and now? Was it even possible? Could he call up the fog in a stuffy room? I twisted my arm a bit; he wouldn’t let go. I clutched the edge of the desk with my other hand.
The map was a sketch, really, without much by way of topographical elevation or contour, but the coastline was fairly accurate and the roads of downtown were inked in, along with, clearly marked, what appeared to be every saloon, brothel, and opium den in town. I saw it then: Hapai Hale. Pregnant House. Quaint, indeed. That was where my mother was supposed to be.
The ink was dry and faded, and the paper smelled old. I released the wood of the desk and stretched out my hand; I didn’t touch the page, but I was close enough to feel the heat of my palm trapped between my skin and the paper.
I drew my hand back. “The maker was your brother?”
Mr. Hart’s eyes jerked toward me. “He was.”
“And . . . he frequented these places? He knew them well?”
His thin mouth twisted. “Yes. Yes, he did. He had an artist’s temperament and was familiar with much he would better have left alone.”
Milly snickered, and Mr. Hart blinked rapidly. It may have been a trick of the firelight, but for the barest instant, his eyes seemed filled with pure rage.
But the captain chuckled. “Hart. Blake, yes. I remember the man.” Was he remembering old days—old friends? “He died?”
“He drowned,” Mr. Hart said. His eyes flickered over to Mr. D, who did not exchange his glance.
“A tragic accident,” Mr. D added simply.
The sweat shon
e on Mr. Hart’s brow. My own eyes narrowed. On the surface, this map didn’t seem like a fake, no matter how much I had hoped otherwise. But why was Mr. Hart so nervous? Was I being overcautious? After all, he was hosting traitors in his home. I scanned the map again. There was nothing I could hang a doubt on, at any rate, if I’d been inclined to lie.
I nodded, grudgingly; the captain relaxed, taking a deep breath through his teeth. He released my arm, and we both stood back.
“I should very much like to . . . to come to an arrangement for this map,” the captain said.
There were sighs of relief, and tight smiles behind beards, but Mr. D was still gazing at Slate intently. “So we are agreed on the terms?”
But Slate hesitated, glancing at me, then back to Mr. D. “Actually, gentlemen, now we’re together—all together, here—and before we get into a dangerous situation, I want to . . . to extend to you a counteroffer.”
My eyes cut to the captain. A counteroffer? He hadn’t mentioned that to me. But when his words sank in, Mr. Hart flipped the portfolio closed and put his hand to his waist; under his jacket, did I see the glint of a metal barrel? “I am already in a dangerous situation, sir!”
“Now, now,” Mr. D murmured, but Mr. Hart ignored him.
“You are in my home, you know my name! I hope you can appreciate the delicate position I am in!”
The captain held up his hand. “I appreciate it, sure. And my offer is a lot safer. The map for a million dollars of my own money.”
Mr. D’s nostrils flared, and his voice was colder than the champagne. “I believe we already discussed this, sir.”
“You and I did. But we didn’t,” Slate said, gesturing to the other men. Their faces went as still and pale as wax; they must have been mirrors of my own.
I saw the question in their eyes—how did a ship’s captain attain such wealth? But I knew better. He hadn’t had more than a few hundred in the bank.
“Think about it,” Slate urged. “There would be no risk to any of you. You could spend the money however you want, as soon as you want, without worrying that anyone might put two and two together.”
How on earth could he manage that sum without robbing the treasury in the first place? I would bet double that amount he had no plan. That would be like him: promise something impossible, and expect me to come up with his solution.
Still. It was a more honorable option, and it was heartening to know Slate had given it thought. Maybe he’d even been swayed by me. This time, I was the one holding my breath.
For a while there was silence. Even Mr. D had no pithy response, but then Mr. T shook his head vehemently.
“No. No, sir! Do you not see the issue at hand? This is not about the paltry sum of a million dollars,” he said, his voice breaking in his scorn.
“Not so paltry, surely,” Mr. Hart said. His face had broken out in a fresh glow, and he had dropped his hand from his holster. My heart beat faster at the look in his eyes; he was going to take Slate’s offer.
“Do not be swayed by mere riches, sir,” said Mr. T. “This is about the very future of the islands.”
“Yes,” Milly said. “And we stand to make much more if all goes to plan.”
“The rest of you do,” Mr. Hart said. “I am not so well positioned.”
“You may always continue borrowing from us.” Milly raised his bushy brows. “Under the new government, we should have enough to suit even your wife’s prodigious appetite. At least, for money,” he added snidely.
Mr. Hart looked as though he was being strangled by invisible hands, and I waited for him to burst, to shout, to push back, but Mr. D stepped in firmly. “Gentlemen, let us put this topic aside, please.” He leaned in to Slate with a self-satisfied air. “I told you, sir, we seek stronger leadership. Money is not our aim.”
“Not our only aim,” Milly said. He made a move toward the brandy decanter, but Mr. Hart took it himself and set it down out of reach before taking a folded square of linen from his pocket and dabbing his forehead. Still, he said nothing more.
“We may all have different motives,” Mr. D said. “But we have a common purpose. We are not brigands, Captain. We are visionaries. Your money will not be sufficient.”
My father sighed. “Then,” he said, and my heart sank, “I have no choice but to agree.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Back out on the lawn, the night air made me shiver. I hadn’t realized how hot the study had been.
The meeting had dispersed shortly after Slate had acquiesced. Mr. T had been eager to discuss the plan then and there, but Mr. Hart refused to have the discussion in his own home, and besides, Milly was entirely drunk. Mr. D promised we’d meet again midweek to talk through the particulars in a place offering more privacy.
Mr. D escorted us back to the party, where the dancers still reeled as though nothing had changed. I gathered my thoughts. I had to find Kashmir and tell him where the map was. Putting what I hoped was a blithe look on my face, I asked Slate if we could stay.
He didn’t answer right away. We stood at the edge of the grass, beneath the cloud of lanterns, as numerous and brilliant as if the fixed stars had dropped to earth.
“This is a good map, Nixie,” he said at last. “This is the one. I can tell.”
I sighed. “Dad—”
“I know it. This is the last one. I promise you that.” Something in his voice made me look up into his restless eyes, and when I saw his expression, I very nearly believed him. Gooseflesh rose on the back of my shoulders, but then he grinned. “Enjoy the party.”
The captain made his way back toward the house, stopping to talk to Mr. Hart on the patio. I scrubbed my hands on my skirt and scanned the crowd—where was Kashmir?—but instead, there was Blake trying to catch my eye.
“Miss Song,” he called as he approached, folding his arm in front of his waistcoat and making a neat bow. The color was high in his cheeks. “May I have this dance?”
I hesitated, but it was the height of rudeness in the era to refuse when asked. How could I do so without further arousing his suspicion?
So we danced, his right hand warm and gentle at the small of my back, just above the pink bow. At first, I was stiff in his arms, but he was smiling at me and his eyes were the blue of the open water, so for a moment I let myself imagine we were simply two young people whose entire purpose tonight was to dance on the grass under a hundred paper stars.
Then the moment passed and the song ended, so I prepared my excuses. But rather than removing his hand to clap for the musicians, Blake pulled me closer, his cheek next to mine, his lips brushing my ear, and whispered, “Don’t do it.”
Suddenly the polite applause of the crowd seemed to roar like crashing waves. My first instinct was to run, to forget the map, to simply escape, but I couldn’t even catch my breath. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, sounding much calmer than I felt.
“You don’t? Let me explain.” The next number began. He held me firmly as the dance started—a two-step. “The men you met with. All members of the Hawaiian League, which supports annexation by America. Interestingly, not a single Hawaiian among them. Now,” he said as we spun across the grass, Blake advancing as fast as I could retreat. “I’m not one to claim that haoles can never have the interests of the natives at heart, but I will insist it’s the truth about these haoles in particular. So whatever the business is between your father and those men, don’t let him do it.”
“Sugar,” I said quickly. “Your father needs someone to carry his cargo to California.”
Blake lowered his chin and sighed, almost regretfully. “My father is not a plantation owner.”
I was hot and dizzy, my feet like anchors, and the music of the band like the shrieking of the wind in a gale. The more I spoke, the worse it got. “Excuse me,” I said, pushing away from him. “I need to powder my
nose.”
“I’ll escort you,” he said, still at my side.
“Don’t bother.” I quickened my steps.
“No bother at all,” he replied, still behind me.
I glared over my shoulder, but before I could object further, I ran directly into a man’s broad back. He turned and looked down at me with those weak-tea eyes. I swallowed. “Excuse me, Mr. Hart.”
“Pardon me, I’m sure,” he muttered. Behind him, my father raised his eyebrows.
I practically fled across the patio, but Blake dogged me all the way to the great hall. “Miss Song—” He caught my arm and I rounded on him.
“How dare you accost me?” I mustered all the outrage I could. “Remove your hand!”
He did so, lifting it, palm open, his eyes wide. “Now that was very nearly convincing. Very nearly.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “It’s your crewmate, isn’t it? What is he? An assassin?”
“A what?”
“Certainly he is no tutor! Please,” he said, taking my hand, his eyes softening. “I don’t want to have to bring him to the attention of the authorities, but if you go forward with whatever you are planning—”
“And what will you report?” I ripped my hand away. “That we came to a rather dull party?”
“I’m certain I could come up with something better than that. It doesn’t have to be true. It only has to be worth investigating.”
I glared at him. Was he bluffing? But as frustrating as Blake’s questions were, I was more furious at myself. A fine job I’d done of distracting, leading him right into the hall! “I’ll tell you everything,” I said, desperate to get rid of him. “But not here. They might see us. Meet me in the garden in ten minutes.”
He stared at me, and I tried as hard as I could to look truthful. “I have another idea,” he said. “In here.” Then he put his hand on the door to the study.
“Mr. Hart,” I began, but I was spared coming up with another excuse when we heard a little gasp, followed by shushing. We both turned; the door to the next room was cracked open. I caught, in the shadows, the glint of blue silk on a bodice and the curve of a man’s black coat sleeve. Mrs. Hart was in the drawing room, and she wasn’t alone.
