by Heidi Heilig
And Mr. Hart was still speaking to the captain on the lawn.
Blake was red to the roots of his hair. I stared him down, and he looked away. Then I tossed my hair and left; he did not follow me this time.
I rounded the corner and stopped, pressing myself against the wall. As I did so, I heard a light, trilling laugh in the hall. “Oh! Blake, dear, what are you doing so far from the party?”
“I might ask you the same question,” he said.
Mrs. Hart’s reply was immediate. “If you must know, I was enjoying a moment of solitude. You know how exhausting guests can be. But now I’m ready to dance some more. Come, dear, escort your mother back to the lawn.” The sound of their footsteps receded.
I peeked out around the corner. The hall was clear.
My God. Now I understood the sly eyes, Mr. Hart’s embarrassment, Milly’s little joke. “Capable host” indeed. Scratch the surface, and you’d find Victorians were nearly as obsessed with sex as they were with death.
But who was in the drawing room with her?
I shouldn’t have done it, but I crept toward the door, which she’d shut firmly behind her. As I reached out for the knob, it twisted. I stepped back softly, softly, as the door cracked open and a man peeked out. He was facing in the other direction, but I recognized the slicked black curls, and my jaw dropped. “Kashmir?”
He startled, seeing me, his eyes widening. I stumbled away, my fingers cold, my face hot. He came toward me, one hand out; not stopping to think, I ran into the study and pulled the door closed leaning against it so he couldn’t follow.
Kashmir and Mrs. Hart! What a disgusting flirt—the both of them! All this time I’d been fending off Blake, and there he’d been, with her and her blond curls and her tiny shoes and her faux-charming mispronunciation of Arab, while we were supposed to be concentrating on the map!
The map.
I shoved Kashmir out of my mind. He’d found a completely different distraction. There was no time for me to do the same.
The portfolio was on the desk where we’d left it. I took it up with shaking hands just as the floorboards creaked in the hall. Kashmir coming in? No . . . there were two men’s voices, speaking low, right outside the door. I darted left a step, then right, but there was no place to hide.
A latch clicked—the hinge creaked—my heart stopped—
“Amira!”
I whirled around. The side door was open, and Kashmir beckoned me from the next room.
I ran through, pulling the door shut just as the men entered the study. I leaned on the heavy mahogany door, my blood pounding in my ears, willing my heart to slow down.
“What were you doing in the hall?” Kashmir whispered fiercely, but before I replied, he put his hand over my mouth. The men were speaking behind the door.
“Sir,” Mr. Hart said, “I am in debt to every single one of them! If I comply, they forgive the sum, but if I do not, they will ruin me!”
“You would be far away, and more than rich enough, besides.” That was the captain’s voice. “You could pay the debt twice over if you chose!”
“I could,” Mr. Hart said slowly. “But if I were to betray them, we would have to leave immediately. Mr. D, he—he would contact the authorities . . . with lies, to be sure, but you must understand, though my brother was a scoundrel, he was quite well liked—”
“We could sail this evening.”
“And where would we go?”
“Anywhere you like.”
“Anywhere?”
My back was pressed against the door, and Kashmir was pressed against me, the portfolio sandwiched between us, one of its corners jabbing my thigh. Slowly he lifted his hand away from my mouth. There was frustration in his eyes, and it made me furious. I responded by lifting the portfolio and raising my brows, but he only shook his head. Then he stepped back from me on quiet cat feet and picked up a roll of paper leaning against the side of a blue upholstered chaise, giving it a little shake.
The map.
I ground my teeth and leaned the empty portfolio against the wall. “When did you—”
He put his finger to his lips. Then he beckoned me to step away from the door, but I took one step and his hand flew up again. He pointed down near my feet.
The hem of my new dress was caught in the door
I grabbed a handful of the fabric to pull, but Kashmir’s frantic gestures stopped me. He handed me the map and reached up over his shoulder, drawing a short knife out from under his collar.
Mr. Hart was speaking again. “But there is one more thing you must do for me.”
“If I can,” the captain said.
“If you cannot, there is no hope elsewhere.”
“What is it? Well?” Slate’s impatience was palpable.
“They say . . . you and your crew have access to . . . all manner of strange and mystical items. And it is . . . I am not proud to say it, but I—I require . . .” The pause was so long I wondered if they’d left the room, but finally Mr. Hart continued. “I require a love potion.”
So Mr. Hart knew too. Not only about our ship, but about Mrs. Hart. What would Slate say? I had asked him about love potions once, and he’d scoffed at the notion, disgusted by the very idea of forcing someone to fall in love. Still, mythology is rife with potions, powders, Cupid’s arrows. Love as something taken, rather than something given.
I pressed my lips together. Kashmir was still flushed with anger . . . or was it shame? He avoided my eyes; his knife whispered through the silk.
“It would mean the world to me, sir,” Hart continued. “You understand? You told me why you want the map. You know what a man will do for love.”
“Fine,” Slate said at last. “Yes. I . . . as I’ve said, I am not the expert. But my . . . Nix will find one. She can find anything.”
“Ah, excellent! Excellent!”
Kash stepped back; I was free of the door. I handed him the map and made a shooing motion, but he looked at me quizzically. “The captain,” I mouthed, nodding back toward the door.
My plan was simple: barge in, tell the captain I had a message from Bee to return to the ship immediately, and whisk him out of the room before Mr. Hart could object. But I couldn’t explain it all to Kashmir, who shook his head and gestured for me to follow him.
“I can be found at the dock as soon as you’re ready to leave,” Slate was saying. “The sooner the better. I would hate for your colleagues to have time to suspect anything. Perhaps even tonight, after the ball?”
“I will need time to pack and to put my affairs in order. Oh, what am I saying?” Mr. Hart’s voice was elated, thrumming with impending freedom. “It’s a new life. I needn’t bring a thing!”
“Except for the map,” Slate said.
“Yes, the map. The map . . .”
I met Kashmir’s wide eyes. “Go,” I whispered, but he put his finger to my lips. Then he took me by the wrist and pulled me toward the door. It opened as we approached; there, silhouetted in the light from the hall, stood Blake.
We froze, all of us, as he took in the scene: Kashmir hauling on my arm, my torn dress. Everything was still, for one long, dreadful moment.
And then Blake rushed toward us, shoving Kashmir. “Release her!”
Kashmir stumbled against the chaise, dropping the map, which I grabbed up reflexively, pulling it away from Blake’s trampling feet. I flung out my hand between them as Kashmir bounced back upright. “Blake, it’s not what—”
But Blake bulled forward, half enraged, half disbelieving. “Is that all you are? A common cad?”
“Just what are you implying, boy?”
“Stop it, both of you!”
And then the door behind me flew open. “By God, Nix, what the hell are you doing?”
I turned to meet my father’s wrath and Mr. Hart’s panic. The man’s eyes were as round as coins, on a face pale as death. “What is this?” he whispered, and his eyes lit upon the map in my hand. He rounded on Slate. “Thievery?”
&nb
sp; Blake pointed a furious finger at Kashmir. “I don’t know what your game is, but—”
“Blake, get out!” Mr. Hart shouted. Kashmir took Blake by the shoulders and pushed him out into the hall, slamming the door shut behind him.
Slate’s face was inches from mine. “What were you thinking?” He wasted no more time on me, though. Instead, he took the map out of my hands, and his own hands trembled to touch it. He held it so delicately, as though it was the most precious thing in the world to him, and he seemed hardly to breathe.
Then Mr. Hart plucked it right out of his hands and dashed away to the fireplace.
“No!” Slate reached toward him, hands high, palms out. Mr. Hart stood on the hearth, towering over the captain, his feet apart and his face a mask of wrath, a Colossus of Barletta, and in that moment, I could not imagine ever seeing weakness in his maddened eyes. He raised his hand as though to strike the captain across the face, and his arm shook with the effort of holding back the blow. But then anger cooled to cruelty, and instead he dipped the map toward the flames.
“Please.” Slate clasped his hands in supplication, and Mr. Hart stopped, the paper a handspan above the hungry blaze. I held my own breath to see this spectacle, to watch my father beg. Maybe it was the last map, just as my father had said, and if Mr. Hart would only lower his hand, my worries would burn with the paper into smoke and fire, heat and light.
“Please, believe me,” Slate said, imploring. “This was not my plan.” Mr. Hart did not move, and sudden rage rose in my father’s eyes. “Burn the map, and lose your chance of erasing your debts.”
“Debt is the least of my worry if he catches me double-dealing.” Mr. Hart’s voice was a frosty contrast to the fire.
“Not a word.” Slate wrung his hands; all the fight had fled. “I won’t breathe a word to him, I swear. Let me honor our agreement. Please.”
Mr. Hart pulled the map back slightly, but he shook his head. “You will. You will honor the original agreement of the evening.”
“Whatever you say.”
But Mr. Hart twisted as if in agony, reconsidering his own demands, weighing riches to ruin, and his own fury ebbed in the struggle. Finally he spoke again, almost pleading. “You must understand, I cannot risk it!”
“I do, I understand,” Slate said, his voice soft as mercy.
“Yes,” Mr. Hart said, as though agreeing with him. “Yes. And not a word about our little . . . discussion to the others, or—”
“Not a word!”
Mr. Hart lifted the map away from the flame, and my own wild hope turned to ashes on my tongue.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Mr. Hart shut the door between the study and the drawing room, and after a long silence, Slate turned to Kashmir.
“Get the coach.”
Without a word, Kash opened the door to the hall, where he found himself face-to-face with Blake. Neither spoke, but Kashmir took the opportunity to brush past him with a stiff shoulder.
Blake’s eyes were on me as the captain took my arm, gripping my wrist like he gripped the wheel in bad weather, but I avoided Blake’s gaze. Humiliation flamed on my cheeks.
Slate barged through the hall and down the stairs. I practically had to run to keep up, red petals from my lei falling in our wake. I heard the startled murmurs of the crowd, felt the stares like spiders on my shoulders, and prayed Kashmir would be quick. My prayers were answered; as we got to the front steps, the carriage was pulling up to the drive.
But Blake wasn’t far behind. “Wait!” he said as Slate climbed in. Kash reached down to help me up, staring coldly at Blake all the while. “Miss Song!”
But I willed myself not to react. The captain pounded on the canopy, the driver put the whip to the horses, and we rolled away, leaving Blake on the steps.
We reached the road, and the captain slammed his open palm down on the velvet, his face white with rage. “What the hell were you thinking? Did you want him to destroy the map?”
“That would solve my problems,” I said, but Slate had already rounded on Kashmir.
“And you! How could you double-cross me like this? You’re lucky that map is safe, or your worthless carcass might not be.”
Fury boiled in my breast as Kashmir paled. “Captain, I’m sorry—”
“It wasn’t him, Slate!”
“Oh, sure, I believe that,” he retorted. “The professional thief had nothing to do with the heist!”
“A professional thief wouldn’t have botched it,” I snapped back. “It was completely my idea.”
“And he went along with it?” Slate jabbed a finger into Kashmir’s chest. “You better get your loyalties straightened out quick, kid. If I didn’t need you on this job, you’d be swimming to your next destination.”
I stared at my father. “Slate. You can’t honestly be planning to go through with the theft.”
“I can do whatever I damn well choose!”
“Blake knows something’s up.”
“Who?”
“The boy we just left on the steps! He’s suspicious, and he’ll report you before you can get near the treasury.”
“Hart’s son? Why would he do that?”
“Because he doesn’t want his father to destroy something important,” I said pointedly.
Slate’s eyes widened. “Did you tell him what was going on? Nixie.” He took me roughly by the shoulders, his nose inches from mine. “Did you tell him?”
“No.” My voice was calm and I did not flinch; he leaned back, eased up. “But I should.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Why not? I could even make the report myself. The king will arrest the Hawaiian League. The kingdom will be safe. You won’t have to worry about the money, and I won’t have to worry about the map.”
Slate raised his finger, pointing it at me in a silent accusation. Then he curled his hand into a fist and brought it to his mouth, as though to keep himself from speaking, and the hollow rhythm of the horse’s hooves seemed very loud in the night. Finally he spoke, though I did not hear what he said.
“What?”
“I’ll teach you,” he repeated, a hoarse whisper. “Help me and I’ll teach you how to Navigate.”
I scoffed. “You’re lying.”
“No,” he said quickly. “I swear.”
I looked into his eyes, and I believed him. But rather than the triumph I expected, I was filled with a cold fear, squirming in the pit of my stomach. “You must really believe this map is the one.”
“I know it is.”
I wet my lips. “If you’re so sure, why should I risk it?”
“Is it such a risk?” he said, his voice faltering. “Would a life here be so terrible?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kashmir turn his face. I clenched my jaw, but Slate pressed forward.
“Or the life you want, then—the escape you’ve got planned,” he said desperately. My mouth fell open; I never thought he’d acknowledge it so openly. Suddenly, irrationally, I wished I’d let Joss tell me my fortune.
Slate plowed on. “Not a risk, then, Nixie. A gamble. And think of the reward.” He took my hand, and his was so hot—mine so cold—I pulled away. “Sometimes a person has to let go of something to take hold of something else. You always have to choose what’s more important.”
“Oh?” I swallowed, curling my fingers on my lap, holding fistfuls of silk. “And what is more important to you, Captain? Lin or me?”
He stared at me for a long time, but he didn’t answer my question. Then he put his forehead against the canopy support and stared at the trees. When Slate spoke again, his voice was changed, the tone simple, the passion gone. “I have to try, Nix. If I don’t, what am I? I love her. Do you understand? I can’t just let her go. And maybe—even if it does change everything—maybe you’d be happier too. Did you ever think of that? If none of this ha
d happened? If I’d never disappointed you? If I could do it all over again. I could have been the best father. I still could.”
We rode the rest of the way to the docks in a vast and airy silence. I felt empty, my body cold and light as the night breeze, and Kashmir’s face was still as stone. Once back aboard, the captain went back to his cabin and paused outside the door. “Think about it, Nixie.” Then, as though ashamed of his words, he opened the door swiftly and disappeared behind it.
I gripped the rail and stared at the mountains; they were steely as knives under the moon. The sound of laughter and music still drifted from town, and it grated on my ears. Kashmir came to stand beside me, putting his hand close enough to mine that I could feel the warmth of him. I folded my arms across my chest. “What should I do?” I said softly. “I don’t want to turn him in, but I don’t think he’ll stop otherwise.”
“I don’t think he’ll stop either way.” Kashmir shrugged one shoulder. “Why not help him?”
“What?”
“It’s very altruistic to try to save the kingdom, but this is not a fairy tale. He’s offering what you’d always wanted. Why not take it?”
“Kashmir.” Did he really not understand? “If the map works and . . . if I’d had a different life, we never would have met. You would have been cornered on that dock in Vaadi Al-Maas.”
He waved my words away, trying to look nonchalant; if I didn’t know him so well, I might have been fooled. “You shouldn’t worry about me, amira. You shouldn’t worry at all.”
“Why not?”
“Well. If we’d never met, neither you nor I would have known it could have been different. But even if the captain rewrites his own history, how could it affect your reality? I’m from a place you call a fairy tale, and I’m still here.”
“But . . . the Vaadi Al-Maas was real once. People believed in it.”
“I believe in you. Simple enough, right?” His smile was heartbreaking.
I pulled the pins out of my hair, letting it fall down in coils on my shoulders. Of course it wasn’t that simple, but I didn’t want to argue against his point. “Why should I take the risk?”
