by Heidi Heilig
The thought terrified me.
I had promised myself years ago I’d never make my father’s mistake. I was not meant to drop anchor or seek harbor.
I went below, out of the island sun and away from the sight of the town, to hide in the bosom of ship, but she was like a sleeping beast. I didn’t know whether I was safe under her protection or caught in her claws.
My room felt claustrophobic when it never had before, so I made a halfhearted attempt at clearing the floor, piling my clothes against the trunk, and stacking the books Blake had so nearly taken up. Half of them had been printed in the next century, although they covered the last few millennia. The Gods of Egypt, the Prose Edda, and here, Beowulf in the original Old English, the story of a hero who saved his people by killing a monster. Of course, if you consider Grendel’s mother, Beowulf was the monster who murdered her son. I closed the book and placed it atop a book of fairy tales: the old ones, the Grimm ones, the ones without happy endings. The ones that had been real.
Why did the stories I knew best never end well?
But why too did I feel at home among them?
I could never give up the myths, the maps, the ship that had shaped me. Blake’s home might be paradise, but my home was the Temptation.
The last book in the pile wasn’t a book at all, but the covers of the hymnal that protected the map Joss had sold me. I sucked in a breath. I knew then how to get my father what he needed. I took the map with me as I went above and, with a new sense of purpose, knocked on Slate’s door. “Captain?”
It was a moment before he responded. “Yes.”
He was sitting cross-legged on the floor with his elbows on his knees, his palms open toward the sky, his jacket flung over the chair. By his mussed hair and flushed cheeks, he must have just lifted his head from his hands, but when he saw the look on my face, he scrambled to his feet. “You found something.”
I met his gaze. “You’ll teach me.”
“Yes.”
“Then this is the last map I help you with.”
“I promise,” he said quickly, but I shook my head.
“I’m not asking you,” I said. “I’m telling you. This is the last time.”
He caught his breath, then let it out, something softer than a sigh. “I always knew you’d abandon me once you knew how.”
“I’m not abandoning you,” I said. “I’m letting you go.”
“I don’t want you to leave.”
“But you want the map, and you need my help.” My claim sat in the air between us, and he did not contest it. “You said it yourself, Slate. Sometimes a person has to let go of something to make room for something more important. You have to choose.”
He was quiet for so long, I began to fear he’d made the offer without thinking I’d accept, but as I watched, his expression cycled from sorrow to resignation and then to something like relief. “You’re right, Nixie,” he said at last. “I’ll let you go too.”
I bit my lip to keep it from trembling; he’d let me go a long time ago. After all, you can only hold one person tight if you’re holding on with both hands.
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As promised, a note came from Mr. D midweek, setting the time and the place for our next meeting: 10 p.m., at the business of our mutual friend.
We arrived late at Joss’s apothecary. The captain had lingered over dinner and dithered when he was dressing, and as we were leaving the ship, he stopped dead just off the gangplank and wouldn’t move for half a minute. Then he started walking again, but slowly, and he hesitated once more on the street outside the shuttered apothecary. Slate didn’t want to go in.
I shared his reluctance, although my reasons were different. But we were committed to the scheme, and it was unwise to loiter outside. Although curfew was only for native citizens, we didn’t want to call attention to ourselves just now. Kash pushed on the door to the Happy House; it swung open easily. A candle flame shivered in the gloom.
“Come on, Captain,” I said, with more confidence than I felt. I took Slate’s arm and pulled him along.
That same peculiar odor hit my nose, of dust and leaves and bitter tinctures, but in Auntie Joss’s place behind the counter, there stood a behemoth of a man, with knuckles like walnuts and eyes as narrow and impassive as gaps in window blinds. His presence confirmed my suspicions even before I smelled the smoke. We were not meeting in an apothecary.
He moved his chin almost imperceptibly toward the crooked stairs behind the piles of crates at the back of the shop. I led the way, grasping the rickety rail with one moist hand. Stepping down, I was nearly blind in the dark, following the sweet reek in the air with my other hand in front of me. When I touched velvet fabric, I pawed at the curtains to reveal a bleary light.
The room was wide, larger than the footprint of the apothecary above. The ceiling was low, and the blue smoke gathered along it like storm clouds. Some parts of the wall were plaster, some rough wood; there was a section with peeling wallpaper, as well as a portion of unfinished stone, but along all of the walls were bunks with thin mattresses, some occupied, at least physically, by dreamers. On a chair in the corner, a bored woman, nude to the waist, plucked the strings of a guhzeng.
Guided by another woman with a pocked face and downcast eyes, Auntie Joss approached. She wore a rich silk robe and carmine on her wrinkled lips, which cracked into a courtesan’s smile as she greeted us.
“It’s been so long, Captain,” she said. “Pity your friends are waiting, or we could talk about the past.”
“I have no friends here,” Slate muttered.
She laughed lightly, as though he’d made a witty joke, then turned her unseeing eyes on me. “And Nix, welcome back. If we had more time, we could talk about the future.”
“Joss. Didn’t you know that selling opium is illegal these days? Although I suppose it’s hard to make ends meet, selling our secrets.” I started to follow Slate and Kashmir, who had gone with the young woman off into the smoke, but Joss grabbed my arm and leaned in close.
“Why, Nix,” she said, her cloudy eyes wide. “They are not yours alone. I wasn’t always blind. I used to be able to read maps too. Perhaps another time, I can tell you my own secrets. For a price.” She released my arm, but I was rooted to the floor. The temptation to ask her then and there was formidable, but I had brought nothing to barter with.
I caught up to Kashmir and Slate as they reached a large rug, surrounded by piles of flat, tattered pillows, where the four members of the Hawaiian League were sitting.
“Captain! Miss Song,” Mr. D said as we joined them on the floor. “And the math tutor.” His expression was careful and even. “Or was it the dancing instructor?”
Kashmir inclined his head and gave them his charming smile.
Of all the conspirators, only Mr. D seemed comfortable here. Mr. Hart was glaring at Kashmir, and Milly’s legs were folded awkwardly, all angles, like a colt lying in a field. Mr. T was staring with an outraged expression at the musician’s bare breasts. “Forgive him,” Mr. D said with a conciliatory gesture. “We are well outside his usual social circles. It was an effort to get him to attend at all.”
Mr. T turned his face, but not his eyes, toward the captain, and whispered through his sneer. “It’s not your forgiveness that concerns me.”
“Come now, Mr. T, we are not in church,” Milly said. “We are here so we may speak plainly, without fear of being overheard.”
“Indeed, there is no fear of that, sir, for God himself would shun this place!” Then Mr. T drew back as a woman in an embroidered red dress brought tea, kneeling down to place the tray on the rug and pour each cup. Her fingers were stained brown. Had my own mother held me with tar-stained hands?
The men were silent as she poured, and Slate in particular stared at his cup like she’d filled it with poison. Although the basement room was c
ool, his brow was covered with sweat.
Mr. D raised his own teacup. “A toast to the success of our venture?” The others lifted their cups, but when I reached for mine, Kash touched my arm. I started.
“Poppy tea,” he said under his breath.
I curled my fingers back into a fist. I should have guessed. Slate was still staring at his cup, and Mr. D was watching him. He must have chosen this place specifically to get to the captain, and it was working. Had Mr. Hart told Mr. D what had happened the night of the ball, or had Mr. D guessed?
The smell of the tea was bitter in the back of my throat. I took Slate’s cup and raised it. “Cheers,” I said, before dumping it out on the rug.
Mr. D’s smile didn’t falter, and he inclined his head. “Let’s move forward with the plan, then. Captain?”
Slate blinked, and he refocused, not on the men seated across from him, but on the teapot in the center of the rug. “Yes. The plan. Over the last few weeks, we’ve—Kashmir and I—have been checking out the layout of the palace and the grounds and so forth. Well. We’ve found the treasury is guarded at all times by . . .” He looked at Kashmir for confirmation. “Four members of the Royal Hawaiian Guard?”
“Indeed,” Kashmir said, taking over smoothly. “But when the king hosts events, only the youngest guards are left at the treasury across the street. The most experienced guards are nearest the king, to impress the guests and so forth, and the rest are in the barracks on the palace grounds. So our excursion is best planned for a night when the king is throwing a party.”
“Shouldn’t be difficult,” Milly said, laughing through his nose. “He’s always throwing a party.”
“Fine,” Kashmir said. “Next consideration. The Honolulu Rifle Club. Thirty-two armed men, mostly American, by all reports excellent shots. The only force on the island aside from the Royal Hawaiian Guard, and they have better training and nicer guns. Mr. T. You have a connection there.”
Mr. T’s eyes widened. “How did you learn that?”
Kashmir gave him a withering look. “From what I’ve discovered of their political sympathies, it would seem an easy matter for the Honolulu Rifles to be encouraged to avoid the fray.”
Mr. T paused for a moment. “That . . . can be arranged.”
“Good. I’d rather you do it than I,” Kashmir said. His eyes flicked to me then. It was almost my turn. I sat up straighter and surreptitiously wiped my sweaty palms on the legs of my trousers. “Next item,” he went on. “The vault in the treasury holds an estimated—”
“I know the keys to the vault are held by a Mr. Frank Pratt,” Milly said, interrupting. “A jumped-up little man, married well—”
“Mr. Franklin Seaver Pratt, the registrar of public accounts,” Kashmir said crisply. “Recently appointed, though he served on the staff of Kamehameha the Fifth. Mr. Pratt, who resides on Beretania Street with his wife, Elizabeth Keka’aniau Pratt, Mrs. Pratt, who is grand-niece and blood heir of Kamehameha the Third. Mr. Pratt calls her Lizzie, I’m told. Yes, I’m aware of who holds the keys.” I couldn’t help but stare at him, and he smiled with only his lips. “Now, I estimate the weight of the treasure at a ton and a half. Could be over two, depending on how much of it is in silver.”
“I must remind you,” Mr. D said. “Our agreement regarding confidentiality is of utmost importance, should you decide to hire any ruffians to help you carry the weight. I trust this will not be a problem?”
“It will not,” I said, hoping my voice wouldn’t quaver, but then I tried not to laugh when heads whipped around, as though they’d forgotten I was there. The weight of the gold had been the easiest problem to solve. “And we won’t be hiring any ruffians.”
“You have a crew of five. How else will you manage this feat of strength? Or protect yourselves from the Royal Hawaiian Guard?” Mr. D said with unconcealed interest.
I met Mr. D’s eyes, unwilling to even hint at the answer. “Unfortunately, confidentiality is of utmost importance.”
His expression stayed pleasant, but barely. “Indeed.”
“We can deliver your payment wherever you like, but we’ll need to know in advance where that is,” I said. “Unless you’re coming with us that night?”
Mr. D sighed. “I believe I’d prefer an evening in. But we will send one representative. We have to be sure the job is done, after all, and done correctly.”
Milly had gone pale. “And how will we decide on that representative?” he asked. “I cannot volunteer, sir, and I hope we’re not doing anything so low class as drawing straws!”
“I will not be available that night, I assure you,” Mr. T agreed. He thought for a moment. “Whatever night it may be.”
“No,” Mr. D said. “But I thought Mr. Hart would like the chance.”
“Me?” Mr. Hart half stood, upsetting his teacup. The guhzeng music paused, and in the sudden, shocked silence, the dreamers stirred in their beds. He settled back down at a gesture from Mr. D, but the furious gleam was back in his eyes. “I see,” he hissed through his beard. “I see how it is. The map is not enough for you. My shame is not enough for you. You would bleed me dry.”
“The map is a doodle on a bit of paper, Hart,” Milly said with a sneer. “Admittedly, so is a banknote, but the values are nowhere near the same.”
“It was valuable enough to you when you all came to me with this scheme—”
“Gentlemen,” Mr. D said, perhaps to remind them. “Mr. Hart, we need a member of our party to represent our interests, and you will do nicely. You are, after all, the bravest of our group, at least as judged by willingness to take risk.” He brought his teacup to his lips, although he only pretended to drink.
“And will Mr. Hart bring the map at that time?” Slate said, his voice a touch too loud.
“I think that is unwise. What if it were to be damaged in the scrum?” Mr. D asked. “We will meet again after the event, at which time we will trade the map for the location of the treasure.”
“What do you mean, the location?”
“In case there is an investigation, Captain. You cannot expect us to hide two tons of gold and silver in our gardens! Once the uproar dies down, we will retrieve it from its hiding place.”
Slate clenched his fists. “When exactly do I get the map?
Mr. D spread his hands, palms up. “We can meet within a week. Perhaps two. Longer, if you are suspected of the theft. Patience is a high virtue, Captain.”
Slate ground his teeth. I waited for the captain to refuse, to change his mind, but he said nothing more, so I did. “We cannot accept your proposal.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nixie—”
I held up my hand, silencing my father, but I kept my eyes on Mr. D. “Since Mr. Hart will be coming with us for the theft, he might easily learn the location of the gold. This does not affect you—one man cannot carry it away, at least not without our special abilities. But it does affect us. If he tells you the hiding place, you have no reason to give us the map.”
Mr. D looked at the captain, a hint of scorn in the curve of his mouth. “I didn’t know you let your daughter make your deals.”
Slate’s face was stony. “I’ve told you before. She’s more of an expert than me.”
Mr. D wet his lips. “I don’t suppose you’d accept my word of honor? Fine,” he said when I laughed. “Hart will hand the map over after the gold is hidden.”
“After it’s stolen,” I countered. “Or we’ll leave it on the palace steps.”
Behind his beard, Mr. D clenched his teeth. “It doesn’t matter to me,” he said, all appearances to the contrary. “After it’s stolen, then. How long will it take for you to make your preparations?”
Kashmir and Slate both looked to me for the answer, and despite the circumstances, I felt the glow of pride. “It won’t seem long to you,” I said. “All we need to get started is a map. One of here and now, so we can return after we fetch what we need. I trust you can commission another from Mr. Sutfin.”
Slate glanced at me, and then at Mr. D; I hadn’t had the chance to tell him about the map. But Mr. D didn’t even bat an eye. “Why not use the one you have?”
I shook my head. “It has to be inked now, after we’ve made all our arrangements.”
“But it takes the man half a year at least!” Milly said.
I shrugged. “I’ve heard patience is a virtue.”
Mr. D’s veneer of civility was thinning quickly. “The longer we wait for the theft,” he growled, “the longer you wait for the map.”
The captain glared at him. “If you think six months is a long time, try waiting sixteen years!”
Mr. Hart sat forward, catching Mr. D’s eye. “I know someone who can draw,” he said hurriedly, perhaps trying to defuse the tension. “He made the copy you showed the captain. He’s not busy.”
Mr. D nodded. In my chest—a sinking feeling.
“Good,” Slate said. “Send him to the ship tomorrow. We’ll all cross our fingers he can work fast. I won’t be sorry to weigh anchor on this port.”
And finally Slate gave in and reached out for a cup of tea—not his, which was empty, but mine. He downed the lot in one gulp.
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The next dawn, when the caladrius alighted on the rail, I was ready with a biscuit in a box.
The bird considered my proposal long and hard before deciding that hopping into the crate—which I’d found in the hold and emptied of penicillin—was an acceptable trade for a bit of bread. But when he did, I closed the box gently and set out for Chinatown.
I had to wait for Joss to open the shop, but she didn’t seem surprised to find me on her doorstep. “You have money?”
