Blake looked at him quizzically. “Too young for . . . ?”
“Maybe it was your father.” Slate nodded to himself. He stood close enough now, I could see the signs; his eyes dark, his brow shining, his reactions a touch too slow. I cut in.
“What can I do for you?”
“Well,” Blake said carefully. “Speaking of my father, I’m here at his request, to deliver an invitation.” He pulled a white card, the color of bleached coral, out of the breast pocket of his jacket.
“An invitation?” From his father . . . who was hosting the ball. The brother of the mapmaker, then. I glanced at Kashmir, but he gave no sign of recognition—then it occurred to me he might be doing that on purpose. I pretended to have a sudden, keen interest in my fingernails.
“Yes. He asked me to say he’d be honored by your attendance at our little party. All of you.” Blake grinned at me. “As would I.”
“Oh, I’m certain you would,” Kashmir said.
“Thanks,” Slate said, fascinated with the card, tilting it and letting the gilt writing catch the light. Then he shoved it into his pocket. “Okay. Let’s go.” I winced as Slate started walking down the gangplank; Kashmir followed, though more slowly.
Blake inclined his head, his expression still polite. “Good day, gentlemen.” Then he offered me his arm. “Allow me?”
“To what?”
“To help you down the gangplank.”
“Oh, I’m not going with them,” I said, watching Kash and Slate cross the wharf toward town, just two fine gentlemen on a stroll. I sighed. “They’re on business that doesn’t involve me.”
“Is that so?” Blake’s raised his eyebrows. “Their loss.” He put his hands in his pockets and glanced at the mast, the sails, the wheel. “You know, I’ve never been aboard a ship before.” I couldn’t help but grin when he jumped up and down a little on the deck. “I’ve been on canoes, the outriggers the Hawaiians favor, but nothing that could cross the Pacific. Mind giving me a tour?”
“Ah, unfortunately, I’d have to ask the captain—”
“Of course, of course.” He tapped his finger on his lips, then he offered his arm again. “Well, if you’re not otherwise occupied, allow me to make up for Billie’s transgression against your breakfast? There’s a cafe just up the street.”
I hesitated a moment, wondering how proper it would seem to take Blake’s offer, before throwing caution overboard and slipping my arm in his with a little thrill. Kash and Slate weren’t the only ones who could reconnoiter. The map was hidden somewhere at Blake’s house. If I could discover its hiding place, we might not need to wait for the ball.
Arm in arm as we were, the gangplank—being only wide enough for one—took a bit of negotiating. I didn’t need Blake’s steadying hand as I stepped onto the pier, but I took it anyway, marveling at his calluses, where he must have held the pen . . . so different than mine. Blake looped his horse’s reins around his free hand and we started up Fid Street, Billie leaping at our heels like a dolphin in our wake. My mind was racing: I wanted to ask about his father’s map—where it was kept, if it was authentic, if an original even existed—but how? What would he know—and what was safe to say? I couldn’t imagine Blake, with his honest, open face, being part of a cabal, but Mr. D had been clear about the risk if we made any mention of our meeting.
“I found Alexander Sutfin,” Blake said, interrupting my thoughts. “He’s a drafter downtown, on Queen Street and Richards. Second floor.” I blinked at him, and he smiled. “Well, I can’t very well claim to be an expert if I can’t answer your questions.”
“I . . . thanks. Thank you.” Although the information about Sutfin was useful, I was more concerned now with the other map. And now that he’d opened the topic—
“But I have one of my own,” he continued before I could speak. “What’s your name?”I wondered, as always, whether to lie. But no, Mr. D already knew. “My name is Nix Song.”
He cocked his head. “Nix? Interesting.”
“Nix was a water sprite in Germanic myth,” I said. “She lured men into the lake to drown.”
“We have water spirits here too, although they’re shaped like lizards.”
“Harder for them to lure men, then.”
“Depends on the man, I suppose,” he said, making me laugh. Then he hung his head in mock regret. “Alas, I was only named after my uncle.”
“The dead one?” I said, too quickly. His smile faltered, and my mouth went dry in the ensuing silence. “I—I beg your pardon. Clearly I’ve been too long at sea—”
“No, no,” Blake said. “I never knew the man, although my mother tells me I take after him quite a bit.”
The drunkard who mapped the opium dens? Thankfully I kept that thought behind my teeth. “How so?”