But when I read two more mentions in the paper—one, the census reporting that, although the native population was in decline, the overall population of the islands was growing, and the other, an anonymous letter to the editor calling for “a closer alliance” with America—I saw the political landscape come into view. Kalakaua’s kingdom was being overwhelmed by foreign interests.
I gathered this intelligence, but I had no one to tell. Kashmir disappeared with Slate every morning to go into town and returned only late at night, spending the days before the ball preparing to give Mr. D his answer.
But I too had preparations to make, so on Thursday afternoon, I managed to finish my chores early and wheedle Bee into giving me a few hours of freedom so I could stop by to visit the Mercier sisters. They were pleased to see me, although perhaps less pleased than they might have been to see both me and Kashmir. Emily asked after him as she fussed with the bustle on the dress.
“He’s in town. Doing . . . errands.” I watched our reflection in the long oval mirror; I did not look like myself.
“He’s very dashing,” Emily said. “And quite young. Is he really your tutor?” Nan’s eyes cut to her sister; she made a small noise of protest at the question, but her mouth was full of pins.
“Yes,” I said airily. “Did you know his people invented the zero?”
The jacket needed to be taken in at the waist, but the dress fit perfectly. I paid the remainder of the balance and asked that they have everything delivered to the ship when they were finished. In the rich silks and ribbons, would I pass for a society girl among Blake’s father’s important friends?
On the way back to the ship, I crossed Queen Street. Remembering the conversation I’d had with Blake, I took a detour south to Richards. I walked up and down the block twice before I saw it—there, on the second-floor windows of a white stucco building, the gold lettering on the glass: A. SUTFIN & CO, SINCE 1887.
The door was unlocked, so I showed myself in, up the narrow stairs, to a lived-in studio with a checked oak floor, well lit by southern windows and gas jets. The walls of this front room, obviously a converted parlor, were lined with wide, deep shelves, each holding a single sheet of paper: maps in their various stages of completion. There was a drafting desk by the windows where a man, perhaps thirty years old, although already starting to bald, sat drawing. I knocked on the half-open door, and he started at the sound, his gold-wire spectacles slipping down his nose. He thumbed them up in a peculiar gesture.
“Oh, hello, how do you do? Ah.” He peered at me closely. I was probably not one of his typical visitors. “How may I help you, miss?”“Mr. Sutfin? You make maps?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, gesturing toward the shelves on the wall, as if to prove it. “Yes, I do.”
“I’m wondering about one in particular. A map of the island. You must have finished it very recently . . .” I frowned—what day had we arrived? “On October 24? But you dated it 1868.”
“Oh, yes, those maps! What about them?”
“There was more than one?”
“Yes, I did three. The commission was for half a dozen maps, but the client canceled the last three a few days ago. And thank goodness,” he added. “He wanted each one drawn by hand. I told him it would be faster to have an engraving made of the first, but he wouldn’t hear of it. The whole affair was very time-consuming. If you are here to commission a map, I must tell you, it will be at least eight months before I can get to it.”
“Your client. What was his name?”
“I—Miss, may I ask you why the questions?”
“We . . . my father purchased one of them, and I wondered why they were backdated.”
“It was part of the commission. I’m sorry I can’t say more. I’m not trying to be secretive, but I don’t know why it was important, only that it was required. But I assure you, the map is accurate in all other respects!”
“Of course,” I said, assuaging his concern for his reputation. “One more question—your other map of 1868. The one of downtown, that you signed as Blake Hart?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The one of the . . . ah . . . the bars?”
“Miss . . . I don’t . . . May I—”
“Forgive my intrusion,” I said quickly, seeing the truth on his face. It may have been too much to hope for, that the other map was as verifiably fake as the one that had brought us here. That would have been too easy. “Thank you for your time.” I hurried down the stairs before he could start to ask me any questions.