“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 cool, 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.