by Heidi Heilig
Victorians. The first boy was blushing so deeply I fished another nickel out of my bag for the poor thing, then beat it back up the dock, only a few minutes late to relieve Bee of the watch.
I sat in my hammock, facing the wharf. There wasn’t much activity this late in the afternoon: a boatswain tarring the deck of the Tropic Bird three ships over, a couple of fishermen off-loading their catch, a lazy cat watching them from the shade of a piling. The sweet breeze strummed the rigging, and the waves rocked my hammock as gently as a cradle.
Hapai Hale. The very first hint of my existence was marked on the page. I was written into that map as a landmark. Before I’d even known it, I’d been a part of this place, and it was increasingly hard to pretend that it wasn’t a part of me. Something of it lived under my skin, indelible as a tattoo.
It was the home that might have been, and for the first time, I felt the loss of it—the world where my mother lived and my father stayed in Hawaii and I grew up within the boundaries formed by the golden line of sand encircling the island. But who would I have been in that version of reality? Me, or not me?
I felt close to my other self, and I dreaded meeting the conspirators against the crown. Treason felt like a personal betrayal, and I even avoided Kashmir when he returned at night after a day spent plotting. Although I was confined to the ship, I drank in the rhythm of life on the island as time’s current drew the night of the ball closer.
On Saturday, the Zealandia came into port from San Francisco, bringing mail and news and goods and guests from the world beyond Oahu’s shores. Her approach was announced by the semaphore at Telegraph Hill, and shortly thereafter by cannon fire and the ringing of the bells. Soon the dock was mobbed in a Boat Day celebration, the crowd at least triple the size of the one that had greeted our arrival. Local men and women swarmed aboard the ship, laughing, talking, some even serenading the small group of passengers who seemed dazed, like the unsuspecting dead awakening in Elysium.
The oily smell of the docks was erased by the honey-sweet scent of a thousand flowers strung on hundreds of leis, thrown over the visitors’ heads and scattered like confetti on the waves. Locals greeted strangers like long-lost family, with smiles and kisses. Platters of fresh fruit were paraded by, tempting those long at sea; a covey of ladies, underdressed and over-rouged, did the same, calling out to the sailors from a corner of the pier. For a moment, I thought I saw Blake in the crowd, his head bent as he wrote something in a book, but then the man lifted his chin; he was twenty years older and thirty pounds heavier.
The mail was unloaded along with the sailors, and there was much drinking and gambling in town that night. Or perhaps it was brawling; it was so hard to tell the difference until you were much too close. Whatever it was, it petered out as morning dawned on Sunday, the day of Princess Pauahi’s funeral. The contrast was sharp between the bright laughter of the carnival of Boat Day and the eerie, incessant wailing of mourning voices, drifting on the breeze like banshees through the streets.
A few of yesterday’s leis came drifting back in on the afternoon tide, limp with salt, beside mangrove seeds and coconuts that had been floating who knows how long in search of a favorable shore on which to set down roots. The few locals in the streets were somber, burdened by a shared loss, respect for which quieted even us sailors in port. I contemplated it all from my hammock, apart from it, and not a part of it, as the sun rose and then fell, replaced by the moon waxing full.
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The next day, true to his word, Mr. D sent a carriage to meet us—a barouche, to be specific, all polished black lacquer and rich scarlet velvet, topped with a rigid canopy, the sides left open to the breeze. Nevertheless, the seats gave off a musty smell; in the constant humidity of the Hawaiian Islands, velvet was never the rational choice. Mr. D, however, was nowhere to be seen; the driver told us he meant to meet us at the party.
The Merciers had sent their delivery on Saturday, and I’d chosen to wear the striped silk dress with the “modified bustle,” which took the form of a giant pink bow below the small of my back. I had regarded it with great suspicion in the mirror, especially when I noticed Kashmir seemed to find it humorous.
“I feel gift wrapped,” I had said to him.
“As long as we still have the receipt,” he’d replied.
He nudged me now—as he had twice already—reminding me to sit forward in the carriage. I perched on the edge of my seat so as not to crush the taffeta. Kash had dressed impeccably, with a closely tailored sack coat, buttoned only at the top, the bottom open to display his vest and the gold chain of a pocket watch. He’d slicked down his thick black curls, and sitting this close to him, I caught a hint of some sort of cologne, like honey and leather and ambergris.
Slate had put on a frock coat and a stylish ribbon necktie, but his manic energy was barely hidden beneath his proper exterior; it welled up like the spring in the woods. He fidgeted uneasily as we crept through town, one knee bouncing madly as he peered out the window.
It had been nearly a week since I’d spend this much time with either of them, but the silence was thicker than the funk of the moldering velvet; I couldn’t speak plainly to Kashmir in front of Slate, not about the map. Kash patted my leg then, gently but firmly; I’d been jigging it up and down in rhythm with my father.
I looked into Kashmir’s eyes and found reassurance there. I gave him a grateful smile and let myself relax, then sat up quickly as I remembered about the bow.
The carriage had arrived at the Temptation about an hour after sundown, and it took us another half hour to get to the edge of town. Nu’uanu Street was even more crowded than usual, and the revelry did not end there. Once we moved beyond the laughter and shouting near the docks, the sound of brass music brightened the dusk—one of the concerts Blake had mentioned. Bee was likely there; Rotgut was on dog watch tonight, and Ayen had demanded a night out.
We rolled past late-night picnickers, groups heading toward the beach in their bathing costumes, young men and women on horseback enjoying a night ride, and a plein-air performance of what appeared to be a comedy (at least, the audience was laughing). The entire city had come alive to make merry under the silvery light of the full moon.
Nu’uanu Valley was no exception. Families sat on their lanais, playing music or cards, and farther back, in the darkness between the trees, torchlight writhed. The sound of a man singing and drumming, a distinctive rhythm—one, two, one-and-two—drifted out of the dark, making me shiver as I remembered the story of the Hu’akai Po.
The house I had glimpsed the other day had been transformed from a white box into a shining luminaria, and the coral drive was lined with lanterns at the edge of the lawn. All of the doors and the shutters were thrown open to the warm night air, allowing the guests to move in and out as freely as the breeze. The carriage pulled up to the door, where we were welcomed by a Hawaiian butler sporting stockings to display his well-turned calves.
He showed us into the foyer and announced our arrival to a delicate, exuberant blond woman in a rich gathered gown of sky-blue silk. Blake stood just behind her to her right, his hair perfectly parted, his scrubbed cheeks glowing, his hand over his silk waistcoat: the very picture of a fine young American gentleman, except for the garland of deep crimson blossoms hanging from his wrist.
Mrs. Kitty Hart, wide-eyed and giddy, was so very pleased to make our acquaintance, and I immediately saw the resemblance to her son, although Blake’s eyes were much more sincere. “A ship’s captain, how romantic!” she said to Slate, making a deep society courtesy, her ruffled skirts swishing above her tiny satin shoes. “It must be such an adventure, sailing the seven seas. How serendipitous the tides that brought you to my little party!”
“Indeed.” My father made a perfunctory bow and waved his lips over her hand. “Very lucky.”
“You don’t
know the half of it, sir! It was quite fortunate the mourning ended yesterday! Why, can you imagine? If the princess had died but a day later, we would have missed the full moon and had to push our party off a whole month. It was bad enough with all that wailing. One could barely think for the clamor! Ah, and Miss Song.” I waited for it—the flick of the eyes, to my face, to my father’s, and back—and she did not disappoint, although she covered well. “So happy to make your acquaintance. My son speaks often of you.”
Blake made a little bow, very formal. He lifted up the lei in both hands. “May I?”
“Ah . . . of course.” I tilted my head, a bit self-conscious. The petals were cool as silk on my neck; I lifted them to my nose and breathed deep. “They’re beautiful.”
“The ohia blossoms are sacred to Pele,” he said.
“The volcano goddess?
“The very same,” he said. “Creator. Destroyer.”
“I see,” I said cautiously. “My thanks.”
Mrs. Hart looked on. “One of the few charming customs the savages have shared with us,” she said brightly. “And you, sir, welcome,” she continued, moving to Kashmir, her eyes roving from his face, down his lean build all the way to his fine shoes. Her pink lips curved prettily. “Are you really an Arab?” The way she said it, the word rhymed with Ahab. “My son tells me you teach mathematics and dance. What an unexpected combination.”
Kashmir’s careful expression barely faltered. “It is certainly unlikely!” he said, kissing her hand. Her cheeks glowed a delicate pink, as if on cue.
“Perhaps you can teach me a few steps later?” Mrs. Hart said. “Here on the islands, we’ve been dancing the same rounds for years. It’s always exciting to have a fresh turn around the floor.”
We were ushered into the grand central hall, which was filled with enough floral arrangements for a wedding . . . or a funeral. With one casual hand, Kashmir lifted the garland of flowers around my own neck, leaning in as if to smell them. “The young Mr. Hart suspects something,” he whispered, then let the lei drop. “But I can’t tell what.” We continued through the hall, quiet for a moment. “Dancing and math?”
“It’s a long story.” I pretended to admire the decor, but I stopped long enough to give him a side eye. “Was she flirting with you?”
He winked at me. “The only thing that’s gone well so far. But no matter. The night is young.”
As we moved through the grand hall, I mapped the house in my head. From the outside, the house was a rectangle with the front of the house and the foyer we’d just entered facing east, to the sunrise. The grand hall behind the foyer was lined with three big mahogany doors to the south, one door to the north, and an open pair of wide double doors on the west wall, through which music and laughter rolled like a tide.
Which door hid our map—door number one? Door number three? But there was no telling from the outside, and I couldn’t linger in the hall.
We stepped outside through the open double doors, and I gaped at the display. We stood under a golden cloud of Chinese lanterns on a stone patio that lay like a stage before a lush lawn silvered by the moon. At one side of the patio, an impossibly long table groaned with dishes that looked decidedly Continental: white-flour biscuits, puffed pastries with a savory onion filling, tiny triangle sandwiches with pale slices of cucumber, fillets of fish in a lemon sauce, roasted chicken with blackened skin, flaky crab cakes, puddings studded with raisins. The only things vaguely local were the halved coconuts, floating like skiffs in a tureen of ice and filled with chunks of fragrant tropical fruit, and the platter of pea-green cuts of cane.
At the other side of the lawn, a string quartet played on a raised platform draped with garlands. Guests danced on the grass: proud men in fine black suits with waxed mustaches, graceful ladies in dresses like bakery confections. What would Bee think of these women and their dancing?
“Why are you smiling, amira?”
“Because it’s beautiful. Why are you smiling?”
“Because I want to dance.” He held out his hand and whirled me into a waltz.
The steps were familiar; I’d done my best to learn the basic patterns of the most popular social dances of the last few centuries, and the waltz had enjoyed a great deal of popularity over the years. But I was not a natural dancer, not like Kashmir. He guided me, gliding across the crowded lawn, sweeping me in wide, graceful circles as though we were the only two dancing, and he did it all while seeming to see nothing else but my eyes.
“You’re making me look better than I am,” I murmured to him.
“It’s not hard,” he whispered. I laughed as he spun me out, brought me back.
We’d left Slate standing on the edge of the crowd. He was still there, his arms crossed, scanning for familiar faces. I sighed. “Do you see Mr. D?”
“Not yet. But Slate can handle that on his own. I’m more interested in the map.”
I smiled tightly at him. “I didn’t see it in the hall—”
“You wouldn’t hang a map like a painting, amira. Especially not a map of unsavory locations, which you’d recently learned was very valuable. It would be tucked away somewhere.”
“In a safe?”
“No. People who have safes rarely open them.” He pursed his lips in thought as he moved us easily, absently, through the crowd. “Mr. D invited the captain to meet the members of the league, and to see the map. They will meet in a drawing room, or maybe a study. The map is likely kept there.”
“And if we go in now, before Mr. D arrives . . . what?”
Kashmir was shaking his head. “If you’d been a thief, you would have been hanged a long time ago. If you hadn’t starved first. If we go in now, and then Mr. D arrives—” He shrugged. “Best to wait till after.”
“Then, after their meeting, we sneak in?”
“We do not sneak. I sneak, and you distract. The young Mr. Hart may be watching you closely,” Kashmir said archly. “For more than one reason.”
“This is important, Kashmir!”
He pulled me close, crushing the flowers of my lei between us. “Exactly why you should trust me.” I felt the curve of his lips as he breathed into my ear. “Please, amira.”
“I do,” I breathed back. “But I’m nervous. I’ve never—”
“Nonsense,” he said, pulling back, his voice a touch louder. “The dress is lovely on you.”
“What?” Then I noticed that Kashmir wasn’t looking at me anymore, but over my shoulder.
“May I?”
Kashmir stepped back and bowed. “Aye, Captain.”
I slipped my fingers into my father’s palm. Slate danced almost as awkwardly as I did, but he closed his hand around mine tightly. “I’m glad to see you having fun. Kashmir’s right, the dress is lovely.”
“He practically designed it.”
“The kid has good taste.”
“You clean up nice too.”
He guided me gently around another couple who waltzed by in a whirl of blue silk and blond curls; Mrs. Hart was on the floor. Slate’s eyes were troubled. He took a deep breath, then let it out. “I’m sorry. About what I said about Kashmir.”
I stiffened in his arms. “Of course you are. Now that you need him.”
“It’s not that.” His expression was wistful. “I saw you dancing. You two are close.”
“We’re friends.”
“Oh? Good friends, then. It reminds me of . . .” He trailed off.
“Of who?” I asked, though I knew the answer. He met my eyes, then dropped his own to his feet.
“Of better times,” he said finally. “But things will get better again. Nixie—I’m sorry we fought. I hate fighting with you.”
“Try agreeing with me instead.”
That made him smile. “You have to know I’d never do anything to hurt you.”
“Then don’t do this,” I said, surprising myself. I took a breath, and the scent of the blossoms around my neck was sweet on my tongue. “Leave the map. Tell them no.”
“Why?” Then I realized. “Because of Kashmir? Dad, that’s . . . insulting.”
“Love is insulting?”
“It’s not love!” I said, too loud; people beside us tittered, and my cheeks burned. I lowered my voice to a fierce whisper. “I’m not like you. I wouldn’t sacrifice everything for some romance.”
“I’m not sacrificing anything—”
“Oh, really? Well, even if you don’t give a damn about me, this is a kingdom. An entire country. You called it paradise, and yet you’d—”
“Nixie!” He put his finger on my lips, and I did stop then, though it was a struggle. After a long moment, he took my hand, gathering it in both of his. The tattoos, black in the moonlight, peeked out from the edge of his cuffs: my name on one wrist, my mother’s on the other.
“You have to understand,” he said faintly. “Every day the options narrow. Chance becomes certainty and fate makes choices for us, but I cannot imagine a reality where . . .” He trailed off and was quiet as he stared fixedly at a point past my head.
“Where what?”
“Where the kingdom of Hawaii does not fall,” he finished, although I didn’t believe that was the sentence he started. I followed his gaze; Mr. D was raising a glass at him from across the lawn, where he stood near the champagne table with two other men, one young and barrel-chested, with the feverish eyes of a zealot, the other smaller and as quivery as a squirrel.
“Come, Nix,” Slate said softly. “Let’s meet our new friends.”
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"Ah, Captain!” Mr. D said as we approached. “What a pleasure to see you here. And young Miss Song.”