The deck shifted slightly under his feet, as if he hadn’t just landed on a boat, but a different world. He noted the steering wheel, the sturdy bench seating that wrapped around the inside of the railings, and three wooden steps down into the cabin.

“Welcome aboard the Spyhopper,” Marina’s dad said, holding out a hand that felt strong and bearlike. The kind of hand that could make you feel safe.

“Birch,” he said, introducing himself. “Wonderful to meet you at last.”

At last? Rio raised an eyebrow.

“Marina hasn’t stopped talking about you. You’ve made quite the impression.”

Rio’s insides somersaulted. Marina had been talking about him?

Birch smiled and then motioned for them to follow him down into the cabin, which was deceptively large and square. It smelled of coffee and something else Rio couldn’t identify—but if he had to put a label on it, he would have said it was the whiff of buried treasure.

The cabin was practically furnished, making use of every spare bit of space. Two cushioned benches faced each other, with a small, secured table separating them that he guessed folded down to make a double bed, and another two doors that led presumably into another bedroom and a bathroom. On the other side was a kitchenette—although that label was generous. In reality, it was the tiniest of stoves and a fridge. On the wall was a small porthole that let in a stream of sunshine, surrounded by various built-in shelves and cubby holes, stuffed with papers, books, shells, knickknacks, and pieces of driftwood carved into ornamental shapes. Tacked on the opposite wall was a map charting the entire Pacific coastline.

“Dad?” said Marina. “Rio wants to know about White Beak. He’s even got a picture of her.”

“Her?” Rio asked, although deep down, he wasn’t surprised that White Beak was female.

Marina nodded. “We know it’s a her because females are slightly larger than males. Show Dad the sketch, won’t you?”

Rio fished the drawing out of his pocket and handed it over reluctantly, hating whenever it was out of his grasp. The older man stood for a long time just staring at it. “Who drew this? Do you know?”

Rio swallowed nervously. “My . . . mum.”

“Your mother?” Birch raised his eyebrows, as if expecting an explanation.

But Rio merely nodded and then took the picture back. Despite the fact that Marina and her dad were clearly curious, there was no way he was going to tell them about his mom. What if they laughed? Or gave him one of those horrible pitying stares? Or worse, no longer wanted him on their boat? Instead, he folded the picture up and placed it carefully back in his pocket.

“I just want to find out as much as I can about White Beak,” he said, hoping that answer would satisfy them.

“Then take a seat, Rio,” Birch replied.

13

Happywhale

After putting a saucepan of milk on the stove to heat, Birch pulled a smaller, rolled-up map from one of the cubbyholes and spread it out across the table.