The street wasn’t wide. There was barely enough room for two wagons to pass. Grimm kept an easy pace, and was rewarded. Though he couldn’t see the child’s face, he recognized her oversized cap.
Grimm stopped short of the intersection, and stepped to the side to wait. What was she staring at? Four streets converged. Farther down one of the roads, light from a theater lit the fog. He looked across to the dark buildings. Candle light seeped out of shutters, but he couldn’t tell if the buildings at street level were shops or homes.
It didn’t matter. He had found her.
Sao Jin edged one foot forward, then froze. She wasn’t standing at ease, but more like a small piece of timber waiting for an axe. Grimm searched the street for what frightened her, but no one seemed to be paying her any mind.
He glanced at the windows, but the night was too cold for shutters to be open. Smells of cooking and chatter filled the crossroads and a man stood above her on a fire escape, smoking and watching people pass. But Jin wasn’t looking up; she was looking straight ahead at a dark building.
There was a sign with Chinese lettering, but Grimm couldn’t make heads or tails of the broad strokes. His brows knit together as he leaned back into the shadows to wait. Jin took one step, then another, until she seemed stuck in the middle of the intersection, staggering under an invisible weight.
Voices carried down the street. Grimm leaned around the corner. Three men walked down the middle of the road, smoking and joking, the flare of their cigarettes lighting up the darkness under their hats. From the sudden din of conversation, Grimm surmised that the theater had let out. The glow of lights gave the fog a reddish tint and faces were lost in the gloom.
Jin didn’t move, and the three men didn’t change course. They weren’t interested in her, but one of the men knocked her aside. She bumped into a second, who shoved her down, and kept walking. The third kicked her and laughed as he stepped past.
Grimm held his breath, willing her to stay on the ground. They’re not interested in you. They’re not interested—
Jin leapt to her feet with a scream. Not of pain or fear, but of unbridled fury. Light caught a metallic surface. A knife. The third man spun to face her, and the child struck, slashing blindly.
He staggered back, clutching his leg, and the other men scattered. Jin was crouching, blade in hand, snarling at the men. One of them laughed, and pulled out a club from under his quilted coat. Grimm hoped she’d run, but she didn’t. Jin charged. The club landed a glancing blow that sent her rolling to the side. The man stepped forward, and raised his billy club.
Grimm darted from hiding, a swift, silent shadow that no one saw coming. He barreled into the man. A tangle of limbs and confusion, of labored breath. The clubman came out on top and drove the butt of his weapon into Grimm’s face.
Screams of fury rose behind him.
The club came up again. Grimm grabbed the weapon, and wrenched it from the man’s hand. He used his feet to get up and under the man, and sent him flying over his head.
Whistles were blowing. People gazed down at the street fight from the safety of their balconies. Reeling, Grimm crouched, searching the street. Jin was swiping her knife at the three men, while spitting curses and insults.
They looked confused rather than angry.
Grimm lunged forward to grab the girl’s collar. Her knife flashed, but he had anticipated it. The blade sunk into his stolen billy club. He gave Jin a shake by her collar.
Her eyes focused, and she blinked up at him in surprise. Grimm didn’t wait for explanations. He pushed her towards a side street, as the three men staggered in another direction. The whistles were getting closer.
Jin took the lead through the streets. They ran until their lungs burned, until his side was a twisted mass of ache, until finally, in a tiny square of shrubs with a lone tree, Jin doubled over and began coughing in the dirt.
Grimm pressed a hand against the stitch in his side, and stared at the girl. Distant lights illuminated the night. Fog-shrouded buildings surrounded them, looming in the dark. It was eerie and solitary, and Grimm was glad they were alone. He wanted to see who was coming.
“What are you doing here?” Jin hissed. She was bent over double, hands on her knees, glaring at him from the side.
He became aware of a throbbing on his face. He probed the swollen skin under his eye, and sighed. His ma would kill him. And he wondered how to answer Jin’s question. Grimm didn’t know what he was doing there either.
“Answer me!” she growled.
Grimm let his hand fall and searched her face. Words were dangerous things. Killing things. And so Grimm didn’t much care to speak. The two faced off—a silent young man and a defiant girl.
After a solid minute, Jin cursed. “Yiu! Stupid Wuai daan!” And more, a whole string of Cantonese and Portuguese curses that Grimm didn’t understand.
Eventually, Jin ran out of curses. Or breath. She wiped the knife clean with a handful of leaves, then tucked it back up her wide sleeve.
Her entire body vibrated. “Do not say anything to anyone,” she said, thrusting a finger at him.
Grimm raised an eyebrow.
Jin faltered at the amusement in his eyes. Her shoulders slumped, and she seemed to relax. “How come you do not talk?” she asked.
Grimm started to shrug, but stopped. Instead, he ran a finger over his swollen cheek, then pointed at the scars on hers, and finally, back to his own heart.
Jin frowned.
With a question in his eyes, he pointed at her, then gestured back towards Chinatown. A single lamppost lit the square. It cast more shadows than illuminated, but he saw that his question got through.
Why were you there?
“Why were you there?” she shot back.
Grimm pointed at her.
Jin glowered. “You are spying on me,” she accused. “Did Isobel tell you to follow me?”
Grimm shook his head.
Jin glanced towards Chinatown. Her next words were so faint he barely caught them. “Are your people cruel to each other, too?”
By ‘your people’ Grimm assumed she meant negroes. He nodded.
“I do not understand it. Why fight with each other when there are larger enemies?”
He suspected it was an age old question, and the answer was equally as old: fear and power. But it was too complicated to communicate without words.
Jin turned to leave, and Grimm started to follow. She stopped, glaring. “I am going home.”
Grimm nodded again.
This earned him another growl. But the girl didn’t break into a run. As stated, she headed back to Ravenwood Manor, and Grimm followed on her heels. Silent, alert, and thoughtful.
Lotario knocked. Standing in the hallway, he surveyed the third level. Ravenwood Manor was expansive, with a main staircase circling upwards, and a long drop to the entryway below. Voices carried, but not overly much; it was spacious enough to allow for privacy. Most of the boarders occupied the second level, while Sarah, Mr. Hughes, and Mr. Löfgren had rooms with Atticus and Isobel on the third. Jin was on the fourth floor, in the attic.
“Yes?” a voice called.
“It’s me.”
Footsteps approached and the door unlocked. Atticus Riot opened it to find Lotario smiling at him. “Going somewhere?” Lotario asked as he invited himself inside.
Riot’s hair was damp and tousled, and he was working a link through his cuff. “I thought I’d put my ear to the ground at the clubs.” It was obvious by his snowy shirt that he wasn’t intending to roam the dives of the Barbary Coast.
“I’m surprised Bel’s not gluing on a mustache.”
“She’s waiting for Jin.”
Lotario dusted a speck off his coat. “Care for some company? I’m not much good in a fight, but gossip is my forte.”
Riot considered his proposal.
“And I find myself without anything to do. You know what they say about idle hands.” Lotario waggled his brows at Riot.
&n
bsp; “Are you sure you want to be seen with a marked man?”
“Entering a club together is hardly being seen together, Atticus. And I know who wrote that article.”
“You do?”
Lotario nodded, and told him. But Riot wasn’t so easily convinced. “Do you have proof?” he asked slowly.
Lotario waved a flippant hand. “I set your junior detectives on the case. I’m confident they will turn up something.”
Riot waited for more.
“Oh, don’t worry, it’s not dangerous, and they needed something to do. Surely you understand the feeling of helplessness. Otherwise they’re liable to start trolling the streets looking for who put a price on your head.”
Lotario watched for a reaction, but Riot gave nothing away. He was a cool hand, and it was Lotario’s new goal in life to get a rise out of the man. Without a word, Riot finished dressing, and the two struck out for a night on the town.
Isobel sat in darkness. A single candle flickered in a decorative lantern, casting shadows of mythical creatures onto the walls. A knot twisted in her heart born from helplessness. Of the unknown. It made it difficult to breathe. She shivered, then came back to herself, tugging a blanket closer about her shoulders.
Jin’s attic room was drafty but bearable, as heat rose from the depths of the manor house to warm it. But Isobel’s day had been long and she was tired.
Faint footsteps sounded overhead.
Isobel cocked an ear, listening. Barely a whisper of sound, then a hatch opened, letting in a blast of cold air.
Sao Jin climbed down the roof ladder, closing the hatch as her feet touched the floorboards.
Isobel sighed with relief. And Jin froze. Slowly, the girl turned towards the attic window where Isobel sat on the floor.
The two studied each other. Isobel searching for injuries. Jin bracing herself for a barrage of anger.
“You lost your cap,” Isobel said.
Jin nodded, unsure what would come next. She had openly defied her adopted mother. In another lifetime, Jin would have been beaten into unconsciousness then forced into a cramped space under the floorboards to fester for days.
Violence had not broken her; it had only made her fight harder.
When Jin didn’t speak, Isobel filled the silence. “I’ve been sitting here wondering… did my own mother ever sit in the dark waiting for me to return?”
“Why are you in the dark?” Jin finally asked.
Isobel rested her head against the wall. “I like the lantern. It reminds me of the nights we spent camping at Bright Waters. You can’t see much of the stars here, with all the fog and city lights.”
Jin pressed her lips together. There was nothing casual about Isobel Amsel. Everything was calculated, and Jin recognized the comment for what it was—a reminder of their friendship.
“Am I in trouble?” Jin asked.
“You’re alive. So, no. But if that ever changes, I’ll be furious with you.”
Relaxing some, Jin sat on the floor, keeping the window between them. Together they watched shadows dance around the room. She liked the lantern, too.
Isobel fished in a pocket, and tossed a silver coin at the girl. Jin snatched it from the air. “Penny for your thoughts?”
Jin looked at the coin, puzzled. “This is a dollar.”
“I figure your thoughts cost more.”
Jin turned the coin over, then very deliberately set it on the floor between them.
Isobel’s jaw worked. “Have I done something?”
Jin shook her head.
“Feels like I did. You seem… far away just now.”
Jin tucked her hands inside her sleeves, and started scratching at her forearms. Isobel shoved herself off the floor and turned on the gas. Light chased away the shadows and mythical beasts.
Isobel sucked in a breath. There was dried blood on Jin’s face, and angry bruising around a gash on her temple. “What happened to you?”
Jin frowned up at her. She kept her lips tight. The girl wouldn’t lie to her, but that didn’t mean she was going to answer either.
Isobel crouched, and gently probed the injury. “It looks like a billy club,” she murmured. “And given the sulfur smell on your clothes, I’d say you were roaming Chinatown.”
Isobel didn’t expect Jin to answer. She knew she was right anyway. Instead, Isobel set about filling a washbasin, cleaned the cut with a washcloth, and repeated the process until the wound was free of dirt and grime.
“I know better than to press you,” Isobel said, tossing the washcloth into the basin. “But damn it, why go to Chinatown?”
Jin pulled away from her scrutiny. “Am I not allowed to?”
“Am I not allowed to worry about you?” Isobel countered.
“I can take care of myself.”
“Do you want to?”
“Want to what?”
“Take care of yourself? Do you prefer that?” Isobel asked.
Jin started in surprise, then turned thoughtful. Isobel retrieved Mei’s ointment jar from the desk. It held a green mixture that worked wonders for healing.
Isobel dabbed her fingers inside, and gently smeared it over the cut. “I’ll get you some ice. Do you have a headache?”
Jin shrugged.
“Sensitivity to light?”
Jin shook her head.
“Let me know if you start vomiting.”
Silence, and finally, “No.”
Isobel rolled her eyes. “What do you have against letting me know if you vomit?”
“I mean no, I do not want to take care of myself.”
Isobel sat back on her haunches. “Then let me help you with whatever’s going on inside that head of yours.”
Jin shook that head of hers. “You do not understand.”
“Of course I don’t. You’re not talking to me.”
Jin sprang to her feet. “I am tired.”
Isobel didn’t look at her. Instead, she busied herself with screwing on the top of the jar, then placed it on the desk. “I could use your help with an investigation tomorrow.”
“I have school.”
Isobel brushed a finger across the spyglass case. She wanted answers. She wanted to restrict the girl’s activities, board up the hatch, take away the rope ladder, and forbid her from leaving her sight. All for Jin’s own safety.
Isobel looked at her daughter: wise beyond her years, scarred, frightened and defiant. There was a selfish reason for wanting to keep her safe—Isobel wanted to pad her own heart against the pain of love.
“I’ll bring up some ice, and Jin…”
“Yes?”
“My window is always open.”
“Yes?”
“Hop, it’s Isobel.”
“I do remember the sound of your voice, Wu Lei Ching. It haunts my dreams.”
She ignored the endearment. “Is mother awake?”
“Mrs. Amsel is sleeping at this ungodly hour.”
“Then what are you doing up?”
“Answering this rude machine.” Isobel’s parents had had one installed some months ago, and Hop was not happy.
“Is that father singing in the background?” she asked.
“We are smoking opium and gambling away his fortune. Into my pockets.”
“I suspected as much. Erm, would you…” she hesitated.
“Would you like to speak to your father?”
“No. I… tell my mother I’m sorry.”
“Could you be more specific? Or is this a general apology for your eventful life?”
Isobel sighed. “A general one.”
“Perhaps you should tell her.”
Footsteps crackled over the line. “Has my son-in-law been hurt?” a sharp, familiar voice cut through the crackle. Catarina Saavedra Amsel could flay someone with her tongue alone.
“Mother, I was speaking to Hop.”
“And I was sleeping until you caused this infernal device to wake me.”
“Perhaps you should have installed it fart
her from your room, Mother.”
“That would negate the reason for installing it.”
“Which was?”
“To be informed when my daughter and son-in-law have been attacked, rather than having to read about it in the newspapers.”
Isobel bit back a comment. Instead, she took a breath. “I wasn’t injured seriously. Riot was grazed by a bullet. He’s fine. I should have sent a telegram.”
She could hear her mother take a breath across the Golden Gate. “I’m relieved to hear about Atticus. But I’ve buried you enough that I won’t believe you dead until I can sink a knife in your cold body.”
Isobel paused. She wasn’t sure how to take that. Flattered that her mother was so confident in her ability to survive? Or… Isobel decided to err on the side of affection. “That’s why I telephoned, actually. I…”
It seemed stupid now. Hearing her mother’s sharp voice and indifference. But it had to be said, and Isobel would rather say it with an ocean channel separating them. “I wanted to say I’m sorry, Mother, for all the worry I caused you.”
Not even a heartbeat passed. “Your apology is not accepted, but the sentiment is appreciated. This is about Jin, isn’t it?”
Isobel gawked at the receiver for a moment. “Appreciated, Mother? Really?”
“I thought that generous. Considering.”
Isobel sighed.
“Is my neta well? Has she run off again? Should I expect her?” Isobel found the hope in her mother’s voice utterly perplexing.
“She’s here. Tonight, anyway. I was wondering—” she cut off. This was ridiculous. A foolish, emotion-driven act that had her picking up the telephone to speak with her mother. “Never mind. I’m sorry I disturbed the household.”
“Isobel.”
Isobel paused. “Yes?”
“Speak your mind.”
So be it. She’d already opened herself up to whatever her mother would unleash. “I wondered when you stopped worrying about me, and did it help?”
Silence.
It stretched so long that Isobel feared the connection had died, but the crackle remained, and finally her mother’s voice came over the line. “Learning to live with pain is different than not experiencing it. Love never stops worrying. And I’ve never stopped worrying about you, Isobel.”
Where Cowards Tread (Ravenwood Mysteries #7) Page 17
