Da-ren dropped his head. “This servant’s unending gratitude to the Son of Heaven, and to the Old Buddha. May ten thousand times ten thousand blessings rain on them.”
Ili? Ili was in Chinese Turkestan, at the edge of the world. Da-ren had been exiled. The dowager empress must have at last had enough of his relentless calls for modernization.
Da-ren stayed on his knee as the imperial messenger and his two escorts remounted and left. He seemed stuck, unable to get up. The majordomo ran out and knelt before him. “Da-ren! Da-ren! What are we to do?”
Da-ren placed a hand on the majordomo’s shoulder and slowly straightened. “We are to depart as soon as possible. I leave the details to you.”
Ying-ying bowed her head when Da-ren passed before her. He stopped. “Bury your amah. Pack your things. You will come with me.”
Had he said this yesterday morning, she would have done everything in her power to persuade him that she should be included among his womenfolk, mercifully allowed to remain behind.
But everything had changed. Now he was the only person who could still protect her. He—and the sheer distance from Peking to Ili—would keep her safe from Shao-ye, from Little Dragon, from everyone and everything else that would descend upon a girl with no parents and no home.
She sank to her knees. “Yes, Da-ren. Thank you, Da-ren.”
Chapter 24
Journeys
The household was in chaos. As Ying-ying rushed back and forth between her own courtyard and Master Gordon’s rooms, everyone she encountered along the way seemed to be running, shouting, or weeping—Da-ren beating Shao-ye black and blue after the latter finally returned from his night of revelry only added to the pandemonium.
And yet preparations proceeded apace.
Riders had already been sent out to ready relay stages for the changing of horses along the endless road to Chinese Turkestan. Courtesy messages concerning Da-ren’s appointment and departure were delivered by the gross. Carriages and wagon carts were parked in the front courtyard, lackeys pushing and shoving crates and trunks inside.
In the midst of everything that required his attention, plus seeing to the visitors calling upon Da-ren to wish him well—too few visitors, as the appointment was a decisive sign of Da-ren’s ouster from the inner circles of the court—the majordomo somehow found the men and a spare donkey cart to take Amah to the cemetery. Ying-ying didn’t even need to go select a coffin; a handsome one, lacquered and shiny, had already been delivered, along with several changes of white mourning clothes.
At the cemetery she took part in the digging, no longer bothering to hide the fact that she could break through the frozen soil faster and more easily than the men who had accompanied her. When Amah was in the ground, a temporary wooden grave marker erected over the fresh mound of earth—the majordomo had promised he would see to a proper gravestone—Ying-ying set fire to a huge pile of special underworld currency. Then she laid out a bowl of rice and a pair of chopsticks, poured a cup of spirits onto the soil, knelt down, and kowtowed three times.
She remained on her knees a long time afterward. She had no idea whether she would ever return from the wilds of Ili. Whether she would ever again see the grave of the woman who had shaped her into who she was.
The servants who had come along had to remind her that they must all hurry back to continue with preparations for departure.
Back at the residence, she packed all Master Gordon’s belongings into two trunks: one of his clothes, the other of his books and letters. But no matter how she searched, she couldn’t find his jade tablet. A disappointment, but also a relief: Now she wouldn’t need to struggle between her desire to honor his wishes and her equally strong desire to please—perhaps thrill—Da-ren.
That afternoon, Master Haywood’s body, in a grand casket, was sent away, accompanied by Da-ren’s secretary, Da-ren’s younger son, and a number of the household guards. She slipped out of the residence—there was no one to keep track of her anymore—and followed the carriages as they made their way to the British Legation.
She had never been to this part of the Tartar City—she had seen so little of her hometown in all her years. The carriages drove along the frozen Grand Canal, their wheels clacking against paving stone. The British Legation was situated almost directly on the canal, hemmed in by the Han Lin Library to the north and the Imperial College to the west.
She did not go in with the carriages, but stood on the far side of the canal, some distance from the imposing gate—the site of the legation had once been the residence of a prince of the blood. About two incense sticks later, the same carriages came out and left. There had been no ruckus or tumult; the British inside must have accepted the explanation the majordomo had crafted with Ying-ying’s help: that Master Gordon, delighted from seeing his young friend, had taken several drinks too many at the Lantern Festival feast, then fallen down in a most unfortunate way.
She had been feeling strangely inanimate, as if she were made of plaster and sawdust. But as she watched the carriages drive away, the finality of his death—and Amah’s—at last sank in.
Overnight, she had lost everyone who loved her.
Her tears were stinging hot in her eyes, but ice-cold upon her cheeks. She let them fall. She wept for the wonderful future that Master Gordon would never know, the threshold of forty that Amah would never reach, and the bleak days that stretched out endlessly before herself.
For the first time in her life, she feared the future, as Mother and Amah—and perhaps Da-ren, too—had always feared it for her.
Leighton reacted particularly strongly to the dose of quinine at midday. Afterward exhaustion smothered him. He drifted in and out of sleep, seeming to grow more tired each time he opened his eyes.
At some point his throat became parched. He finished the glass of water that had been left on his nightstand, but that wasn’t enough. To reach the pitcher on the table, he must get up.
It took him quite a bit of time to manage the feat and stagger across the small room. When he lifted the pitcher, his arms felt as if they were made of wet clay. He had to lean against the door for several minutes before he could gather enough strength to edge his way back to bed.
At the window he stopped to rest again. He was in an upper-story room of the minister’s residence, high enough for him to see over the wall that surrounded the compound.
There was a river outside—or was it a canal?—that he hadn’t noticed on the night of his arrival. The day was fading. The frozen canal glinted dully in the scattered light. The road that ran alongside the canal was empty of both traffic and pedestrians.
Except for a beautiful Chinese girl dressed all in white.
She was crying. Not bawling, not sobbing, just…weeping, her face wet with tears, the rims of her eyes red, her nose and cheeks too.
Was he hallucinating?
He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the cold glass pane of the window. When he opened his eyes again, she was gone.
Herb didn’t visit at all that day. Leighton consoled himself with the explanation that Herb did come, but was denied entrance by either Dr. Ross or Miller the assistant.
He was much better the next day and impatient to see Herb. When it was near dusk and still his friend hadn’t arrived, he asked Miller for paper and pen to send a message.
The young man swallowed. “Let me speak to the doctor.”
A few minutes later Dr. Ross entered the room, looking grimly determined. Leighton was puzzled by his countenance—surely he wasn’t so ill that he couldn’t be allowed even a brief visit.
The physician sat down. “I’m very sorry to have to inform you of this, Mr. Atwood, but Mr. Gordon passed away the same day he came to see you.”
The words washed over Leighton, a jumble of miscellaneous sounds. “Can you—can you say that again?”
“Mr. Gordon is no more,” said Dr. Ross gravely. “There was a Lantern Festival celebration at his employer’s residence. I am told he atten
ded in an expansive mood, took a drink or two too many, and had an unfortunate fall. I examined his body after it was brought to the legation yesterday, and I believe what I saw was consistent with the explanation of a fatal head injury.”
Leighton stared at him. “His body is here?”
“Yes.”
“I want to see it. Now.”
Dr. Ross opened his mouth as if to argue, then closed it again. “All right. I’ll fetch Miller.”
They had to leave the minister’s residence to go into a smaller house on the legation’s property. It was bitterly cold outside, and yet all Leighton felt was a scalding in his chest. They had to be wrong. They had to be. Herb had been incandescent with life. And they had so many plans. The Great Wall, the Ming Tombs, the Temple of Heaven. The teahouse-theater and the candied haws. The visit with Herb’s pupil, the young lady to whom he had been deeply attached.
But there was the casket, set upon a long dining table. And when Miller lifted the lid of the casket, a cry tore from Leighton.
Herb looked peaceful, as if asleep. But he was cold as marble and almost as stiff. Leighton clutched at the side of the coffin. Both Dr. Ross and Miller sprang forward to grab hold of his arms, fearful he might fall.
“Please. Please give me a minute—alone.”
They did.
He fell to his knees. For what felt like an eternity he knelt with his forehead against the side of the casket, drowning in despair. Then he pulled himself to his feet, laid his hand over Herb’s, and told his friend, “I’ll take you home. I’ll take you back to Starling Manor—to Father—and you need never leave again.”
Two weeks later he was back in Shanghai with Herb’s ashes and belongings. There were several telegrams from his mother waiting for him, her relief and happiness palpable in every word. The most recent message asked that he please cable as soon as he returned to Shanghai, so that she, Mr. Delany, and Marland could set out on the next steamer bound for Honolulu. That way we will see you a fortnight sooner.
Leighton set sail the next week. His steamer called at Yokohama before charting a course east to Hawaii. The islands came into view as beautiful as a dream, green mountains rising from a shining blue sea. And as his steamer pulled into port, he immediately spotted the fair-haired boy, covered to the ears in flower garlands, leaping up and down on the dock, waving his hat wildly in the air.
Marland.
Next to him Mother was already wiping at her eyes. And the man with his arm around her shoulders must be Mr. Delany.
When Leighton came ashore, just as many garlands of jasmine and plumeria were piled onto his shoulders. With Marland’s arms banded tight about him and Mother’s hands on his cheeks, he finally allowed himself to cry, too.
For everything he had lost and everything he had never lost.
The house they had hired was in the hills above Honolulu, with a cool breeze on the lanai that gently caressed the skin, and a breathtaking view of Diamond Head and the azure waters beyond.
It was after lunch. Marland had gone to his room to change into clothes more suitable for vigorous activities—he’d insisted on holding off exploring the island until after Leighton’s arrival. Leighton and Mother remained on the lanai.
“I have a letter from Lady Atwood for you. It reached me shortly before we departed San Francisco,” said Mother.
Leighton took the still-sealed envelope from her.
Dear Master Leighton,
By now you should have learned of your uncle’s passing. What you do not know is that I killed him. I have always been seen as a devoted wife, and he was no longer a young man. It was ruled as a natural death, and now I am free.
But not from my own conscience. I have committed murder and I will always be a murderess. The question is whether I go off to evangelize in the Serengeti or spend the rest of my days in a prison cell, until I am escorted to the gallows.
I will let you decide. If you choose to turn me in to the authorities, this letter will serve as a written confession.
I wish you well.
Yours,
Alexandra Atwood
“Is everything all right?” asked Mother.
“Yes, everything is perfectly fine. Lady Atwood sends her regards,” Leighton answered. He rose and kissed Mother on her cheek. “I’d better go change too.”
In his room, he lit a match, burned Lady Atwood’s letter, and wrote a reply.
Dear Lady Atwood,
Enjoy the Serengeti.
Your servant,
Leighton Atwood
When Marland came to knock on his door, Leighton had already changed, the sealed and stamped letter in his pocket.
“I’ve decided what we are going to do this afternoon,” said Marland, his speech now marked by a noticeable American accent. “We are going to ride to Manoa Falls and then go to the beach.”
“You lead. I will follow,” Leighton answered.
He ruffled Marland’s hair, still not quite used to how tall the boy had become. And how old. Leighton would turn seventeen in weeks, which meant Marland was ten: He had missed nearly six years of his brother’s life.
But then Marland took his hand and together they ran out of the house.
Into limitless sunshine and limitless beauty.
For weeks the caravan had made its laborious way along Hehsi Corridor, part of the route once used by merchant caravans to carry silk from the south of China to the great cities of the Mediterranean. North of the corridor stretched the Gobi Desert, south the Tibetan plateau. Even the oases along the way seemed dusty, their very existence—to Ying-ying at least—infinitely fragile.
But now they had finally arrived at Jiayu Pass, the westernmost gate of the Great Wall. Years ago, Ying-ying had mentioned it during her first meeting with Herb. She never would have believed that she would someday see it with her own eyes, the Gate of Sighs, much less that there were still three thousand li to go before they reached their eventual destination of Kulja, the administrative seat of Ili.
Da-ren descended from his carriage to climb up to the top of the great earthen fort that guarded the pass; Ying-ying followed. Beyond the pass the land was brown and desolate, the mountains in the distance equally so—this was the territory of the invading tribes, against which the Great Wall had been built.
Silently Da-ren walked from one end of the rampart to the other. Did he wonder whether he would ever see the imperial city again? Whether his bones would be buried here, half a continent away from those of his ancestors?
Da-ren exhaled. “We will proceed,” he told Bao-shun.
Ying-ying remained a moment longer upon the ramparts, feeling very nearly overwhelmed by the scale and inhospitality of the land ahead. But then she squared her shoulders, followed Da-ren down, and made ready to continue the journey.
Thank you for reading The Hidden Blade.
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The Hidden Blade is a prequel to My Beautiful Enemy, which picks up the story four years later, when Ying-ying and Leighton meet at last. If you would like to skip ahead to an excerpt of My Beautiful Enemy, click here. To see a list of Sherry’s other books, click here.
About the Author
***
Sherry Thomas writes books in several genres.
On the romance side, she is one of the most acclaimed authors working today, her books regularly receiving starred reviews and best-of-the-year honors from trade publications. She is also a two-time winner of Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA® Award.
On the young adult side, The Perilous Sea, book 2 of the Elemental Trilogy, releases September 2014.
And now you have just read her first work of historical action adventure. Or is it a middle-grade bo
ok? Or possibly some kind of literary fiction?
To let her know how you think this book should be labeled—or to receive email updates on her upcoming books—contact her at http://www.sherrythomas.com/contact.php
My Beautiful Enemy: an excerpt
Chinese Turkestan
1883
Leighton enjoyed an oasis. But unlike the oases of the Arabian deserts, this particular oasis had no date palms. Though it did have farmlands and orchards that suddenly leaped into the view of the weary traveler, the verdant acres lively and defiant against the endlessly arid Takla Makan Desert, never far to the south.
There were also no natural springs. The crops and the fruit trees were irrigated by melted snow that had traveled miles from the nearest mountain, along an ancient and complex system of underground tunnels that had been constructed entirely by hand.
There were, however, Bactrian camels, a train of them just outside the courtyard of the open-air restaurant, feasting on grass and oats. Inside the courtyard, beneath the shade of grapevines growing on overhead trellises—he wondered what the French would think of the terroir—the clientele consisted mostly of traders and travelers, lured by the sizzling fragrance of spiced mutton grilling over an open fire and the yeasty aroma of freshly baked bread.
Once, great caravans had teemed on these routes, carrying precious bolts of Chinese silk across the vast steppes of central Asia to the coast of the Caspian Sea, to Antioch, and finally to Rome, to feed the empire’s ever ravenous desire for luxury fabrics.
The rise of great ocean-faring vessels had rendered the land courses obsolete hundreds of years ago. The caravans that still plied the route were small, sometimes no more than a few camels, trading between towns. And most of the legendary cities of yore were either lost or reduced to mere shadows of their former glory.
Yet a sense of continuity still lingered in the air. Marco Polo had drunk the same sweet, cool wine as that in Leighton’s cup, made from oasis-grown white grapes. A thousand years before that, Buddhist missionaries from India had braved the same perilous paths, carrying the teachings of the Tathagata into the western provinces of China.
The Hidden Blade: A Prequel to My Beautiful Enemy (Heart of Blade) Page 28
