He ate his scone in silence, fairly certain he would never wish to taste clotted cream again.
A lethargy settled over Leighton.
He ate very little, slept far more than he ever did, and paid scant attention during his lessons—languages were his natural strong suit, and the Greek Bible posed few difficulties. He read aloud when asked to and answered questions correctly but tersely. Mr. Colmes, possibly even more preoccupied than Leighton, did not challenge him to any greater feats of scholarship.
He even lost interest in Mother’s letters. She was still in London, only two hundred miles away, but she might as well be on the rings of Saturn. Besides, she wrote very little that was new—she was fine; Marland was fine; she was waiting for this to finish and that to come through. Her letters had become infrequent. But that was his fault: He hadn’t written in a while, unable to muster the energy to present a coherent account of an idyllic life in the country.
From time to time he opened his wardrobe and looked at the place where the books he’d brought from home had once been stacked. And from time to time he stood before the barred window and looked out to the moors, to the open acreage he used to explore at will. At such moments he would feel a faint flicker of something, like the sparks that flew when one disturbed coal that was almost but not quite spent.
Then numbness would reign again, smothering the embers of frustration and longing.
Months passed. He now felt tired as soon as he opened his eyes in the morning. His stomach grew intolerant of anything with actual taste or texture; he subsisted on porridge, broth, and an occasional boiled pudding, from which he discarded all the raisins and candied orange peels.
He stopped paying attention to his lessons altogether. The Parsi Bible lay on his desk, opened to the same chapter of Genesis as it had been for weeks. Beside it sat the latest letter from his mother, already ten days old and still in its sealed envelope.
“Master Leighton,” said Mr. Colmes.
They were at their afternoon tea again, with Leighton staring into a cup the contents of which he had been stirring aimlessly. “Yes, Mr. Colmes?”
“Master Leighton, you cannot go on like this.”
He had to go on like this; didn’t Mr. Colmes see? Spending his days swaddled in apathy was the only way to pass through the years—the only way to keep from being eaten alive by the utter atrocity of it all.
“No, indeed, sir,” he said.
Now, why couldn’t he have spoken so docilely when Sir Curtis had asked him whether he was sorry about having been surrounded, growing up, by those imperfect people he loved so much? Why did he have to be so proud? Had he been more careful, more calculating, today he might still have the run of the moors. And what wouldn’t he give to walk miles and miles without seeing a single soul. What wouldn’t he give to fall face-first into an ice-cold stream in the middle of the night!
Anger stirred, a beast with burning claws. It wanted to burst out of his chest. It wanted to grab the fireplace poker and smash everything in the room. And it wanted to take the train to London and use that same poker on Sir Curtis’s skull, again and again and again.
Hastily he derailed his train of thought. Stir the tea. Just breathe—and stir the tea.
“You mustn’t lose hope,” said Mr. Colmes.
Leighton almost laughed. He didn’t—he was afraid he might cry instead. If only he could go to sleep and wake up to find himself twenty-one years of age, this long, long nightmare behind him.
He stirred his tea.
Mr. Colmes rose, sat down again, and cleared his throat. “After what you told me about Sir Curtis, Master Leighton, I was terrified. Unbearably ashamed, too, about all the mistakes I’d made, which not only led to a trying life for my daughter, but also indirectly to your current difficulties. But mainly I was frightened. So much had gone wrong with Cordelia’s life. To see her thrive as she has been of late—I cannot tell you how glad I was. The idea that it could all be taken from her…I was in a state of torment. If Sir Curtis is truly a man as you’ve described, then she isn’t safe, even if you remain meek as a lamb under his thumb.
“Finally I decided to go see her. If there are dark days ahead, I thought she should know—and not be caught unawares. So that was what I did two weeks ago.”
Leighton had the vague impression that Mr. Colmes had indeed been gone for a few days this month.
“I arrived on her half day and we went for a long walk. At first her reaction was much the same as mine—perhaps even more extreme. I believe at one point she screamed. At another point she wept. And then, amazingly enough, she shrugged. She said that she had been saving her money, that she always thought it was too good to last, that she had inquired into emigration to Australia on the few occasions when she went to York.”
Leighton blinked, feeling as if the light in the room had suddenly become too bright. “She will actually leave the country?”
“She isn’t ready to do so yet: There is the matter of funds—and also her promise to her employer that she will stay with her until the end. She asked me to apologize to you for any inconvenience her timetable might cause. I told her I didn’t think you were quite ready to run off just yet. Are you, Master Leighton?”
Leighton shook his head, half dazed by the news.
Mr. Colmes continued. “On my way back, I visited Starling Manor.”
Leighton jerked. It had been so long since he’d heard that name, the house might as well be on the rings of Saturn, along with Mother and Marland.
“How…how was it?” he heard himself ask, his voice a croak.
“Lovely place. It has been let to an industrialist from the north. The family wasn’t in residence at the time of my visit, so the housekeeper conducted me on a tour.”
“Mrs. Everly?”
“Yes, the very same. She also gave me permission to wander the grounds. I took the liberty of visiting your father’s grave—I thought you’d have wanted me to do that.”
Leighton’s vision grew blurry. The last thing he had done before leaving Starling Manor was walk to the family cemetery at the first light of dawn—and kiss Father’s gravestone.
“And looking down from the cemetery, I saw whole fields of red poppies—an absolutely astounding sight.”
Leighton blinked again. The poppies, blooming? “It’s…it’s spring?”
“Not everywhere yet—it was bone-chillingly cold in Yorkshire, but spring has most certainly arrived on the Sussex downs.”
A year ago Father, Herb, and Leighton had picnicked on the slope just beneath the cemetery, with that wide vista of brilliant poppies before them. And when Marland had come back from his trip with Mother, Leighton had taken him to play in the poppy fields, the two of them running through the sea of flowers, leaping and laughing.
Tears fell down his cheeks.
“I asked Mrs. Everly about your father,” Mr. Colmes went on. “She told me it had been a tragic accident—that his pistol had accidentally gone off while he was cleaning it. But if you will forgive me, that is the excuse one usually gives for a suicide involving a firearm, is it not?”
Leighton nodded.
“Please don’t despair as your father did. Please don’t throw away your life. You are young, spring is here, and Sir Curtis, for his seeming omniscience, has not counted on my daughter’s courage. There is hope yet.”
There is hope yet.
At the beginning of their conversation Mr. Colmes had said something similar, but then those had been mere words, trite sounds that had no meaning whatsoever. Now, however, each syllable struck Leighton with the force of sunlight and blue skies.
There is hope yet.
He looked at Mr. Colmes, at this seemingly unremarkable man who had proved to be anything but the timid, useless scholar Sir Curtis had judged him to be.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice shaking only a little. “I believe you.”
Mother’s letter, the one that had been languishing on Leighton’s desk, turned out to also c
ontain significant news.
My dear son,
I write to you from the great city of New York. Yes, we have made the voyage at last.
The passage was not easy for me, but Marland loved every minute we spent at sea. I am glad that our eventual destination is San Francisco, where he will always be within view of the ocean—or so I am told.
Mr. Delany has proposed and I have accepted. But we will make no announcements with regard to our engagement, and we will wait the full two years of my mourning. You may not believe me, but I have the greatest esteem for your father and would never bring whispers of impropriety upon his name—or yours.
I hear Marland. He has returned from Central Park Zoo and no doubt will have tales to tell. He asks about you a great deal. I hope you will write soon. He is always anxious for your news—as am I.
Love,
Mother
P.S. We depart for San Francisco next week, a trip that will take us by rail across the entire continent. Address your letters to the Grand Hotel in San Francisco and they should reach me.
P.P.S. I hope quite fervently that with the passage of time and the increase in distance you will have come to think more kindly of us.
Tears welled up again in Leighton’s eyes. They were in America. They were at the beginning of a new life. But more than that, she was reaching out to him. Despite all the cruel things he had said, she wanted him to know that they still considered him very much a part of the family.
There is hope yet.
He read her letter several more times. Then he walked to his window and yanked open the curtains. Spring had arrived here too, the moors a heart-stopping green, the stream in the distance a slender, glittering ribbon under the sun.
The bars were still on the window, but he was no longer a prisoner.
Now he had hope again.
Chapter 10
Chi
Every spring, accompanied by Mother, Da-ren traveled to the hills one hundred and fifty li northwest of Peking and ascended the Great Wall. They made a leisurely trip of it, taking as many as six or seven days, so that it would not be too demanding on Mother’s health.
Amah had been looking forward to the outing for months. Not that she and Ying-ying ever joined the sightseeing, but because the courtyards would empty completely during that time: Little Plum always went with Mother, and Cook always took the opportunity for an extended visit to her family.
Amah had been teaching Ying-ying hand-to-hand combat stances inside their suite of rooms. As they were limited in both space and privacy, she couldn’t train Ying-ying as rigorously as she wanted to. But with everyone else away they could at last practice in the middle courtyard, where there was ample area for maneuvers without having to worry about knocking over furniture or kicking a hole in the window.
The stances were a series of postures that flowed one into the next. Ying-ying had been practicing them in a set sequence. But, as Amah now explained, once mastered, the individual elements would become hers to use as she saw fit, like musical notes on a scale.
The process fascinated Ying-ying: Motions that she had considered choreographed and immutable were suddenly broken down into versatile components. Amah had Ying-ying attempt to hit her with fists, palms, elbows, knees, and sweeping kicks. Then for each of Ying-ying’s attacks, she demonstrated a defensive move culled from the same stances, sometimes exactly as it had been taught, sometimes with variations in footwork.
“First you learn how not to get hit,” Amah said.
“When am I going to learn how to hit others?” Ying-ying asked, launching another fist.
Amah sidestepped it easily. “Shame, shame. What kind of nice girl wants to hit others?”
Ying-ying couldn’t help giggling. “My kind of nice girl.”
Amah too, cracked a rare smile. “No wonder we don’t have matchmakers lined up to see you.”
“Ha!” Ying-ying retorted. “I’m going to be so good at this that my husband will never dare look at another woman.”
Amah’s smile vanished. Her forearm met Ying-ying’s in a strong parry. “You don’t know men. The pain of death never stopped any man from sniffing roadside blossoms.”
Ying-ying turned on her side and rammed an elbow toward Amah’s solar plexus. “Then I will kill him in truth.”
Amah formed a saddle with her palms and shoved Ying-ying’s elbow out of the way. Ying-ying stumbled back several steps. When she righted herself, she was surprised to see Amah glowering at her.
“Do not speak so lightly of killing.”
The corners of Ying-ying’s lips bent downward. There was no pleasing Amah these days. “Fine,” she mumbled.
Amah didn’t comment on the tone of Ying-ying’s answer. She shifted her weight onto her back leg, lifted her front foot up on the toes, and beckoned Ying-ying to attack her again. “This time, think of your chi. Starting at the center of your lower abdomen, let it rise through your chest, into your arms.”
Since the previous August, on several different occasions Ying-ying had become aware of tantalizing flutterings of heat along various chi paths in her body. But the sensations had been fleeting, small bursts of warmth that afterward she could not be sure had not been her imagination.
So she took a deep breath and imagined—since she couldn’t reliably feel her chi—a current of energy sparking out of her midsection like reverse lightning. Front knee bent, back leg straight and low, she threw herself at Amah, thrusting her right fist forward.
And felt the flow in her arm—not a torrent, but much more than a trickle, a steady, forceful stream that coursed along her veins directly into her fingertips. When her fist struck Amah’s palm, it was no longer the same contact of flesh and bones, but something both more elemental and more buffered.
“Good!” Amah yelled. “Again!”
Ying-ying needed no encouragement. She swung her fist one more time, and felt again the exhilarating vigor of her chi rushing to her aid. But the same sensation was not there for her left fist. As for her kicks, the situation was reversed, with her chi pulsing smoothly through her left leg but not in her right.
Ying-ying quickly became disgusted with herself. But Amah’s excitement spilled over. She had Ying-ying sit down—even went and fetched the cushion herself—and told her she was about to begin a new series of breathing exercises. “When I first started, it took me two years to get to this point. Now concentrate.”
Ying-ying sat still, eyes closed, one hand on each knee, palms up, thumbs and middle fingers lightly pressed together. But Amah’s instructions did not come. She opened her eyes to find Amah frowning, listening to something with her head tilted.
It was another moment before Ying-ying heard the shouts and the running feet rushing in their direction, a ruckus exactly like that on the occasion of Amah’s injury, except without the night watchmen’s clappers.
Ying-ying’s heart skidded. Had the law come back for Amah? “Leave, Master,” she whispered urgently. “If they come to the door, I’ll say you went to visit your brother in…in…”
She searched for the name of some faraway province.
“Nonsense,” Amah said, and headed for the front gate.
Ying-ying stared after her. And then amid the noises of the men’s pounding feet, she heard Little Plum’s voice, gasping and panicky. “Don’t jostle her, big brothers. Go smoothly, won’t you, please?”
Ying-ying started running. She had nearly reached the opening of their blind alley when she had to flatten herself against the wall as a four-man litter, now carried by eight, careened past her.
The men set the litter down before the gate. Ying-ying ran back. Little Plum flapped aside the front curtain of the litter. Inside slumped Mother, her breath coming thin as a thread, her face entirely colorless but for two splotches of bright red on her cheeks.
Amah came out of the courtyard. Little Plum spoke to her. Snatches of their conversation drifted to Ying-ying. Vomited blood…fainted…had to come back…court doctor on his way.
The two women hoisted a limp Mother to her room, Ying-ying scampering uselessly in their wake.
They settled Mother in her bed, covering her thickly. Little Plum set to work stoking the braziers. Amah rushed off to cook a potion that would help clear the lungs. Ying-ying lingered before Mother’s bed, not knowing what to do but loath to leave. She had never seen her mother so helpless, twisting, moaning, shivering, strands of her black hair smeared on the pillow.
Little Plum wiped Mother’s face and throat with a warm, damp towel. Then she drew the bed curtains and placed two stools before the bed for the doctor’s arrival, one for his esteemed behind, one with a small cushion for mother’s wrist, so he could study her pulse.
She shooed Ying-ying out. Ying-ying slunk into the store room, where a clay pot already simmered, with Amah staring at it.
“Will she die?” The question left her lips before she could think better of it.
“Don’t ask such things,” Amah answered impatiently. Then more softly, “She is still young.”
Ying-ying crept out to her own room and sat down on her kang.
She wanted Mother to have the time for a hundred more landscape paintings and a thousand more conversations with Da-ren. She wanted to see her change from a beautiful young woman to a beautiful old woman. She wanted her to live long enough in happiness and security that she would never again be haunted by the past.
But she could not give any of those things to Mother. She could only draw her knees to her chest, put her head down, and weep.
Chapter 11
China
Throughout spring and summer, Leighton gradually recovered. He was not impatient about it: He had only just turned twelve and he could not realistically go on the run until he at least looked old enough to cross borders on his own.
When he was eating properly again and no longer feeling lethargic or dizzy, he began to exercise. Rose Priory was not very big, about a third the size of Starling Manor. But even small distances added up. He walked all the corridors and all the rooms still open to him, and climbed up and down the staircases, putting in about three miles a day.
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