He stared at her, his normally golden brown skin paling. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Then the horse demanded his attention as it shied away from an unusually aggressive rickshaw runner.
While Ken Jin fixed his gaze on the reins, Charlotte could not stop her thoughts from running in a stream from her mouth. For all that she told herself to stop, she simply could not halt the flow. In truth, she had been thinking about this for a long, long time now. It really did not seem fair that Ken Jin would spend so much time teaching her friends about certain forms of man-woman relations without sharing the experience with her. After all, he was her servant.
"Would the Chinese be more shocked if you spent your evenings with Chinese women?" she asked. "You are most famous among white ladies, so I know you are unusual to us. But is it common for Chinese men to delight in...? To share company with...? Well, you know what I mean. Do you spend time with Chinese women as often as you do with Europeans? And, my goodness, why aren't you more tired? Of course, Sophie claimed you were indefatigable, but surely she must have exaggerated. You cannot have gone on for as long as she claimed. Unless that is typical for your race. So I want you to show me, too."
She paused to take a breath, barely daring to look at him. But when she did, her breath left her in an embarrassed whoosh. He hadn't moved. His attention was firmly and completely absorbed with driving the cart through the clogged streets. Which meant, she supposed, that he hadn't heard her.
"Ken Jin?" she said a little more forcefully. "I wish you to show me..." She swallowed, knowing she needed to be explicit. "I want you to touch me." She looked down, horrified to see that her hands were fluttering about her bodice. She slammed them down hard into her lap. Except, she didn't hit the soft cushion of her thighs; she cracked the back of her hand on the hard end of a scroll. She winced, but even that pain did not stop her words, especially as her servant still did not appear to have heard. And he had to hear, because she would never again get the chance to be alone with him in Chinese Shanghai where no one else could understand what she said.
"I have scrolls," she heard herself say, "with pictures. I don't understand the words; they're written in Chinese. Joanna would have understood, of course. She read all manner of things, but I will need someone to translate them for me. That will prepare me for what I want. For what you will do." She paused. "Or, is there something I need to do first? Sophia didn't mention anything. Well, actually she talked about all sorts of noises which did not sound at all nice; but then she always is making some sort of sound, isn't she? But are they important? She dwelt most particularly on her hmmm and a whee and a hiccup kind of thing. At the time I thou—umph."
Ken Jin clapped his hand over her mouth. It was a large hand, with lovely calluses that tickled her lips. But even more delicious was the way he leaned close and whispered in her ear, his breath warm even as it made her shiver. "The sun has made you ill, Miss Charlotte. When we get home, I will get you a cool glass of lemonade and all this will be over."
She didn't answer. How could she, with his hand still over her mouth? So she sat still, smelling the ink on his skin and a lingering whisper of spicy incense. The smell pervaded his clothing too, she realized, and his thick braid of dark hair that slipped over his shoulder to tease her cheek.
"Do you understand, Miss Charlotte?" he continued. "You have a fever brought on by the heat and tainted Chinese scrolls." She felt him tug at her satchel, trying to remove it from her hands. "Soon you will be home with William. You can take a cool bath and sip a special tea that I will prepare. Then all that has happened today will fade away."
His voice was hypnotic. The heat from his body added to the noise in her mind and soul. There was a crackling, sparking, burning kind of clamor that seemed to grow louder whenever he was near. And right now he was very, very near. Except, he was pulling away, lifting his one hand from her mouth while the other pulled the scrolls away.
She almost did it; she almost gave in to the constraints of moral behavior, to the pressure for obedience and purity and absolute holy ignorance on her wedding night. Ken Jin obviously wanted her to forget everything she had seen and heard this afternoon, to continue as she had been continuing every day of her most boring, moral, sterile life.
"No!" She grabbed the scrolls and hauled them back. "These are mine, and if you will not explain them to me, I will find someone else who will."
He did not release his hold on the satchel, but his brown eyes darkened to pitch, and his words held dangerous authority. "You are not yourself, Miss Charlotte. I believe I shall have your mother call the doctor the moment we return."
She trembled in fear, his threat very real. If her mother discovered these scrolls, she would first burn the parchments, then call the surgeon to bleed the ill humors out of her before paying for a full Mass to pray for Charlotte's tortured young soul. Charlotte could not, not, not have her mother involved.
Charlotte bit her lip then said, "The man is gone."
Ken Jin frowned, obviously confused, so she waved toward the street.
"The man with the bamboo poles," she clarified. "The one who was crossing the street. He's gone. We can keep going."
Ken Jin looked at the street and nodded, slowly refocusing on driving the carriage. Except he did it one-handed. Charlotte had counted on him needing both hands to steer, but he clearly did not. He kept one hand firmly on the satchel while the other steered the horse.
"These are Joanna's scrolls, Ken Jin. I will not give them up to you."
"They are Tigress scrolls, Miss Charlotte, and no barbarian has ever seen them."
She straightened. "I have seen them. Joanna has seen them, too. I'd say a great number of barbarians—"
"No!" he snapped, jerking hard on the bag. But he had only one hand on the bag, whereas she had two. She did not release it.
"You will tear them!" she cried. Then she glared up at his hard profile. "If you tell Mother I am ill, I'll say that you took me to a brothel this morning. That I saw your... your... you know. With needles in it! And then—"
"I'll be fired." He turned to look directly at her, his expression as empty as his tone. "Is that what you want? To have me fired?"
She swallowed. "Of course not." She lifted her chin. "I want to know what Sophia knows, what Joanna knows." She felt tears burn her eyes. "What everyone knows but me."
He sighed. It was a quiet sound, more like the creak of a branch in the wind, but she heard it nonetheless, and it made her wonder what exactly went on in his mind when he acted so very, very Chinese. She was so absorbed in scrutinizing his face that she missed his next words. And then, when she realized he'd spoken, she had to forcibly redirect her thoughts.
"What did you say?" she asked.
They were nearing the gate back into the English concession, so she didn't think he would speak, but he did. He pulled the carriage to a stop and twisted to stare at her.
"I said I will teach you." Then he narrowed his eyes to emphasize his next words. "But there will be no talk of this to anyone—not your parents, not Joanna, not even to Sophia. Do we understand one another?"
She swallowed, nodding her head slowly as she agreed to who-knew-what. But as Ken Jin turned back to guide the carriage, she ripped the satchel from his grasp.
"I'm keeping the scrolls," she said, straightening in her seat. "I have to make sure you're doing things right."
* * *
Ken Jin entered his bedchamber and stared at his desk. The old wood was pocked and ink-stained, the drawers stuck, and one corner was frayed to splinters. And yet he had a fondness for the large beast.
For one thing, it was huge. He had lots of space to work, lots of room for papers and ledgers and all manner of clutter; and yet his elbows were never crowded, his abacus was always within reach, and his brushes never dripped on anything vital. Large and serviceable without beauty, that was his desk.
That was Ken Jin too. He was not a handsome man, not by white women's standards, but they cert
ainly seemed to enjoy his size and his serveability. They cared little if he was rough to them; indeed, some seemed to enjoy it. So long as their requirements were met—no penetration—all was well in their eyes. He brought their yin rain to full bloom, drinking up their qi like water, and they got to remain virgins.
An excellent arrangement until the encounters began leaving him exhausted. His yang—so strong at the beginning with Little Pearl—now barely moved despite the stirring perfume of a willing women. Over the last year, his dragon became so weak, he had stopped undressing before Charlotte's friends.
So now Charlotte wished to learn what he had taught her friends. The goddess who had appeared before him so many years ago wished to descend to his chamber and feel what other women felt. He ought to be grateful. His flagging yang responded lustfully to Miss Charlotte. He should be thrilled that she came to him on the very day he regained hope for his weak dragon.
Instead, it made him feel worn, old, and a little sad.
Odd, how this morning had held such hope. His dragon had reawakened, his investments showed promise, and he'd even received an encouraging letter about his nephew's academic progress. But that was this morning. Now, a bare three hours later, his mentors Shi Po and her husband, Kui Yu, were in prison, sacred scrolls were in barbarian hands, and his employer's daughter demanded service that would likely get him fired.
When Heaven turns its back, even the rats perish.
He grimaced in disgust at the reversal in fortunes. He would need to be at his peak to weather the coming storm. Without conscious thought, he stripped off his jacket, shirt, and tie. Why the whites insisted on so many ridiculous layers, buttons, and ties, he would never understand; it prevented full breath in skin or lungs. But the master insisted, and so Ken Jin obeyed. Except, Ken Jin would not accept it now. At this moment, he needed a boost in vitality, so he shut and locked his door—or attempted to lock it. This morning's debacle had proved the mechanism was faulty. Then he pulled out his tools and knelt bare-chested in the tiny space between desk and bed.
He knelt on a rug with a dragon design. He placed his knees on the belly of a cloud dragon, the tops of his feet extending toward the whipping, spiny tail. He had to unbutton the top of his trousers, as he could not afford to rip another pair. Then, once the fabric was rolled sufficiently down his hips, he carefully inserted a great needle into the Sea of Energy point, three finger widths below his navel. Two deep breaths, and then he raised his hands, pressed both thumbs and forefingers into the Gates of Consciousness.
With fire below and openness above, all of Heaven is within reach.
This time, his breath had an echo—a depth that told him his spirit stretched toward the divine. His eyes closed and he began the internal inventory that was his ritual. His mind was more scattered than usual, but he carefully brought it into focus. Starting with his head and flowing down to his toes, he surveyed his body. It was strong with no pains. His energy channels flowed clearly with only one obvious blockage. Wind, fire, water, wood, and metal coexisted within him at an acceptable balance.
He turned his attention to the energy blockage in his pelvis at the gate to his dragon. This morning's work had opened up the channel, allowing some of his carefully stored yang to flow. His dragon lived and breathed again as it had not for over a year. In truth, the problem had begun long ago, perhaps even in early childhood. He did not know the cause, only that as he aged, the blockage became worse and his dragon began to wither.
At first he thought his yang stores were simply weak. He devoted all his attention to purifying his male energies, carefully hoarding and cleansing his masculine power through privations and meditations, special herbs and careful exercises. After two decades, his yang was the rarified substance of the most devout practitioner. Unfortunately, there seemed to be too little of it.
Then he learned that yang responds to yin; that a woman's energies give rise to a man's. So he became a gatherer of women. He teased them, he seduced them, he did whatever was needed so that he could drink of their fluids. And his yang responded... for a while.
But three years ago, a blockage had appeared. Though his yang remained pure and strong, it could not flow to his dragon. His organ was slow to rise, quick to withdraw. And in the last year, it could not be woken at all. At least not until this morning. Not until his needles were inadvertently driven deep into his Sea of Vitality.
Had he at last opened the channel to his yang stores? He fervently prayed it was true, even as he began his strengthening meditation. He would have to use all of his resources to build upon this new beginning. He would need special herbs, deep meditations, and yin—lots of female yin—to simulate the renewed growth of his yang and keep the dragon gate open. He would need Miss Charlotte's yin in great quantities.
Odd, how the thought excited him as much as it repulsed him. But he had no room in his mind for doubts. He needed her yin to bolster his yang. She wished to give him her fluids, and he needed to take them. Any other thought had no place in his spirit.
As if summoned by the thought, Miss Charlotte slipped into his room. He heard the rustle of her skirts, her futile effort to lock the door, and her gasp of surprise when she saw him kneeling on the floor.
Ken Jin's hands slipped down and away, closing off his access to Heaven. He opened his eyes, automatically seeking out his prey. She wore the same burnt-orange clothes as before, including that impossibly tight waist contraption overlain by a cotton dress with sleeves that made her shoulders look like big fat roosters. And yet, for all the ridiculousness of her attire, he could not help but be drawn to the sparkling delight in her eyes. She seemed to bounce with energy before him.
He did not speak. There was no need as he understood her desires. So he occupied himself with pulling the needle out from his Sea of Vitality, twisting it back and forth as he did in order to gain the tiniest bit more stimulation.
"Oh, don't stop," she cried, rushing forward a step. "That is part of what I have come here to learn."
He looked at her, and he felt his entire being—body, energy, and spirit included—focus to a concentrated point, one that could be directed wherever his mind willed. "I am preparing to teach you," he said.
"Ah," she replied, though she obviously did not understand. "So... does the foggy stuff come out of there?" She pointed at the needle.
He paused as it slipped free. "The foggy stuff?"
She nodded, her eyes on the tiny welling of blood that seeped free. "The mist," she said in Shanghai dialect. "The cloudlike thing on the scroll. In the pictures, it came from the man's... from his..." Her face flushed a dark scarlet. "Does it come from there? Do you always have to poke a hole for it to—"
"You misunderstand," he snapped, startled by the break in his control. There was no need for him to explain, and yet he did not stop. "These needles stimulate and enhance. They also release evil energies." He switched into English, using terms her father employed. "Bad humors or sicknesses. But that was not my intention here."
She giggled, the sound high and nervous as she dropped to her knees before him. "Well, some evil humor has gotten hold of you. Perhaps you did not stick the right location."
He felt his jaw clench, and had to concentrate to relax. It took so long that his needles were carefully stowed back in his desk before he could speak again. "As I said, that was not my intention today." Then he sighed, his blood cold despite the recent acupuncture. "I gather that you are ready for your instruction?"
She had watched him put away his kit, an interested sparkle in her eyes. At his words, her expression grew somber. "Yes," she said with a nod. "I am ready."
He stalled, knowing the risks outweighed the benefit. "You understand that my lock does not work. We may be interrupted."
She shook her head. "William is in a bath, and I have already arranged for him to eat dinner in the nursery. Mama is handing out pamphlets with the priest, and Papa..." She shrugged. "Well, you know that Papa is at his club drinking and will not return home
."
"Your father is at the docks checking on his investments," Ken Jin lied.
"Yes, yes, I know you are supposed to say that, but this is me. I know the truth, I have for years."
He doubted she knew the full truth. No woman who called yang emissions "foggy stuff" could truly understand her father's debauchery. But before Ken Jin came to work here, Mr. Wicks had often brought his women home whenever Mrs. Wicks spent a night at the mission. Miss Charlotte had been young then, but never stupid. She would have learned a great deal. Fortunately, Ken Jin was able to convince his employer to take his sexual adventures out of his home, but obviously the damage had been done. Charlotte—and the friends she socialized with—had an undeniable curiosity about sexual relations. It was a testament to her mother's prudish vehemence that Charlotte had not come to his door long ago.
She stepped forward, her expression earnest. "We will not be interrupted."
She was right, and so he sighed as he gestured to the bed. "Very well. Please arrange yourself."
She blinked at him, but did not move from where she knelt on his mat. "Arrange myself? How?"
He looked at her, working his thoughts into the appropriate frame. It wasn't hard; Miss Charlotte was indeed a beautiful woman. Her dress lifted her breasts to just the right height for his hands. Her waist, of course, was impossibly small, due to the strange whalebone contraption all white women wore; and her skirt shifted and flickered about her folded legs like tempting yin flames, drawing the mind to the secrets concealed within.
"You will have to remove your corset. It restricts your breathing."
She flushed, color bursting across her features, but she did not comment. Nor did she move.
He felt his hands clench and realized he was impossibly weary with these white women's games. At least at the Tigress school there was no confusion as to what one was about. No discussion, no illusions; it was simple practice. Except, of course, when it wasn't simply practice. But thoughts of Little Pearl soured his stomach, so he forced his attention back to Charlotte: beautiful Miss Charlotte, the flaming sun in the sky, the whore at his feet.
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