She glanced upwards, to the chandelier that had once held two effigies with death threats dangling from their ankles. And from there, she walked into the sitting room, and stared through the second parlour, into the dining room.
The table gleamed as she drifted closer. But instead of a head on a platter, there was a simple bouquet of wild flowers. This house knew danger. It knew death, and even if she left, it would know it again. Atticus Riot sat in the center of a web that had been spun long before she came along. Everyone in this house was in danger; everyone had something to hide. She felt it in her bones. But it was home. And one does not run away from that.
Digging in her mental heels, Isobel climbed the stairs, and went into the hallway bath.
“Thank you, Maddie.”
“I’ll bring in some fresh clothes. You want me to take away the ones you’re wearing?” The girl wrinkled her nose. “I’ll send them straight to the launderer.”
“I suppose.”
“Er, unless you’re wanting to be Mr. Morgan again?”
“Miss Bonnie will do.”
After the girl left with a bundle of torn and filthy clothing, Isobel sank into the steamy bath. Hot water might have had something to do with her tendency to end up at Ravenwood manor. It was an irresistible lure, and she’d been too exhausted to resist it.
She scrubbed until the water was murky, drained the tub, and refilled it again. When her skin glowed, she lay back and stared at the ceiling until the water turned cold. A third bath was tempting, but she doubted she’d ever be able to drag herself out.
Wrapping Riot’s old robe around her, she walked into one of the adjoining bedrooms, and lay on the narrow bed. But sleep eluded her. The sun was bright and shining, and she had passed the point of sleep. She was restless, and questions rattled around her head.
With a frustrated growl, she tossed back the covers, and walked softly to the door. She cracked it open and peered into the hallway. The house was quiet; it seemed empty. Most people, she remembered, spent their lives in daylight—not during those hours when the fog was at its thickest.
Isobel dressed in a skirt and blouse, and limped quickly towards Riot’s room. She knocked softly, wondering if he had succumbed to exhaustion from the night, or if he was as restless as she. There was no answer. She started to turn away, but stopped, and tried the door handle instead. It opened.
Atticus Riot stood in front of a cold hearth. A glass of water was in his left hand, and his right hung at his side, two fingers wrapped together in heavy bandage. She slipped inside, closed the door and turned the key, but he didn’t stir. His hair was damp and wild, and his beard as immaculate as ever. He wore a shirt, but it was unbuttoned and his braces hung at his waist, as if he had given up dressing partway through. She eyed the bruises blossoming on his ribs.
“Are you going somewhere, Riot?” she asked. Her voice brought his head up, and he reached for his spectacles. He looked lost in his own room.
“I didn’t feel much like sleeping.” His voice was at odds with his words. He sounded tired enough. She should have gone with him to see Kau.
“May I come in?”
“You don’t need to ask.” As she closed the distance, he quickly set down his drink, and started buttoning up his shirt with one hand.
“Did everything go all right with Kau?”
“He’s grateful,” Riot said. “He’d like to visit his sister before he leaves.”
“Leaves? You mean straight to jail?” She eyed the plaster on his forehead, wondering if he’d hit his head as hard as she first feared.
“I’m certainly not going to turn him in for killing a man like Andrew Ross. Self-defense or no, a court won’t think twice about hanging a Chinese for killing a white man, and as for the rest,” he gestured vaguely at his head, “I believe in second chances.”
“What about the girls he turned into slaves?”
“Kau has a chun hung on his head, Bel. Every hatchet man in the West will be gunning for him. I doubt he’ll make it far.”
“And if he does?”
“Who am I to judge another man? I’ve done some things in my time that would get me hanged as sure as any other.”
“That’s noble of you,” she said. “I’d definitely want you sitting behind a desk with a gavel if it were my trial.”
“I’m hardly impartial where you’re concerned.”
“I think that goes for a lot of men and women. You’re a fair man, Riot. But do you believe Kau? That his tong wasn’t behind Ravenwood’s murder?”
“Whatever happened, I’m convinced that he truly believes they’re innocent.” He looked back to the cold hearth. “I may never know the truth of what happened that night.”
“There’s a whole heap of questions left,” she said with a sigh. “I feel like we only scratched the surface on that clubhouse in Ocean Beach. Why was Andrew Ross carrying around cards with Lincoln Howe’s name? And what was Ravenwood working on?” Those questions had been spinning in her mind while she bathed, and were making her as restless as the sea before a storm.
Riot turned slightly towards her. “Is that why you’re still on land? There’s still a mystery left?”
She smiled. “Partly.”
“The other reason?”
“Did you forget that note I gave you?”
“Those words are etched in my mind, and on my heart, Miss Bel.”
“Good.” She closed the distance, and slowly unbuttoned his shirt. She placed her hand on his chest, over that heart, and soaked up the warmth of his flesh. She felt his breath catch, saw his pupils dilate with desire, and sensed his muscles tense with energy.
She pressed her lips suddenly to his. Her teeth scraped his lip for a second, and she pulled away like a fish flirting with a hook.
“Are you worried I’m drowning again?” he asked.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I wanted to give you something simple to focus on.”
“Consider me focused.”
“Good, I was wondering if you remembered proposing to me?”
“You said I was delirious.”
“Were you?” she asked.
Riot leaned forward, his beard brushing her cheek as he whispered in her ear. “Marry me, Bel?” Her knees went weak.
“I’m dead, Riot.”
“Then haunt me,” he said with feeling.
“Don’t you have enough ghosts?”
“I prefer you.”
“You still haven’t kissed me.”
“Haven’t I?”
“Not properly.”
“May I?” he asked politely.
“I thought you were going to surprise me?”
“Only a fool would surprise you.”
The edge of her lips quirked. It was too much. Tired, drained, with all his defenses down, Riot gave in to impulse. He kissed that quirk, and pulled her close, his mouth coming down on hers. It was slow and deep, and all consuming. And when his teeth scraped against a spot just below her ear, it traveled through her body like a jolt. Her neck arched, and she inhaled sharply, aching for more.
Riot smiled against that spot on her neck. “I thought so,” he murmured. It was a deliciously dangerous sort of purr.
Isobel drifted in an ocean. It was warm, and soft, and she moved up and down with each gentle swell. Her mind was still, as calm as a windless sea. And the heart beating under her ear lured her back to the surface.
She loved the sound of that heart.
“So this is how it’s supposed to be,” she breathed. “I see what all the fuss is about now.”
Sunlight shone through the cracks in the curtains, but the air was crisp and cool, and it brushed her skin. Strong arms tightened around her, and Riot buried his fingers in her short hair. Only to wince. She kissed the bruise over his collarbone.
“Broken fingers, a gunshot wound, and a near concussion aren’t generally involved.” His voice was deep and soothing in the stillness.
“We managed.”
“You c
an slap that on my gravestone.”
She snorted, and stretched, reaching for the blanket that had ended up on the floor, along with their clothing. She pulled it over them, and settled on her back, with her head resting on his arm.
They drifted for a time, with the lazy kind of warmth that made her forget where she ended and he began. Isobel felt herself edging towards sleep. But at the last possible moment, her mind rebelled, tossing out a question that she had no answer to.
“Atticus James Riot.” She tasted the name on her lips as she had tasted his skin only minutes before. “Did your mother have grandiose ideas for you?”
A lazy chuckle shook his body. “You’re going to laugh at me,” he said, rolling onto his side. His fingers idly circled her hip bone. It was divine.
“Never.”
“I might believe you if you didn’t have that glint in your eyes,” he said.
“You’re imagining things.” She waited, enjoying his lazy exploration.
Color rose in the skin above his beard. “I named myself,” he admitted.
Rather than laugh, Isobel felt a pang in her breast. She swallowed it down.
“I thought it sounded important,” he continued. “For as long as I could remember everyone called me A.J. And I never thought to ask what it stood for. By the time I did my mother had already died.”
Isobel wished she had laughed before—to soften the gravity of his words. She rolled onto her side to meet his eyes, slipping a leg between his own.
“Andrew Jackson? Andy Jacob?” she mused aloud.
Riot gave a crooked grin, showing off his two chipped teeth. She liked those teeth, and that smile.
“No, wait. I have it. Abe Jeremiah,” she announced.
Riot propped his head on his good hand, waiting for more, brown eyes dancing with amusement.
“Aubrey John,” she said with an official air. “That is most definitely it.”
He kissed the hollow of her throat, and she closed her eyes. The next name was a simple sigh.
“What about Riot?” she asked breathlessly.
“I got my surname from a penny dreadful.”
A burst of laughter filled the room.
51
A Blossom in the Wind
Friday, March 8, 1900
Sao Jin sat at Mei’s bedside. The young woman was beautiful—unearthly, even in sickness.
“Jin refuses to leave her side,” Donaldina said, softly. “I finally had a washbasin brought in here.”
Jin hadn’t looked at any of them when they entered; instead, she held Mei’s hand like a lifeline. And Mei held hers.
The young woman’s feet were propped up, lathered in a green salve that smelled of herbs.
“She’ll recover with time,” Donaldina said.
“How is the girl you found the night before?” Isobel asked.
Donaldina shook her head. “She died this morning.”
“I’m sorry to hear,” Riot said.
“At least she died with her sister.” Donaldina gave him a weak smile, and he nodded in return, grasping her hand momentarily in support. Isobel wondered how many abused and discarded girls had died in this house, and how many had these mission women nursed back to life?
Mei stirred, and her eyes opened. She shifted, smiling weakly at Jin. Then her large, dark eyes fluttered over to the trio in the doorway. Mei beckoned them in with a soft word.
Jin glanced at Isobel. “Faan Tung.”
“Wai Daan,” Isobel returned, sticking out her tongue.
Mei gasped, and said something quick and reprimanding in Cantonese. Jin lowered her eyes, and nodded. And Mei blushed, offering an apology that Riot translated. “Please, forgive her. She is young and angry, and has known nothing but hate for many years.”
“I understand,” Isobel said. “Unfortunately, I don’t have any excuse for my tongue.”
“You are too kind,” Mei said softly. “Thank you for rescuing us.”
“You nearly rescued yourself,” Riot said. “You were halfway there on the beach that night. It was very brave of you to go back to the men—to save Jin.”
Mei shook her head. “I feared for Jin. We had to escape. She was a Mui Tsai—house slave—but it was only a matter of time before they started selling her to men. They would have placed her in a low crib, or worse sent her to a mining camp. I could not live with that.” A mining camp was the most brutal kind of life there was for a slave girl. Girls there did not live long.
“I was shocked to see Kau again.”
“So he is your brother?” Riot asked.
Mei inclined her head. Even sitting in bed, propped on pillows, she looked like a queen holding court. “When I received his message in the brothel, I could not bear to hope that it was really him, and then we were moved again.”
Mei lowered her eyes. “Jin has told me everything—everything that you have done for her and Kau. And everything that my brother did to you, Mr. Riot.” Her gaze flickered to the white stripe slashing through Riot’s raven hair. “Kau was a kind older brother. He was a good man. Please, I beg you, not to think ill of him. Many of these men are like scared boys—lonely and aching for their home. They are as trapped as I was.”
Not quite, Isobel thought when Riot had translated, but the girl’s compassion struck her straight to the heart. Even after all she had been through, Mei still saw the good in others. It was admirable, and courageous, and the girl was far better than Isobel could ever be.
“Were you sold to someone other than Sing Chung Lee?” asked Riot.
Mei shook her head. “He became bored with me, and placed me in the Forbidden Palace to make money. And then the brick house. After we tried to run, the white men were angry with my keeper, and sent me away in shame,” Mei continued. “I was happy to know that they had not found Jin, though. She caused them much anger.” She smiled at her younger friend, and squeezed her hand. “Sing Chung Lee was furious with me for losing his tong’s face. He had my feet whipped, so my beauty would not be marred, but my feet would remember if I should ever think to run again.”
Tears glistened in her eyes, and Jin murmured something, bending forward and pressing her forehead against Mei’s hands.
“You’re safe now, Mei,” Donaldina said. “If you like I’ll draw up adoption papers. You can stay here as long as you wish.”
But the kind words had the opposite effect on Jin. The girl sprang to her feet, her features twisting with rage. “You lie! You gave me to the police!” Jin screamed. “To the woman who sold me as a Mui Tsai! You will give Mei to the men.” Her hands balled into tight fists.
Donaldina blinked in surprise. She had had no idea that the girl spoke English. The surprise lasted for a moment, before Donaldina raised her hands in peace. “Jin, I can only offer you my sincere apologies. Some police, attorneys, and judges take money from the tongs. They are corrupt, and they use the law against us. But that’s no excuse—I failed you that day.” There was pain in her voice. “You’re not the first child I have failed, and I doubt you’ll be the last. There wasn’t a day that went by I didn’t think of you—that I wasn’t looking for you. You are not the first girl to be taken from me under the guise of the law. All I can say is that I am sorry. You can stay with Mei if you like, or go. No one is forcing you to remain.”
Jin lifted her chin. But the reality slowly sank in. Where else would she go? Her chin lost some of its defiance. “I will stay with Mei.”
Donaldina nodded. “I’ll start sorting out the paperwork, then.”
“Mei,” Riot said. “Your brother Kau would like to see you when you are ready. Do you want to speak with him?”
“Yes,” Mei breathed. “Please, I need to speak with him. I will go to him if it is better.”
“You need to stay off your feet until you heal,” Donaldina said. “And I’ll not let a highbinder inside these walls—repentant or not. It would undermine the safety and trust that we work hard to build with our girls.”
Isobel could understa
nd that completely. Worse, what if one of the girls recognized Kau—what if he had beaten or bought them. It would strike terror in a survivor.
“When you’re healed, then,” Riot said. “I’ll arrange a meeting.”
“And after the adoption papers are drawn,” Donaldina added.
A scream torn from rage and grief shattered the peace of the house. It bounced off the bricks, and slammed into the room. Isobel tensed, as voices raised, and footsteps padded quickly down the hallway. Another raging howl, and a crash joined the tumult.
Ling darted into the room. “Lo Mo! Lo Mo! Ini is having a fit again.”
Something crashed, wood splintered, and Donaldina took Riot’s hand, and then Isobel’s. There was a twinkle in her eye. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.” With a breath, she plunged back into the hallway, and Ling poked her head inside.
“Do not worry; some girls rage. It will pass.” Ling backed out, and closed the door as angry screams echoed through the house. Isobel was struck by the despair and joy these bricks had seen. She looked at Jin. The girl’s teeth were clenched.
“Jin,” Isobel said. “You’re angry, too. And rightly so. But I still don’t understand why the cigar man was so keen to get you when they already had Mei.”
“What?” the girl spat. “I am not pretty enough?” Jin traced the scars on her cheeks, and fluttered her eyes.
“You know as well as I that men aren’t overly concerned about looks,” she said bluntly.
The direct answer stole some of Jin’s wind. She deflated, and nodded, looking thoughtful.
“That man—when he tossed you in the wagon—he told the driver to have your keeper throw you in the hospital. They wanted you dead without dirtying their own hands,” Isobel said. She let that sink in for a moment. “Did you overhear something in that house, or see something?”
Jin raised a shoulder. “I saw and heard many things.”
“What?”
“Groaning, moaning, grunting—do you want me to repeat every piggish word?” Jin smirked, but neither Riot nor Isobel reacted to her vulgarity.
Record of Blood (Ravenwood Mysteries #3) Page 38
