The Empress's Tomb

by Kirsten Miller

  “He invited the rest of you, too.”

  “What?” It was Kiki’s turn to be surprised.

  “You were missing when the dragon came in the mail,” Oona tried to explain. “I wanted to talk to you first, but by the time you were back, we were too busy hunting squirrels and searching for intruders.”

  “Are you saying that Lester Liu knows who I am?” Betty was almost swooning from the shock.

  “I don’t think he knows your name,” said Oona. “The note just said Kiki Strike and your talented friends are welcome.”

  “When’s the dinner party?” asked Kiki.

  “Friday,” Oona replied.

  “A day and a half.” I could almost hear Kiki’s mind whirling away. “I wish we had more time to prepare. In any case, I don’t think all six of us should go. If it’s a trap, we don’t want to be in the same place at the same time. Ananka and I will be happy to escort you, Oona.”

  “Thanks for volunteering me,” I said, wondering why I always got the unpleasant assignments.

  “Don’t mention it.” Kiki winked.

  “By the way,” Oona added with a nervous smile. “The dinner is formal. You’ll both need evening gowns.”

  Mrs. Fei poked her head into the dining room just as I let out a groan. The timing was so perfect that for a moment I suspected she’d been listening. She spoke briefly with Oona.

  “The boy’s awake,” Oona announced.

  As the other girls quickly filed out of the room, I pulled Kiki back. I jerked her arm a little too hard, and she turned to me with a tight smile that made it clear I’d come close to getting punched.

  “You knew about Lester Liu, didn’t you?” I whispered.

  Kiki’s ice-blue eyes studied me. “Yes,” she said.

  “How long have you known?”

  “From the beginning.”

  “Don’t you think you should have shared that information with the rest of us?” I pressed her. “We’re supposed to be a team. We can’t have secrets like that.”

  “You mean I should have told you, right? Don’t take it personally, Ananka. It wasn’t my secret to share.”

  Though Kiki made a good point, I hated to think that she and Oona had hidden the truth from the rest of us—as if we were too stupid or childish to handle it. I remembered a thousand little looks that had passed between them over the years, and I suddenly felt like a fool.

  “How upstanding of you,” I sneered. “But this wasn’t some harmless little secret. In case you’ve forgotten, the Fu-Tsang helped your aunt try to kill us. If Lester Liu’s daughter had decided to go over to the dark side, you’d be dead right now.”

  Kiki refused to bite back. “The first rule of being a team is trusting one another. And if you trust someone, you let her keep her secrets. When she’s ready to tell you she will. You don’t have to know everything, Ananka.”

  “Why not? Why should I trust Oona if she doesn’t trust me? How do I know she’s not hiding something even more dangerous?”

  “Oona was worried that the rest of you would see her differently,” Kiki bristled. “Don’t prove her right.”

  • • •

  In the living room, we found the boy sitting with his back against one arm of the couch, his legs stretched out in front of him. Mrs. Fei had tucked a blanket around him, and someone had washed his face and combed his black, chin-length hair. His thin head wobbled when he saw the six Irregulars enter the room, and his long, tapered fingers clutched the blanket. Oona pulled a chair beside the couch and spoke to him in Hakka. At first the boy merely gaped at her. He wasn’t the first person I’d seen struck dumb by Oona’s beauty. Finally he worked up the courage to reply in a hoarse voice.

  “His name is Yu,” Oona translated. “He’s sixteen years old, and he’s from Taipei. He wants to know where he is and who we are.”

  “Tell him he’s in New York. Tell him we rescued him from the rats,” said Kiki.

  “And then ask him how he got into the tunnels,” I added.

  Yu’s eyes passed over each of us before he spoke again.

  “He says about a month ago he was kidnapped on his way to school. Two men grabbed him and took him to a boat. There were lots of kids inside—at least twelve, maybe more. He recognized one of the girls. She went to the same school. He wanted to talk to her, but the guards watched them day and night. The trip was very long, and many of the passengers got sick. When the boat stopped, they were tied up and put into large wooden boxes and driven to a building. He tried to escape, but he was caught and thrown into a room away from the others. That’s where he discovered the door in the floor.

  “He says he was lost in the tunnels for several days. He doesn’t know how many. He couldn’t find a way out. There was no one down there. Just giant rats and skeletons. He thought he had entered the underworld. When he was too exhausted to keep running from the rats, he crawled into a box and waited to die.”

  “What about the Chinese statue we found?” Kiki asked. “Where did he get it?”

  “He says there were many wooden crates on the ship. A board on one had come loose. When he stuck his fingers inside, that’s what he found. He kept it hidden in his schoolbag. If he ever escaped, he thought it might help the police identify the kidnappers.”

  “Once the ship got to New York, where did the men take them? Can he describe the building?” If the building had an entrance to the Shadow City, I might be able to recognize it.

  “He says that he never saw the outside of the building. It was too dark when they arrived. They were taken to a basement, and each person was put into a tiny wooden pen.”

  “What about the people who kidnapped him? Can he tell us what they looked like?” asked Kiki.

  Oona listened and then turned back to us. “He says the guards had tattoos. Dragon tattoos. See, I was right. My father and the Fu-Tsang are behind this.” Without waiting for us to comment, she spoke softy to Yu. He shook his head furiously in response.

  “What did you just say?” I asked Oona.

  “I told him I would pay to send him back to his family in Taiwan,” she replied. “But he refused to go. He says he has to stay here to save the others.”

  “Tell him we plan to help,” said Kiki. Oona relayed the message and Yu smiled, closed his eyes, and succumbed to his exhaustion.

  “Well, one thing’s for certain,” I said as Oona stood up. “We’ll have plenty to talk about over dinner with your dad.”

  WHAT TO DO IF YOUR SECRET’S REVEALED

  It will happen to everyone at some point. A secret you’ve kept carefully hidden will be revealed at the worst possible moment. Your classmates may discover that you were born with a tail. Your mother may find out what you were really doing all those times you claimed to be babysitting. Your next-door neighbor may learn that you enjoy entertaining large groups of people when your parents aren’t home. Whatever your secret may be, you’ll need to act fast to repair the damage.

  I recently found myself turning to one of the best PR men in New York for his advice on a delicate matter of my own. A counselor to celebrities and politicians with some very sick secrets, he’s a master at restoring reputations. Here’s what he told me:

  Don’t Be Afraid to Say You’re Sorry

  If you’ve done something wrong, take responsibility and apologize. Nothing will defuse a situation faster than showing a little remorse. However, less upstanding readers may take a tip from the celebrity world and offer a non-apology. Rather than accepting blame for a terrible offense, apologize for a minor one. (For instance, instead of saying, “I’m sorry I called that prosecutor a [fill in the blank],” try “I’m sorry I skipped lunch and let myself get so crabby.” See the difference?)

  Be Careful What You Say and Do

  These days, cell phone cameras and the Internet can take humiliation to a whole new level. So the moment your secret comes out, imagine you’re living your life on camera—and act accordingly. That means no temper tantrums, no acting out, and no spontaneous
confessions.

  Never Let Them See You Sweat

  Relax. If people think that they have the power to upset or embarrass you, they’ll never leave you alone. Greet their taunts with a pleasant smile or a blank stare.

  Shift Attention to Someone Worse Than You Are

  This is what brothers and sisters were born for. It’s not very nice to point out that your siblings’ past crimes have been far more heinous, but it can make you look like a saint in comparison. Don’t take this tack if your siblings are listening.

  Become a Champion Do-Gooder

  Show how misunderstood and maligned you’ve been by impersonating Mother Teresa. If you’ve been grounded, use your free time to do some spring-cleaning around the house. If you’ve been labeled a bad seed, try volunteering at a local animal shelter. Everyone looks innocent when surrounded by puppies.

  Ride Out the Scandal

  Most people have the attention span of a dim-witted gnat. If you refuse to make a soap opera out of your secret, it will probably be forgotten faster than you think.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Wild Child

  Someone was banging on my bedroom door. I rolled over and pressed a pillow against my ears, hoping the noise would go away.

  “Ananka, you’re late for school!” my father yelled. “Get out of bed and unlock this door!”

  In an instant, my eyes were open and I was fumbling for the alarm clock. It was 9:16. I leaped from my bed and ran for the door.

  “Ananka!” my father bellowed again as the door swung open, and I caught the full force of his shout in my right ear. He cleared his throat and his voice assumed a normal volume. “Good. You’re dressed.” I looked down and realized I was still wearing the clothes I’d had on the night before. When I’d climbed back into my bedroom window at four o’clock in the morning, I hadn’t had the energy to throw on pajamas.

  “I’ve got to change,” I mumbled, weaving down the hall toward the bathroom.

  “You don’t have time for that. Go on. Get going,” my father snapped, failing to see that I was wrinkled and dirty. “If you’re fast enough, you won’t miss your second class.”

  My mother, still wearing her bathrobe, blocked my exit. Her eyes traveled from the Marble Cemetery mud caked on my boots to the dust that coated my black T-shirt. She grabbed her purse from the table by the front door and rooted around inside.

  “Take this,” she said, slapping a hairbrush into my hand. “And here’s some reading material for the ride to school.” She held out a glossy brochure. On the cover was a picture of a teenage girl milking a cow with one hand and holding a textbook with the other. “I’m making the call today,” my mother announced as she pushed me out the door.

  On my way uptown in the back of a taxi, I tried to stay calm. But one look at the brochure I’d been given made it perfectly clear that life as I knew it would soon be over.

  THE BORLAND ACADEMY

  Television. Video games. Drugs. With so much competing for our children’s attention, it’s no wonder that many young people today are failing to live up to their academic potential. At the Borland Academy, we have created a unique environment stripped of the distractions of the modern world. Located 130 miles outside of Burp, West Virginia, and set deep in the stunning Appalachian Mountains, the Borland Academy is both a working farm and a well-respected academic institution. Students divide their time between classes developed to broaden their minds and farm chores designed to enhance their self-discipline. Freed from the negative influence of popular culture, students are able to spend their weekends acquiring a newfound appreciation for hard work and the simple pleasures of nature. The results of our approach speak for themselves. Last year, three Borland Academy students were accepted at Yale, and two of our handcrafted cheeses were awarded blue ribbons at the West Virginia State Fair.

  Ideal for underachievers and children with a history of violence, the Borland Academy is designed to give each and every student the personalized attention he or she needs. Children are supervised twenty-four hours a day, and our professional nursing staff is authorized to dispense pharmaceuticals if necessary.

  I had lived in New York City my entire life. I’d never seen a cow up close, and I had no intention of learning how to craft prizewinning cheeses. My mind was filled with a thousand plans at once. If I emptied my personal bank account, I could go into hiding. Get my own apartment. Attend public school. Fight crime at night, sleep late on the weekends. By the time my cab pulled up in front of the Atalanta School for Girls, I was convinced that it was time to assert my independence. I still had my share of the money the Irregulars had made from the treasures we’d found in the Shadow City. I would have gone straight for the bank if Principal Wickham hadn’t been waiting for me on the sidewalk outside the school gates. As I slid out of the taxi, I wondered how a woman who weighed less than a sack of laundry and was older than the Empire State Building could make me feel like a naughty toddler with a soiled diaper.

  • • •

  “Good morning, Ananka.” The principal took in the sorry state of my appearance. “Your mother phoned to say you were on your way. She thought it might be a good idea if I escorted you to class.”

  “I’m sorry, Principal Wickham,” I mumbled.

  “So am I,” she said, leading me up the stairs and into the school. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I read about the Borland Academy on my way to school.”

  The principal laughed, though I saw nothing amusing about my plight. “I know the founder of the academy,” she said. “Not a very pleasant man, but I’m impressed that he’s finally found a way to combine his passions for academics and animal husbandry. Your mother seems to think that the Borland Academy offers the kind of environment you need, but I must admit that I’m not convinced.”

  “You’re not?” I felt a second surge of hope.

  “No. In fact, I’m planning to plead your case. Don’t ask me why, but I believe you could be an asset to Atalanta. You were warned, however, so I will have to punish you. I think two weeks of after-school detention should suffice. You can stay until six each evening, working on an essay I assign you.”

  “Thank you, Principal Wickham,” I gushed.

  “Don’t thank me yet.” Principal Wickham delivered me to the door of the chemistry laboratory. “You have plenty of work to do if you intend to find your way back into my good graces. Your mother tells me you’ve read a great deal about New York. In two weeks’ time, I expect you to deliver a twenty-page paper on one aspect of the city’s history. Choose your subject wisely. It must be good enough to impress Mr. Dedly. Otherwise, I’m afraid you’re heading for an F in his class, and if that should happen, I won’t be able to save you from Borland. So report to the library after your last class, Ananka, and please … do try to stay out of trouble.”

  • • •

  Inside the laboratory, I strapped on a pair of safety goggles and tied a black leather apron around my waist. My lab partner, a studious girl named Natasha with no talent for chemistry, was dumping liquids into a glass beaker and barely acknowledged my arrival. I stared at the wisps of sulfurous smoke that began to rise from the mixture and wondered how everything could have gone so wrong. My friends were keeping secrets from me, my mother was watching my every move, I couldn’t seem to get any sleep, and I wouldn’t even have time for lunch. In two hours’ time, while my classmates ate (or pretended to eat), I would be on a reconnaissance mission in Central Park, across the street from Lester Liu’s mansion. I was risking my freedom for a girl who couldn’t be bothered to tell me the truth.

  While Natasha scrambled to douse the flames that had started shooting from her beaker, I pulled a scrap of paper out of my pocket. There, in Oona’s handwriting, was the address of Lester Liu’s building on Fifth Avenue. I was tempted to bail and let Kiki, Oona, and Betty plan the operation on their own. But there was something about the address itself that had me intrigued. The epiphany came as my frantic chemis
try teacher arrived with a fire extinguisher that belched mountains of snowy-white foam across the burning workbench. Lester Liu lived in the Varney Mansion.

  • • •

  In August, the Varney Mansion had made the news when a piece of the building’s marble facade had crashed to earth, taking out a taxicab and narrowly missing a prize Pomeranian owned by Mrs. Gwendolyn Gluck, one of the city’s most prominent socialites. Before police could seal off the area, a second sheet of marble had flattened a mailbox, and the statue of a naked goddess that had guarded the doorway for a hundred years had slipped and shattered on the sidewalk. In the excitement that followed, the goddess’s severed head had disappeared. Three days later it was found in Queens, affixed to the hood of a tricked-out Trans Am.

  Had the building in question been any other, few people would have cared. Old and leprous, New York loses chunks of itself on a regular basis. But in the cafés and drawing rooms of the Upper East Side, it was whispered that the mansion on Millionaires’ Row was being destroyed—not by time but by the ghost of Cecelia Varney.

  When Cecelia Varney was born to one of New York’s richest men, the newspapers labeled her The Luckiest Girl in the World. When she died ninety years later in her family’s mansion, she was known to the city as The Hermit of Fifth Avenue. What happened in between has been the subject of two TV movies and an off-Broadway musical, but nobody knows for sure. At age thirty-four, the stunning socialite suddenly divorced the third in a series of gold-digging playboys. She then shocked her famous friends by dumping them in favor of little-known psychics and frequenting séances rather than nightclubs. On the morning of her thirty-fifth birthday, without any warning, Cecelia Varney locked herself up in the mansion with two trustworthy servants and a pair of six-toed cats (a birthday present from her friend Ernest Hemingway). She never left the house again, and it was said she was still there, buried somewhere in the basement. The one servant to survive Ms. Varney was spotted hailing a cab as the undertaker arrived. It was the last time anyone saw her.