Stolen Bloodline

by L G Rollins

  Whatever the proper wording was, Jasper held out his hand toward the man. There was only one person this could be. “You must be Captain Hopkins. I have heard much about you, sir.”

  Captain Hopkins gave his hand a firm shake. “It is an honor to meet you finally, Mr. Wimple. I have franked so many letters to you for your sister, I feel we are already good friends.”

  For nearly two decades, Tressa Broxholme had worked aboard a variety of submarines as an engineer. Her last job was aboard Captain Hopkin’s Gearhound, where she was head engineer—that was, before the thing was pirated away by werewolves. Gads, Jasper still got defensive on his sister’s behalf whenever he thought of it. And that had happened over a year ago.

  How had Captain Hopkins handled the debacle? It was hard to really know a man just from the way he smiled and acted during an art show.

  “This is my wife,” Captain Hopkins continued. “Doctor Elise Hopkins.”

  She gave him a shallow curtsy and Jasper bowed wishing propriety allowed him to assure her she needn’t trouble herself. It could not be easy to curtsy while one was extra round about the middle.

  “Your art is stunning,” Captain Hopkins said, his eyes roving over the room.

  “Thank you,” Jasper said. “After spending so many hours on each piece, I would hate to think of any of them as bland.”

  A man walked up from behind Jasper. “Doctor Hopkins, we meet again.”

  Jasper turned to see an elderly man in long flowing silk attire. His skin was light and his hair black. Instantly the woman who knocked on Jasper’s back door came to mind. It would seem that China was intent on invading his life today.

  “Ambassador Leng.” Doctor Hopkins gave him even less of a bow than she’d given Jasper. More than that, her expression had gone from pleasant to icy. Her lips were pressed tight and it seemed to Jasper she held her chin up just a fraction of a centimeter higher than she had before. That fraction of a centimeter made all the difference.

  Perhaps he should ask the doctor to pose for him sometime; her facial expressions were not as open as most of his subjects and it would indubitably make for an interesting study.

  “I will be frank,” the ambassador said, not acknowledging the other members of the group. “I have come tonight in the hopes that we could further our conversation.”

  “I have said all I intend to say.” Even Doctor Hopkins’ tone was icy. “Now, I must say that I am feeling rather tired.”

  Captain Hopkins jumped into action as though the earth was about to open up and eat them all whole. He called for one servant to bring his motorcar around and to another to bring his gloves and Doctor Hopkins’ wrap. Clearly, he was a man intent on keeping his expectant wife comfortable. Though Jasper was unsure if the doctor was, of a truth, worn out, or if she was just wanting to get away from the ambassador.

  And what had the two argued about? Jasper doubted that whatever conversation they’d had in the past had gone pleasantly.

  Both Captain and Doctor Hopkins were gone almost immediately and Tressa and Brox slipped after them saying they wanted to see their friends to the door.

  Mrs. Hedgecock slipped up equally fast. “Ambassador Leng,” she said almost reverentially. “It is a profound honor, sir.”

  Mrs. Hedgecock’s surprised expression was apt. Having an ambassador attend one of his shows was rather a coup. Jasper had only just gained enough popularity that a few of England’s most titled individuals had come tonight, but he never dreamed an ambassador from China would come.

  The ambassador smiled down at Jasper’s agent as though he knew exactly how honored they should feel at his presence.

  “May I introduce to you Jasper Wimple,” she said. “Creator and artist of all you see here tonight.”

  Of course, he hadn’t come for Jasper’s art, but for Doctor Hopkins. Curiosity continued to swirl inside Jasper’s brainbox. It was a blasted shame that etiquette wouldn’t allow him to pry.

  “The artist?” Ambassador Leng said. “I might have known. You are a man after my own heart, then. I believe art is life—and without it, all would shrivel and die.”

  Jasper wasn’t the only one in the room who knew how to flatter it would seem. “I couldn’t agree more.” Though Jasper doubted they truly saw eye to eye on art. For Jasper, art was about humanity and beauty and not at all about opulence or showing off one’s wealth.

  Plus, a headache was coming on. Stupid wine. “You know, ambassador,” Jasper said. “One of the things I love most about art is its ability to communicate without me having to be there to explain.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “A well composed piece may take me days or even weeks to finish. But once I’m done with it, I can place it down, walk away, and know it will impact those who see it. Through it, I can extend my reach. I can touch those who would not otherwise listen to me, and I can do it all while working on the next piece.”

  “The next masterpiece, I am sure.”

  Oh, the ambassador was laying it on thick. Why did the man suddenly care to make a good impression on Jasper? It wasn’t as though Jasper was in a position of power. He didn’t like the way the ambassador was smiling. Drastically different than the little woman at Jasper’s door earlier that evening, the ambassador’s wrinkles were not cheery, but appeared to have been etched in cold calculations.

  “I am glad you understand,” Jasper said. “For I am sure you will understand when I say, please enjoy all I have to say”—Jasper spread is arms out—“and I will bid you a good evening.”

  Jasper’s announcement that he was leaving caused Mrs. Hedgecock’s brow to drop into a hard line. With a look like that, he was fairly sure she was dreaming up all the ways she could harm him, but he would smooth things over with her later. He needed to leave. His head hurt, he’d glad-handed everyone in the room, and his gut was telling him to stay far, far away from the ambassador.

  “Perhaps we shall meet again during my brief stay in your beautiful country.” The ambassador bowed.

  “I look forward to it.” Which was about as big a lie as Jasper could ever remember saying. He made his way toward the door, then stopped and glanced over his shoulder.

  Ambassador Leng was watching him closely even while speaking with one of his entourage.

  Jasper’s stomach pricked. Having grown up in Westwood Orphanage—which was to say he’d grown up unsupervised and with little more than street smarts to keep himself safe—Jasper knew when he was looking at trouble.

  The ambassador was certainly dark trouble of the worst kind.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Zhi ju stood abruptly at the sound of a door opening and closing. Mama was back already? Ju didn’t even have supper ready. She stirred the rest of the vegetables into the broth and hoped they’d soften quickly. After the day she knew Mama would have had, she wanted to do at least this one thing for her.

  Mama stood at the door. She just . . . stood there.

  Ju hurried over to her, crossing the small, one room house in only a few strides. “Are you all right, mama?”

  Mama lifted a wrinkled hand to the jade clip she always wore against the side of her head. “Your father will watch over us,” Mama whispered.

  Ju’s brow creased. It seemed the more dire their situation, the more often Mama brought up Ju’s long-dead father.

  “Any luck?” Ju tried to keep her voice upbeat.

  Mama shook her head. “Bu shi de.” Though they almost always spoke English even at home—Mama had been adamant that her daughter learn the language of the land she would grow up in—Mama slipped in enough Chinese here and there that Ju was comfortable with it, if not truly fluent.

  Ju clasped her hands together in front of her. If her mama didn’t find a new job soon, they’d have no choice but to dip into all they’d saved for Ju’s education.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t go tonight,” Ju said. “I can wait until next year. You’ll find work soon and by next year all will be settled once again.”

&
nbsp; “No.” Mama looked up at Ju, determination in her work-worn face. “This is your dream. We have prepared for almost a decade.” Mama took hold of Ju’s hands. “You go tonight.”

  Ju looked down at her hands, lovingly cradled in her mother’s. Mama had given up so much for her; fleeing China when she was pregnant with Ju after her father had died, working long hours day after day to not only put food on their table but to save for Ju’s future as well.

  “I made dinner.” Ju pointed toward the small pot boiling over the fire in the hearth. It seemed paltry when contrasted with all Mama had done for her, but it was something Ju could do to say thank you.

  Mama patted her hand and then shuffled past her and over to the fire. Ju stayed rooted to the spot, watching her mother’s bent back. Should she go as Mama wished? Tonight was the once-a-year chance to gain admission to one of the finest ballet schools in all London, Ginevra’s School of Ballet. Ju wanted to attend more than she wanted anything.

  At two and twenty, Ju was already nearly six years older than most the students who entered Ginevra’s. It had taken those extra years for them to save enough for Ju to quit work and commit full time as the ballet school required. To wait another year—it made Ju’s insides feel like shriveled, month-old fruit.

  Except, Mama looked so tired. Moreover, there was always the problem of paying for schooling. If Mama couldn’t find work, then Ju wasn’t going to make Mama go hungry just so she could dance—even though she’d gladly go hungry herself if it meant being part of Ginevra’s.

  “Have you eaten already?” Mama asked as she ladled two scoops into a small bowl.

  “No.” Ju’s hand dropped to her own middle. Just how little food could she go without and still have the strength to train? Perhaps if she stopped eating three times a day—dropped down to only two, or one and something small in the evenings—it would be enough? “I prefer not to dance on a full stomach.”

  Mama nodded and then sat quietly at their table. It wobbled dangerously when Mama sat her bowl down. Gears above, if the furniture began giving out, too, what would they do?

  Mama took a small sip and her whole frame seemed to relax. “It is lovely.” She smiled at Ju. “You run along now. Go show those judges what my beautiful daisy flower can do on stage.”

  Daisy flower; it’s what her name, Ju, meant. Ju kissed the top of her mama’s head. Though she always suspected that Mama had also named her after her father, Ju-long, which, by contrast, meant as powerful as a dragon. Ju hoped she would have some of her father’s strength with her tonight.

  “Thank you, Mama.” Ju grabbed a ribbon and quickly secured her hair high atop her head as she’d learned in the Chinese dance school growing up.

  “You no worry,” Mama said. “I will pray to the ancestors tonight. Your father will show us the way.”

  ***

  Ju skipped up the stairs to the stately building that housed Ginevra’s. She pushed the door open and walked inside. The foyer stretching out before her was tiled in marble and more gas lights hung from the ceiling than she’d ever seen in one room before. People bustled this way and that. Some in typical dresses, breeches, corsets. Others in ballet attire, the wooden tips of their shoes clapping against the floor as they walked flat-footed.

  It was magnificent. Her skin tingled with excitement and she took another step forward. What would it be like—what would it feel like—to come here every day? For this to be her second home? For these people to be her dear friends?

  A couple of young women, their wide eyes making them appear many years younger than Ju, stopped and stared at her, their drop in conversation feeling like a bit of a ripple in a pond. Another group stopped to stare at her. Then a third.

  Ju fought against the blush she felt creeping up her cheeks. No doubt, in this very English establishment, her distinctly Chinese features only made her stand out.

  Ju turned toward the first group of young women who had first noticed her and walked toward them with her head held high. Many of the women in Chinatown Ju spoke with regularly had told her again and again to keep her gaze down. To keep her comments to herself. To be demure and petite and polite and quiet and all sorts of other things. But that wasn’t Ju; trying to sit still and stay quiet was not for her. She needed to be something more than just a beautiful woman on a man’s arm.

  She needed to speak her mind.

  She needed to dance.

  “Can you tell me which room auditions are being held?” Ju asked in her clearest, most refined English.

  One of the young women pointed down a small, well-lit hallway. “Second door on the right.” She had a bit of an accent. Italian if Ju wasn’t mistaken. “But you have to sign in first, third door on the left.”

  “Thank you.” Ju hurried toward the hallway. She wanted to make a good impression and showing up a few minutes early was one of the best ways she knew how to do that. Moreover, she wanted to get away from all the staring eyes. They would come to think of her as one of the group, wouldn’t they? Though, that would only be if she was accepted.

  “Name?” The woman in the room to the left tried to hide her surprise at seeing Ju. Apparently not many women with pale skin and black hair signed up. Most Europeans were a varied mix of browns. Ju stood out, a stark black-and-white.

  Ju was instructed to wait in yet another room. The prospective dancers would be called in three at a time to perform before the judges—instructors at the ballet school—in a few minutes. She was to use the time to stretch and ready herself.

  The waiting room was much like the other rooms; marbled floor and well-lit. Everyone here was dressed in tight fitting bodices with a thin outer corset, airy skirts that only came to their mid-thighs, and sheer stockings which ended in slipper-covered feet.

  Ju found a spot to stretch near the back corner. At least she was wearing slippers as well. Though the rest of her attire was at odds with those around her. Her shirtsleeves looked like the top half of a Chinese cheongsam dress, with the high collar and the strip of ribbon which ran from the base of her throat to just under her arm. But instead of a straight skirt like a traditional cheongsam, her top ended above her knees, and had long slits up either side past her hips. She wore slim, black silk breeches, though they weren’t nearly as skin-tight as stockings. Was there some rule stipulating what she should have worn today? She was certain she hadn’t heard of any clothing requirements—she would have remembered something so vital if she had. Hopefully the instructors judging today wouldn’t mind her out-of-place attire too much.

  She sat on the marble floor, which wasn’t as cold as she had expected; most likely because of all the warm bodies in the room. Placing her feet straight out in front of her, Ju began stretching. All the other women around her were stretching, but not in the way Ju was. They twisted and contorted in fashions differing from those Ju had learned. Gracious, just how much had Ju missed out on?

  Ju had been through extensive dance training, but it was all Chinese dance training, not British. With arms stretched out, Ju glanced surreptitiously under her elbow and eyed the thin woman stretching closest to her. Ju adjusted her legs and back to more closely mimic the woman’s.

  The stretch felt different along the side of her legs—not necessarily better or worse, just different. No doubt there was something to be gained by doing it this way, otherwise an entire nation of passionate experts wouldn’t be doing it thusly.

  A voice, which sounded remarkably like her mama’s, echoed about her brain box proclaiming that if the way she’d been taught wasn’t effective, all of China’s best, equally passionate, experts wouldn’t be doing it that way. But, Ju wasn’t in China. She was in England. Her mother held tightly to her old culture and ways, but Ju had always been ready to embrace the one she lived in.

  The woman next to Ju pulled out of the stretch and sunk into another one. Ju followed suit.

  Truth was, Ju had never seen so much as a blossoming flower or blade of grass in China—her mama had run while pregnant and J
u had been born here in England.

  A tall man walked into the room. He wore brown, tight breeches, a blue, loose shirtsleeve and moved with grace and exactness. His hair was dark brown with a single streak of shocking white across his forehead. He had to be one of the instructors. The man stopped in front of the group and read from a long sheet of paper. “Miss Cogsmith. Miss Featherstone. Miss—” A pause. “Miss Zhi?”

  The other women had unfolded themselves as their names were read, so Ju did the same. From the look in the man’s eyes, Ju could tell the moment he connected her face with her name and realized why it was so foreign. It had always been like that. Her name gave away that she was different, that she didn’t quite belong, even before her looks did. As if she needed yet another reminder.

  “Ladies,” he addressed all those whose names he’d called. “You will follow me.” A directive, not a request.

  Ju fell into line with the other women and they daintily walked across the hall to the room where the judging was taking place. Ju felt her heart speed up as she entered the new room. It looked exactly like the last, marble flooring and well lit. However, across the front of this room were four well-dressed individuals. Each studied the women as they lined up against the far wall. Ju had never felt so much like a bug pinned to a sheet of paper. Though hiding was not Ju’s style, she did wish she looked just a little more like the other women. No doubt, her dark garb stuck out like a thistle in a field of buttercups.

  “Miss Featherstone,” one of the women judges said. “What a pleasure to see you again. I trust you have been focusing on your turns over the break as I instructed.”

  “Yes, Madame.” Miss Featherstone bobbed a quick curtsy.

  Ju felt her confidence slip. What if these other women got in solely because they already knew the judges?

  “I am excited to see your improvement,” the judge said. “You shall go first.”