by L G Rollins
Ju had heard more than one rumor that within Ginevra’s it was as more often who one knew than what one knew that mattered. What if the rumors were true? Was there any chance for her?
The man who had led them all in pointed toward the center of the room. “Just dance as the music moves you.” He nodded toward a piano player in the corner and he began playing a soft, lilting melody. It sounded like Dvorak, or possibly Massenet.
Miss Featherstone moved to the middle of the room and assumed a pose; if Ju remembered correctly it was called third position. Even basic positions and moves were labeled something different in London than in Chinatown. As the music swelled, Featherstone lifted her arms and flowed through a series of lovely movements. Ju’s legs began to shake—what if she wasn’t nearly as good as she’d been told her whole life? What if she couldn’t measure up to the other women trying out today?
The music ended and Ju realized she’d been worrying more than watching. Holding her head erect, Ju clasped her hands tightly behind her back. She would not let her nerves get the best of her tonight.
Miss Cogsmith was called forward and given the same instruction to ‘dance as the music moves you’. This time Ju paid better attention.
The moves were like the soup her dear friend, Dapo, had made her try the other night. Familiar at first, but then it had grown strange the longer she’d held it on her tongue. While Ju could understand and pick apart each of the separate moves Cogsmith executed, they were done in a different style than how she’d learned. The longer she watched, the more differences she could spot.
All too soon, Cogsmith was done and curtsying.
“Miss Zhi.”
Ju moved to the center of the room. She began to press the palms of her hands together as she’d done thousands of times since she was a child, but then stopped herself and instead assumed third position as both the other dancers had done.
The music began and Ju willed her heart to tell her how to move. Inspiration remained mute. Ju raised her hands above her head, copying what she’d seen both the other dancers do. Closing her eyes, Ju breathed out and focused solely on the melody.
The music swirled around her, beckoning her to follow the highs and lows, the crescendos and accents. Ju gave in to the notes, moving with the rhythm. She twisted and turned. She went up on her toes and brushed her fingers against the loftiest notes. She stretched her legs out, willing them to move with the soft undertones as they grew until they took over the main chords.
Confidence blossomed in her chest allowing her to push harder; reach further, lift her leg higher, until she almost felt the floor drop away and she was swirling among the clouds and notes and soul of the music.
One of the judges muttered low to another. Ju’s concentration burst and she was back in the marble room with strangers all about, evaluating her. She let her hand twist around as it flowed upward in an arc above her head. Was her style too different? Was it far from what the judges expected?
Ju moved to another pose but kept her feet and hands the way she’d seen the previous two dancers do. Perhaps if she under-emphasized her Chinese training, the judges would believe she could fit in here at Ginevra’s. Ju twirled, again trying to make her legs and arms move the way she’d seen.
Her leg wobbled, nearly giving out under her. Ju landed hard on a flat foot, the smooth turn ending abruptly. Ju clamped her jaw—she would not give in to the pressure. She waited a half breath, then began again on the next down beat. Her foot twisted wrong and pain shot up through her ankle. Sucking in a deep breath, Ju moved her weight over to her other foot and tried to hide her pain.
The music stopped, leaving Ju stranded in an awkward position, not at all the last impression she’d hoped to leave the judges with.
They looked at her unblinking. Were they impressed? Disgusted? She couldn’t tell from their blank expressions. Still, she was fairly sure this wasn’t the same look they’d given the other two dancers. Gears above, if she didn’t get in what would she do? Dancing was everything to her. She’d planned her whole life around getting into Ginevra’s. Maybe she and Mama wouldn’t have to worry about money after all; if she wasn’t even accepted, Ju would have no choice but to wait twelve long months and apply again next year.
The man with the white streak of hair stood. “Thank you, ladies. Results will be posted next week. Good evening to you all.”
He opened the door and motioned for them to leave with a sweep of his arm. Cogsmith and Featherstone said good-bye to a couple of the judges as they filed out. Ju wasn’t sure what to do; she didn’t know any of them at all. So she only gave a single nod their direction and hoped the judges could share that farewell between them.
She slipped out of the room, down the hall, and out into the night air, anxious to be far away from all the stares.
The moment she was out of sight of the grand building, Ju’s head dropped. She’d have to wait a full week? Her dance wasn’t perfect and she felt in nowise confident in the outcome. Ju pulled out the ribbon holding her hair and let it fall down around her shoulders. It was going to be a very long week indeed.
CHAPTER THREE
A dull ache tugged against Jasper’s wrist. He set his jaw and willed the nightmare to subside. It was a familiar experience and, frankly, he wasn’t in the mood tonight. He had too much else to worry about to be plagued yet again with images from his childhood in the orphanage.
Jasper tried to roll over in his bed. Only, his arm wouldn’t follow. Pain, sharper this time, crisscrossed up his arm, forcing him fully awake. His bedchamber was midnight dark. Something bit into his skin around each wrist—rope if he wasn’t mistaken—pinning each arm out to either side.
Someone chuckled from near the foot of his bed.
Panic zipped over his skin. “Who’s there?” Jasper demanded.
Cold steel pressed up against his throat as a second person leaned over him. “You will speak only when spoken to.” It was a high-pitched voice, though still masculine. Jasper searched his memory. He couldn’t place the intonation anywhere.
“Who are you and what—”
The knife pressed closer against his throat until Jasper felt it pierce his skin. He struggled against the ropes, but they bound him down.
The figure hovering near his feet spoke again. “You will listen and obey.”
Jasper scowled. Obey? Him? Not likely. Tressa had complained more than once at his acute ability to disobey any order, direct or otherwise. He may not know who these people were, but he certainly didn’t feel inclined to obey them.
A single light flickered alive, held by the individual who stood at the foot of his bed. It was a tall man, dressed in red. His face seemed vaguely familiar, though not enough of the light spread up that way for Jasper to be sure.
“Normally I would take offense that you have not bowed to me,” the man at the foot of Jasper’s bed said slowly. “But, given the circumstances, I’ll grant you mercy this once.”
There was a bit of rustling from Jasper’s other side; a third individual stood near where his arm was tied down. There were at least three in his room then, and who knew how many else hiding in the shadows? His heart pounded hard.
Jasper wasn’t about to condescend to responding to the man’s spiteful jab. Instead, Jasper waited silently. Most individuals revealed more than they originally intended to when given silence to fill—it was a subtle trick Jasper had used more than once when interviewing those incarcerated at London’s prison for one of his art projects last year.
“You should feel honored,” the man continued in his slow drone. “There are not many in England”—he spat the word with distaste—“that I would ever agree to speak with. Let alone visit them in their own humble home.”
The more the man spoke, the more his accent became obvious. Jasper bent his brow in concentration; who did he know who spoke with that accent?
Two nights ago. His art gallery. He’d met Ambassador Leng. That’s who was standing at the foot of his bed. But what
in the blazes would an ambassador from China want with him? Not that he cared particularly. Whatever it was, he wasn’t going to be subdued beneath this man’s thumb.
Jasper threw his untethered legs up, crunching his stomach tight. His knee knocked into the man who stood with a knife to Jasper’s throat. The man stumbled to the side, but the other man jumped onto Jasper. His fist hit Jasper across the chin.
Spots exploded across his vision. Jasper writhed atop his mattress, intent on flinging his legs toward the second man. The first man recovered, though, and grabbed Jasper’s ankles and pulled them down. Jasper’s head throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat. He grappled against his bindings, but the two men had him pinned down completely.
“That is wholly unnecessary, I assure you.” Ambassador Leng said, tutting as one would to a small child.
Jasper clenched his bound hands into tight fists. “I generally find a round of fisticuffs quite necessary when blackguards break into my house at night.”
More tutting. “You are like a firework. Loud. You can either be awe-inspiring or destructive. It all depends on how you use your power.”
Jasper sucked in a hissing breath. “I’ll show you what destruction looks like.” The two men still held him down. Jasper twisted again, but couldn’t throw them off. Devil hang them all—if he only had his arms free, he could take them all at once.
“You have a sister, and a new brother-in-law,” the ambassador said.
Jasper stilled, not for fear in behalf of Tressa or Brox—he felt confident they could handle their own—but it would seem a natural reaction to the ambassador’s half-hidden threat. If the two dogs holding him down thought he was through fighting, they might let up and give him the chance he needed to deal a blow.
The ambassador moved about Jasper’s room as he spoke on. “They live on the other side of town but you see each other a couple of times a week. You have jumped from one career to another since entering adulthood and are currently trying to make a name for yourself as an artist.” He stopped near the open window to Jasper’s right. In a single fluid turn, he spun back around to face Jasper. “Is it unnerving to find that a stranger knows so much about you?”
Jasper gave a noncommittal shrug. He wanted to say that the ambassador was the one who would be finding this meeting unnerving the moment Jasper got his hands on him. But he needed the two men holding him down to relax their guard, so he stayed silent.
Though, truth was, Ambassador Leng was right. It was upending to find the man had learned such details in only a few days’ time. Then again, the men pinning him down and the middle of the night meeting was no doubt adding to the chilling atmosphere.
“This is how things are going to play out.” The ambassador smiled a thin, mirthless smile. Jasper took in another deep breath to prevent himself from straining against the two men holding him down; how he wished he could punch the man right in his grim, arrogant mouth. No one broke into Jasper Wimple’s home, threatened him and his family and left without answering for it.
“You are going to get something for me, and after you do, I will guarantee your career will never grow lacking. Your art will be displayed in all of the best galleries and coveted by all the noblest of families. You’ll have more wealth and high connections than you’ll know what to do with.” His tone turned upward, as though his promises were the pinnacle of any man’s desires.
Wealth and connections? Ha, Jasper didn’t believe that for one minute. More likely, once the ambassador was done with Jasper, the ambassador would have him killed. Jasper was no wide-eyed, naive buck fresh out of Eton. He’d had friends who’d been tangled up in backwater deals before—gads, he’d been tangled up himself more than once. Rule of thumb: the partner with the lesser social status generally ended up dead.
“I’m not working for you,” Jasper said, willing his tone to stay even. The less of his fury he expressed the more likely his chances of escaping the rope bindings. “I don’t care what empty promises you make.”
“There. There.” The ambassador was back to speaking as though Jasper were an unruly child. “None of my promises are empty, I assure you. I am a man of honor.”
“You’re as much a man of honor as I am a man of Lords.” Jasper shut his mouth with a snap—so much for trying to lull the guard dogs into growing lax.
The ambassador flicked a finger toward the man holding the knife. The man twirled the knife around and pressed it against the underside of Jasper’s wrist. Jasper writhed atop his bed. The pain was hot and biting, but not nearly as bad as the fear.
If the man cut any deeper than skin level, he’d sever the tendons underneath. Jasper would never again be able to use his hand to paint or sculpt. Hot blood pooled against Jasper’s wrist, but the knife held and didn’t go deeper.
“You are going to get me a few images—use one of those fancied up cameras I heard you bragging about night before last.” The ambassador continued in his unruffled, superior tone as though nothing had happened. “In return, I am going to bring up your name in a few, highly influential circles.”
“I’ll bring your name up when the constable asks me who broke into my house.”
Ambassador Leng continued, ignoring Jasper’s threat. “Doctor Hopkins, your new acquaintance, has some interesting research, but she refuses to share it with me. She has a small book which she seemed most keen to keep out of my hands last time we spoke. I’m not asking you to steal it outright, only take pictures of every page and give them to me. No one will ever know anything has been taken.”
He stopped before the foot of Jasper’s bed and, resting his hands against the plain footboard, leaned over Jasper. “I hold the ear of every wealthy government official across the whole of Europe and Asia. With me backing you, talking you up, there’s no limit to how far you’ll go.”
Jasper gathered the spittle in his mouth and let it fly. It splatted against Ambassador Leng’s cheek bone. It was quite the distance, even for Jasper. But he had more than one hidden talent he’d developed as a youth in Westwood Orphanage. “May the devil chain your soul to his eternal inferno.”
Ambassador Leng’s thin lips turned down and he nodded once toward one of the dogs. The man’s fist rose high in the air; Jasper could only just see it in the darkness.
It collided with his forehead. Sparks filled his vision. Pain screamed across his brainbox, driving every thought and awareness away.
The sparks fled and left only darkness behind.
CHAPTER FOUR
Jasper’s head throbbed. The ache sent strange colors scurrying over his eyelids. He tried scowling at them, but they didn’t subside and wrinkling his brow only made the pain worse.
But it was morning. Enough light seeped through his shut lids he could tell that. And he was still alive. After his midnight beating, he wasn’t sure he would see today.
Jasper tugged on a hand, wishing he could lift it to his aching head. It obeyed easily; he wasn’t still bound or tied. The room around him was silent. So maybe they’d left shortly after knocking him out. Jasper eased one eye open. The pain quadrupled. Jasper groaned, but forced his other eye open regardless.
Why did the sun have to be so brilliant this, of all mornings? Out of all the hundreds of days a year that England was clouded over, why couldn’t today be one of them? Jasper glanced about the room. All looked exactly as it had when he’d first retired last evening. Not a sign, not a trace, of his midnight visitors could be seen.
Jasper glanced down at his cut wrist. The blood had caked over, but he could still twist his hand around without too much pain. He moved each finger individually. Everything seemed to be in working order. If the ambassador had taken away Jasper’s ability to create, he would have spent the rest of his days hunting the man down, consequences be hanged.
Jasper sat up. The room spun around him. Grinding his teeth, he forced himself to stand without reaching out for the bedpost, no matter how woozy his stomach felt. He took a couple of steps and studied the room more closely. No
t a book or item of clothing was out of line. Meaning, there was not a solitary shred of evidence that anyone had bothered Jasper last night. He had nothing to take to the constable. Not that it would have made any difference. An ambassador was far too high a government official for someone as small as Jasper to legally fight against.
Would he truly hurt Tressa or Brox now that Jasper had defied him so completely? He’d better get to their house right away and warn them.
The tempting smell of eggs and ham cooking wafted in from Jasper’s open window. The neighbors must be going all out if he could smell their morning meal from his room. Jasper staggered over to the window.
A note was nailed down into the window frame. Jasper tore it off.
Your future begins now.
Doctor Hopkins keeps all her research in a small black book in her laboratory. Take pictures of every page. Drop off point details will be given to you soon. Your reward will be egregious and immediate.
His future? Ha, the ambassador would have to do better than that. Jasper hadn’t ever been overly concerned with his future—good things happened to one and, even more often, bad things happened. Wasn’t like he could stop either from coming his way.
“Ho Jasper!”
Jasper glance down toward the street below. Several dreadlocks fell across his face. Jasper angrily pushed them away. Little Tom looked up at him with mud smeared across his face and shirt, waving an open hand like he was trying to land an airship.
“Morning, Tom,” Jasper said, then grimaced. The yelling made his headache bite against the back of his eyes even worse.
Tom held up a long pole. “Wanna go fishin’ with me?”
At least one of them was having a good morning; Jasper made a mental note to not mention to Tressa that he’d seen Tom playing truant.
“Not this time,” Jasper called back.
The boy’s shoulders dropped a bit, though Jasper couldn’t figure out why. Tom had a perfect day for fishing, and if he was this far from Westwood he must have gotten away from his teacher unnoticed.
