41
The Plea
The man’s chest moved steadily. Up and down, without a shudder. Sao Jin had watched him breathe for three days. She had nursed him—a dreaded boo how doy. No, he could not be, she thought. How could she have helped an enemy?
Jin did not know whom to trust; her only friend was lost.
She closed her eyes, clenched her fists. Rage had kept her alive, kept her burning. It had kept her fighting. That white woman had ruined everything. Taken her away from the dunes—away from Mei.
Wong Kau’s lips moved. They were cracked and pale, and his eyes fluttered open. He tried to lick his lips, but his tongue was clumsy. With a low growl, Jin soaked a clean cloth in the pitcher. She wrung it out lightly, then squeezed it gently over his mouth. Water slipped between his lips, and he drank, swallowing, growing in strength. What would he become when he recovered? What if Mei had been mistaken—what if this man had not been trying to help them on the dunes?
Wong Kau’s hand came up, or tried to, but his bonds stopped him short. He whispered something. She bent closer, straining to hear. “Wun…ah Mei,” he rasped. “Wun… ah Mei.” Was it a plea, or an order from his tong?
Footsteps approached from outside. Jin swiveled, preparing to face whoever entered, in whatever form. It was the white-bearded old man.
Tim glanced at her. “I see the children got you into a bath. Not so bad, right?” When she did not answer, he tried another question. “How’s he doing?”
Jin said nothing. No one really wanted her to speak—they only asked questions to discover if her spirit had been broken. When she answered, inevitably they would try to break her again. So she simply remained silent.
Tim placed his hand on Kau’s forehead, and looked down into the younger man’s eyes. “You’ll live, then.” He sounded displeased, as if he had silently added, ‘For now.’ “Be careful with the amount of water you give him. I’ll have Miss Lily warm up some chicken broth.”
He was a small man, but quick. Jin did not trust him. White men pretended to be civil to make themselves feel better. But all were the same. She preferred the ones who were not two-faced. At least she knew what was coming when she missed a smudge on the floor, or did not move fast enough.
“I can’t believe I’m playing nursemaid to this fellow,” Tim grumbled. “He shot my boy.” The man scratched his bald pate, glaring down with murder in his eyes at the boy how doy.
Jin did not know whether she’d help Kau if the old man tried to kill him—the boy how doy had ruined her life.
Blue eyes settled on her again. “He say anything yet?”
Find Mei. Find Mei.
Jin shook her head. She would do as the boy how doy said, not because he’d requested it, but because she wanted to.
42
Love and Ciphers
Watchmen patrolled Ravenwood estate, and bright lights glared from the windows. Wanting to avoid meeting the men and having to explain herself (or risk getting shot), she circled the block, and hurried up steps to a house that butted up against the grounds. It was on a steep slope below the manor, and its fence was particularly high. Walking down the narrow side lane to its small back yard, she shimmied up a drainage pipe, and stretched out her leg to reach the fence.
Isobel easily made the transition, and balanced along the fence until she came to a higher one. She scrambled up that and dropped over the side, landing in Ravenwood’s yard, in the corner with the willow tree and Tobias’ fort.
The small exertion reminded her that she was not at her best. She adjusted the ditty bag on her shoulder, and crouched, giving herself time to watch the yard and catch her breath. It was tempting to sit for a time, but she forced herself to move.
Small noises came from within the fort, and she edged slowly forward, stopping at the entrance. “Jin?” she called softly. “It’s me—Faan Tung.” At that moment, Isobel agreed whole-heartedly with that ‘good-for-nothing’ sentiment. What had she been thinking when she’d gone to Park’s Place? Bartenders were known for their powers of observation, as surely as prostitutes and gamblers.
Eyes glinted through a window from the dark interior.
“It’s me.” She removed her cap. “Can we talk?”
No answer. Isobel withdrew the candle she carried, and struck a match. Slowly, she pushed the hatch open. Her little light filled the interior of the fort. It was a fine one, and Isobel suspected Tim had had a hand in helping Tobias build it.
Jin tilted her head, eyes narrowing. She held an open clasp knife, likely pinched from Tim’s workshop.
“You look like a man.” There was puzzlement in Jin’s voice.
Curiosity was the failing of every rebel. Isobel knew that for a fact. A small, freshly made up cot, and a thick blanket took up half the space. Shelves of knickknacks and treasures filled the rest, and a tray laden with rice and a teapot sat on a stool.
Jin did not offer her any.
“I find it best to move around the city disguised as a man at times,” Isobel said, ignoring the blade in the child’s hand, as she crawled through the hatch. She put her back to the far wall, and ran her fingers through her short black hair. It would need trimming soon. The thought of cutting it again brought a pang of loss. She was becoming sentimental. Intolerable.
She set the candle between them. “How’s your brother?”
“Why don’t you go see?” Jin tucked her legs up on the cot, wrapping her arms around them protectively.
Fear, Isobel decided. Fear and rage. She eyed the scars crisscrossing the girl’s face, and wondered what others were lurking underneath her clothes. The thought made her sigh. Being the adult of the pair, she had hardly behaved as one.
“Look, I’m sorry about earlier today,” Isobel said. “It’s been a hard few days for both of us. You have no reason to trust me, I know. But now you know something about me—that I run around the city dressed as a man. That could get me arrested.” Not entirely true. Only if she were caught wearing men’s clothes. “I’m trusting you with that knowledge.”
She let that sink in for a moment. But she had no idea how far it was sinking.
“I’m not going to take you to a mission. You can sit here and grow old if you like, but you’ll have to pay Tobias rent and Miss Lily for food. I’m sure she has some work for you. Whatever it is that happened on the dunes, we will find out one way or another. I already know about the man who was killed in a struggle.”
Jin tightened her grip on the knife, confirming her deduction.
“I know about the big Chinese man, and I don’t like him, or anyone else from that brick building. When I was hog-tied in that basement and beaten, they wanted to know where ‘the girl’ was. I’m assuming they meant you.”
The hellion pressed her lips together. She could give Riot a run for his money. Isobel swallowed down an urge to growl; instead, she channeled Riot, and waited for more. But silence never seemed to work for her. Maybe it was because Riot gave the impression of settling in to wait for years. Or maybe it was the sound of his voice—deep and calm, seducing a person to talk. When he fell silent the absence of his voice was keen.
“I’ll leave you to it, then. I need to change into my ‘Miss Bonnie’ outfit.” Isobel pushed her ditty bag outside, and started to back out.
“Why do you disguise yourself?” the girl asked, closing her knife and tucking it into a pocket. Her English was only lightly accented, and full of iron.
“I’m a detective.”
Jin scoffed. “Girls are not detectives.”
“A girl who does as she pleases can be. I don’t wait for permission from other people. And I doubt you do either.”
“You know nothing about me.” The words were pure venom.
“The meaning of those scars on your face is as plain as words in a book. It’s the title to the book, only I don’t know what’s inside it yet—I don’t know if you have more to you than fear and anger.”
“I am not afraid.” Her eyes were defiant, but her f
ingers strayed to the bracelet at her wrist, turning it and plucking at the beads.
“Of course you aren’t, Jin,” Isobel said. “I’ve told myself that same lie for years.”
Isobel left, but she could feel eyes on her back as she trotted across the yard, towards the manor. Without missing a step, she grabbed the drainpipe that climbed the house, and followed its course to Riot’s window.
Up was easier than down, and she’d had a full day of rest. Still, she was regretting her choice halfway up the side of the house.
Isobel clenched her jaw, ignored her shaking arms, and kept climbing, striving towards the light that spilled from Riot’s window. It was cracked, and the curtains had not yet been drawn. She reached for the side of the window frame, gripped the edge, stretched one of her legs, and found purchase on a bit of trimming. Taking a steadying breath, she braced herself, and was reminded of every bruise and strain from the past three days.
The reminder of the large man and his kick-happy foot brought a flare of irritation, and a surge of strength. Isobel made the transition from pipe to window, and promptly slipped. She caught herself, barely. Making a racket, she quickly hoisted herself up, then rested the upper half of her body on the windowsill.
Riot sat in his armchair, bent over the small table with pen in hand. “You know I do have a door,” he drawled without taking his eyes off the notepad.
“I thought this was it,” she said. “May I come in?”
Riot stood, and opened the window the rest of the way. It was obvious he had stopped by a barber. His beard was newly trimmed and immaculately sculpted, and his raven hair gleamed in the fire’s light.
“Such a polite burglar.” She accepted his hand, and when she was on terra firma, he looked her up and down. “Dare I ask what Mr. Morgan has been up to?”
Isobel removed her cap, and dropped her ditty bag on the floor. “Probably best not to ask.”
“Ah,” Riot said. “A drink, then?”
“That would be lovely.” But before he left to fetch her a drink, she pulled the Queen of Hearts from her pocket, and held it up, poised between two fingers. “As promised.”
His eyes smoldered as he slipped the card from her finger tips, and pressed his lips to the back of her hand. She forgot to breathe. The card disappeared into a pocket, and he looked into her eyes, still holding her hand. His skin was warm from the fire, his collar undone, and his sleeves rolled to his forearms.
“You’re shaking, Bel,” he said. “Sit down.”
Isobel didn’t have the breath to argue. As he turned towards the cupboard, she sank into Ravenwood’s chair with a sigh of relief.
The chess pieces on the table had not been moved. The two kings, black and white, and the little pawn in front, were stark reminders of their task. She knocked her mind back on course, and focused on an open, leather-bound journal. There was a stack of similar journals on the floor.
Numbers filled the pages. Along with occasional Latin terms, Chinese characters (or so she assumed), and an amalgam of other languages written in a meticulous hand. She glanced at Riot’s notes. A series of numbers (that included a space) was circled: 1415 7181523208. And beside the numeric sequence were two simple words: No growth.
She frowned, working through the sequence. “Are these laboratory notes in cipher?”
“Hell froze over, thawed, and dumped the slush on my table,” he said with feeling. Riot took a long draught of his brandy, before bringing one to her.
“Brandy won’t help with the deciphering,” she said.
“It may.”
Isobel smiled, and touched her glass to his. “Then drink more, my friend.”
“I’d need the whole bottle to counteract the headache these journals give me.” It was close to a growl, and the sound sent a charge through her body, leaving her flushed. She took another sip of brandy.
“It… uhm,” she cleared her throat, “seems like a simple substitution cipher.”
“That one is,” he said, sitting in the chair across. “One for ‘A’. Two for ‘B’, and so forth. But it’s not consistent. Some paragraphs contain a more complicated variation.”
“Exciting.”
“That’s one word for it,” he said dryly.
“You aren’t looking forward to deciphering these journals?”
Riot pressed the cool glass to his temple, and sank back against the chair. “Ciphers generally make my head throb.”
Isobel cocked her head. “Why?”
“I remember everything I read, Bel. It’s a knack, or a curse, depending on how you look at it. It gives me an edge as a gambler.”
“Really?” She leaned forward. “You mean you have a photographic memory?”
“I don’t know about that. But it’s fairly decent.”
“And here I thought you spent inordinate amounts of time memorizing poetic prose to impress your harem.”
Riot chuckled. “I can’t imagine a harem would leave much free time for reading.”
She snorted.
“I didn’t learn to read until I was somewhere between hay and grass,” he explained in a more serious tone. “I’ve been making up for lost time ever since.”
This room, his room, was filled with books on its shelves. Books made her feel at home—they calmed her, and so did he.
“So why are these journals different?”
“I remember what I read, but I can’t make sense of these, so everything stays garbled in my head. It’s a bit like having an itch you can’t scratch.”
She frowned at the page. After a moment’s consideration, she grabbed his notebook and pen, and scratched a note onto a blank page. With great care, she tore it from the book, folded it neatly, and when she was satisfied with the crispness of the edges, she handed it to him.
Riot set down his glass, and took his time unfolding her note. She watched him carefully as he read the three words in her message. He looked up from the slip of paper.
“So you won’t forget,” she said softly.
“I could hardly forget these.”
Isobel smiled, and raised a slim shoulder. “I figured I’d throw you a line.”
“Consider me saved.” He folded the paper, and tucked it in his breast pocket, over his heart. Hope had manifested into something tangible.
“I’ll decipher these for you—unless you’re in a hurry?”
It took a few moments for her words to sink in. Riot shook his head. “The journals have been sitting in the attic for the past three years. I don’t think there’s much rush.”
“Why have you decided to look at them now?”
“I’m not sure, Bel,” he admitted. “The world is a bit tilted at the moment.”
“Welcome to the sea.”
“My sea legs are rusty.”
“You’ll get them back. I know you will. In the meantime, you have me to lean on.”
Riot balanced his glass between his finger tips, and looked down into the amber liquid. “I appreciate that.” He took a breath. “Your question the other night made me think.”
“The horror.”
He smirked. “I have no clue what Ravenwood was doing. I was hoping his journals might shed some light on the matter.”
She frowned at the stack. It would take a long while to wade through the ciphers. But Isobel loved a good puzzle, and she wanted to know more about the man who once sat in the chair she had claimed as her own.
“I’ll work on them when I can.”
“I’ll take a few, too. I can hardly let you do all the work.”
“Why?” she asked. “Mr. Morgan is your employee. You can have him go fetch you coffee every morning.”
“I could,” he agreed. “But I’d rather fetch Miss Bel tea in bed every morning.”
“My God, Riot, you’re going to turn me into a spoiled heiress.”
“I thought you were?”
She threw a knight at him, but he caught it left-handed, and flashed a quick grin. “Have you eaten?” he asked.
&
nbsp; Isobel thought of her dinner, and the conversation that had made her ill. She decided to change the subject. “How is Wong Kau?”
The humor left his eyes. Isobel regretted her question immediately. She liked to see Riot smile, to see the chip in his tooth. And she loved to watch him laugh—a thing felt more than heard.
“He’s out of danger,” Riot said. “Last time I checked, Wong Kau was being spoon-fed broth.”
Isobel grunted. She wondered how she’d feel if Kingston were being cared for and spoon-fed in a room in her family’s home. One thing she knew for certain, she’d not be handling the situation as well as Riot was.
“I can talk to Kau. You don’t need to be there,” she offered gently.
“Did you learn Cantonese while you were away?”
“Dr. Wise could translate,” she said.
“He returned to the Quarter. He wanted to be back at his clinic.”
“I imagine he was worried about his family, too.”
“They live just on the edge. His wife is white. She’s a teacher at one of the missions.”
Isobel arched a brow. “What about the anti-miscegenation laws?”
“They were married in New York. He went there to get his doctorate, and came back with a wife. Their marriage isn’t recognized here, but San Francisco has never been much concerned with fornication. Still, he’s been ostracized from both cultures. Fortunately, the mission where his wife teaches and the sick who come to his clinic are of a more practical mind.”
And Isobel thought her life was difficult.
Riot turned the glass in his hand, watching the movement of liquid. “Would you back down?” he asked, without meeting her eye.
“From what?”
“From talking with Wong Kau if you were in my shoes.”
“I can’t answer for certain—I’ve never been shot in the head.”
He winced. “I can’t even ponder that thought.”
“Don’t get protective on me, Riot,” she chided.
Riot met her gaze. “No more than you are with me.”
Record of Blood Page 32