The Hidden Blade: A Prequel to My Beautiful Enemy (Heart of Blade)

by Sherry Thomas

“Thanks to Young Master’s blessings, this humble maid has been well.”

  “Bai Gu-niang grows more beautiful with each passing day.”

  “Young Master overpraises, as always.”

  “Not at all, not at all.” He walked in a circle about her, inspecting her. “Such loveliness should be clothed in the finest silks and draped in the roundest pearls. I will be most honored if Bai Gu-niang permits me to supply her such trifles.”

  “My fortune is thin, Young Master. I dare not aspire to such rich presents.”

  “Bai Gu-niang is much too modest.” He was undeterred. “I plan to speak to my father very soon. I do not think he will refuse me this request.”

  Ying-ying almost looked up. Big Treasure never neglected to mention that if she pleased Shao-ye in bed, he might raise her to an official concubine. But she had always considered that line so much deception, meant to make her think she might get more than Shao-ye’s dubious lovemaking.

  “After all, he took you in, so he is responsible for you. I will convince him that once he gives you to me, I will reform my ways and devote myself to my studies. I don’t see why the solution shouldn’t appeal to him.”

  She was thunderstruck. There was a certain twisted logic to Shao-ye’s reasoning. What if Da-ren indeed came to see the matter from this point of view?

  “Bai Gu-niang is shy.” He moved closer and whispered in her ear. “But I can see she is secretly pleased with this idea. If we are to be united sooner or later, why not come with me today and learn a few of the pleasures of the bedchamber?”

  Her nails dug into her palms. “I dare not, Young Master. My amah would beat me if I were late home.”

  He lifted a braid of her hair. “Surely she will understand if you say I detained you.”

  “She has her orders directly from Da-ren himself to strictly watch my every step. I’m afraid she’ll yield only when he commands differently.”

  The lordling tore off an embroidered amulet sachet he wore at his waist and hurled it against the nearest wall. “Da-ren! Da-ren! My whole life I’ve had to listen to him. Everything I want, he stands in my way.”

  Ying-ying took an involuntary step back. An old man came running—one of Da-ren’s advisers. “Young Master, here you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Please come back. Otherwise what will I say when Da-ren asks where you are?”

  Shao-ye’s face contorted in rage. “If he asks, tell him I’m in the shithouse. Or am I not even allowed that anymore?”

  The old man did not even blanch. Presumably it was not the first time he had heard such language from Shao-ye. Shao-ye hurled another string of abuses, but in the end left with the older man: It would not be wise for him to further antagonize Da-ren.

  Ying-ying exhaled. She hoped Shao-ye would get caught being absent. And then Da-ren would be in no mood to listen to him ask for Ying-ying.

  On the other hand, he could point out that Ying-ying had become a dire distraction for him, and that actually having her in his bedroom would be the best way to help him concentrate on more important matters.

  She pressed her fingers into her temples. No wonder grown-ups had headaches. Life itself was beginning to seem one unending headache.

  Amah was standing outside the gate of their courtyard, waiting for her. She took one look at Ying-ying and sighed softly. “Come in fast. Your lunch is getting cold.”

  Only after Ying-ying began eating did she ask, “Young Master’s minions got hold of you today?”

  Ying-ying shoveled a round of rice into her mouth, along with a piece of fish. She could taste nothing. “He was there himself. He said he would ask Da-ren for me.”

  Amah set down her bowl. “He did?”

  “Would Da-ren agree?” Ying-ying stared into her rice.

  “There is a chance,” Amah said slowly. “The boy has grown into a wastrel. But I hear that when he was small, Da-ren had quite adored him. Even today, Da-ren must still hope that he’ll reform. And if the boy swears up and down that he’d make good if only he has you, he just might get what he wants.”

  This was not want Ying-ying wanted to hear. “What should we do then, if Da-ren agrees?”

  Amah stood up. “If Da-ren agrees, it would be too late.”

  “Then what can we do?” Tears of panic and frustration welled up in her eyes. Would they have to flee? How could Amah’s health take the abuse of a life on the move?

  Amah came around and laid a hand on her shoulder. “I will think of something. He will not have you.”

  Ying-ying and Amah broke all the rules Amah had set for them.

  It was no small feat to get a drugged Shao-ye out of Da-ren’s residence and to the vicinity of Minister Chao’s. They hid and waited. It wasn’t that late in the year, but the night was chilly. Ying-ying shivered grimly.

  Near morning, Amah judged that Shao-ye would shortly awaken. Now came the crucial part of their plan: She placed a red pill into Shao-ye’s mouth and carefully manipulated his jaws so that the pill dissolved and slid down his throat: True Words pill, its effect similar to a night of hard drinking.

  Taking advantage of the last darkness before dawn, they placed Shao-ye close to the front gate of Minister Chao’s residence and hurried home. Amah went to bed. But Ying-ying was too nervous to even sit down. She paced back and forth until breakfast came.

  Po was surprised and pleased to see her. “Bai Gu-niang is receiving the breakfast herself?”

  “My amah is slightly unwell,” she said. “Thank you, Master Keeper Po.”

  He bowed but didn’t leave. Instead, he leaned a little closer. “Has Bai Gu-niang heard the news?”

  Her stomach tightened. “What news? You are first person I’ve seen today, Master Keeper Po.”

  Po lowered his voice. “I don’t know for sure myself. But I think Young Master is in big trouble.”

  “How so?” Ying-ying hoped the tremor in her voice did not call attention to itself.

  “Old Tang at the front door said that he was delivered back this morning by Minister Chao’s servants. They said that at the crack of dawn he was shrieking outside Minister Chao’s walls, calling him nasty names that I can’t even repeat to Bai Gu-niang.”

  “Is it true?” Ying-ying widened her eyes. “The same Minister Chao he had already offended earlier by being too attentive to the man’s concubine?”

  “The very one! Young Miao from Da-ren’s courtyard said Da-ren beat Young Master for the duration of a meal with a walking stick. He said Da-ren even drew his sword at one point, threatening to end Young Master once and for all!”

  Ying-ying gasped and covered her mouth. “What is going to happen to Young Master now?”

  An angry but dignified Minister Chao came to see Da-ren in person. As a result, Young Master was packed off to a maternal uncle, a general stationed in Canton, at nearly the other end of the country.

  Three days after his departure, Amah made ready to set out, a small cloth bundle tied diagonally across her back.

  Ying-ying knelt down and put her forehead to the ground. “May the road agree with you, Master.”

  Amah sighed. “Rise.”

  Ying-ying did. Amah looked at her for some time. Then, out of the blue, she embraced Ying-ying, a quick hug that was over before Ying-ying realized what had happened.

  “Keep up your lessons with the Englishman,” she said, tucking a loose strand of Ying-ying’s hair behind her ear. “And stay out of trouble.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  They went out the gate of the courtyard together. For appearance’ sake, in case anyone saw them, Amah curtsied to Ying-ying, which unnerved her. “Will I see you again?” she asked, unable to help herself.

  “Stupid girl, don’t say such inauspicious things,” Amah answered. “Of course you will, when I come back in three months.”

  “Please look after yourself, Master.”

  Amah shook her head, sighed again, and left.

  When three months had passed, Amah did not return.

 
Chapter 21

  The Brightest Hour

  The internist from Naples proved entirely correct. Once Miss McHenry had banished everything exciting from her diet, her old vigor returned. She, Miss Violet, and Leighton departed from Capri and visited the Levant, Egypt, Kenya, and a number of places in between.

  They arrived in India near the beginning of 1878 and proceeded to the usual destinations for English tourists. Miss Violet like to say, dryly, Never has anyone been so captivated by the usual. And so the usual—the Taj Mahal, the mountains of Kashmir, the forts and palaces of Rajasthan—managed to easily enchant them.

  Ten months later, on their way back to Bombay, they spoke seriously for the first time about their eventual parting of ways. Hong Kong emerged as their final port together. From there Leighton would travel to Peking, and the ladies to New Zealand, where one of their nieces lived.

  Hong Kong was far away yet, but at the end of their conversation, Miss McHenry already shed a tear. Leighton was both saddened and exhilarated. It had been two years since he left England, five years since he last saw Herb, Mother, and Marland. He was ready to throw his arms around any and all of them.

  Back in Bombay, they stayed at the same hotel as before, but now Leighton had picked up enough Marathi to speak to the native attendants in their own language.

  One afternoon, he and the misses McHenry came back from buying some provisions. An attendant named Aadil helped them carry their bags back to their rooms. Leighton tipped and thanked him. But the man hovered.

  “Yes?” Leighton asked.

  Aadil cleared his throat nervously. “Beg the sahib’s pardon, but does sahib speak Hindi?”

  It was an odd question. “Why do you want to know?”

  “A sahib came around a few months ago. He asked whether we have had a young guest with black hair and green eyes who spoke to us in Hindi.”

  Leighton was suddenly cold. “And?”

  “We didn’t, of course. But he told us that any time we had such a guest, to let him know. Then you came back and spoke to us in Marathi. My friend Komesh and I had a debate. He said the two languages are similar enough that if you spoke to us in Marathi, it was as good as if you spoke in Hindi. But I didn’t think so. Hindi is Hindi and Marathi is Marathi—to my thinking.”

  The backs of Leighton’s knees had turned weak. He knew which one was Komesh, a sharp-eyed, clever fellow. “And where is this friend of yours?”

  “I think he went to see the sahib about an hour ago. He said there would be a reward.” The attendant suddenly looked crestfallen. “You think I should have gone with him?”

  “No, no, absolutely not.” Leighton emitted a bark of laughter, even though all he felt was a painfully sharp fear. “Now why don’t you come in here. Let’s play a practical joke on your friend.”

  The misses McHenry looked up in surprise as he ushered Aadil into the sitting room of their suite.

  “Have you heard, ladies,” he said, smiling tightly, “that the P&O steamer is going to sail early?”

  Their expressions changed. They understood that he had been found and must go on the run immediately.

  Leighton turned back to the attendant. “Let me have your uniform.”

  “I beg your pardon, sahib?”

  “It’s all part of the practical joke.”

  “How, sahib?”

  “You’ll see. You let me borrow your uniform and Komesh will not get any rewards. But you will.”

  This was good enough for Aadil. Ten minutes later, Leighton walked out of the hotel in the attendant’s uniform, a satchel in hand, Miss Violet next to him to make it seem as if he were carrying her luggage instead.

  There were several Punjabi attendants on the staff who were just as tall as Leighton, so he aroused no particular attention as he made his exit, even though he himself was painfully aware that the uniform was too short.

  They almost ran smack into Komesh and an Englishman, coming into the hotel. Leighton averted his face, his pulse hammering.

  He was not recognized.

  They found a place for him to change out of the uniform and back into his own clothes. Then it was to the railway station, as the next steamer headed for Calcutta would not depart for another thirty-six hours.

  He bought a ticket for the first train out. On the platform he hugged Miss Violet. She kissed him on both his cheeks and wished him good luck.

  “You will be fine,” she said.

  “Thank you.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “Thank you for everything.”

  In Allahabad he boarded another train, headed for Calcutta. By the time he reached his destination, he was a German university student who spoke only a heavily accented English and no Indian languages at all. He left within the week on a mail steamer. After calling at Rangoon and Penang, he disembarked in Singapore to await the next fortnightly P&O liner to take him farther.

  He stayed at an out-of-the-way hotel, kept to himself, and made absolutely no attempt to learn any local languages. A clever realization on Sir Curtis’s part that he would take the opportunity to learn and practice local languages--it was too bad that Leighton hadn’t had the foresight to burn all his notebooks before he’d left Rose Priory. The moment one opened those notebooks, full of exercises and translations he had undertaken himself, his love of languages would become all too evident.

  It was more than a fortnight into 1879, and two rather frightful South China Sea storms later, when he at last sighted Hong Kong, a far more mountainous and verdant island than he had anticipated. But as his steamer pulled into port, his sense of alarm tingled. It wasn’t long before he spotted two men in a sampan, scrutinizing his steamer with binoculars.

  Fear very nearly throttled him. Was this it? Would he truly go no farther, when he was at last in the same country as Herb?

  He grabbed the steamer’s second mate, who happened to be passing by. “Sir, those two storms have put me behind. I need to be in Shanghai this minute. Are any of those ships leaving immediately?”

  The second mate scanned the harbor and its myriad vessels, then pointed toward one. “Today is Friday. The Kaitsung should be leaving for Shanghai in about three quarters of an hour.”

  Leighton waited and waited, keeping out of the view of the men with binoculars. Then he took a deep breath and climbed down into a sampan. Almost immediately the men with binoculars began rowing in his direction. He instructed his boatman to head full-speed for the Kaitsung.

  The Kaitsung pulled anchor almost as soon as he came aboard. The men chasing him in the sampan shouted, but their words were drowned by the Kaitsung’s engines and the general din of the harbor.

  It was a sunny, mild day. Though a stiff wind blew from the sea, it was still beyond pleasant to stand on deck, watch Hong Kong recede, and savor another day of freedom.

  The problem with having boarded the first steamer leaving port, however, was that Leighton hadn’t bothered to inquire after its itinerary. The Kaitsung called at every port along China’s eastern seaboard—or at least at Amoy, Foo-Choo, and Ningpo, while Leighton paced the decks, impatience and frustration rising in tandem.

  Now he had lost the time he had hoped to gain.

  On the day the Kaitsung was to reach Shanghai, he woke up with a fever. His joints ached. And when he got up from his bunk he swayed—not from the rolling of the sea, but from dizziness.

  He stumbled about, disoriented: He was almost never sick, and he must have been a small child when he’d last run a fever. When he was dressed, he lay down again, his stomach pitching with a greater intensity than the winter sea outside.

  When he got up again a couple of hours later to prepare for disembarkation, he felt even worse. He forced himself to check his belongings, making sure that he hadn’t left anything behind. Then he mentally reviewed what he had learned from his fellow passengers: Steamers arriving from Tientsin would advertise their departure in the local paper for the next day, though it was not unusual for them to remain in port for two or three days. Also, he shoul
d expect a journey of up to seven days, with rough seas at Chefu, and the likelihood of being stuck on a sandbar near Tientsin.

  He was close. So close, the journey of ten thousand miles almost at an end. He just had to be careful, to evade his pursuer for a little longer.

  But as he disembarked, clutching at the rope ladder to get into a sampan that would take him the remainder of the distance to land, he could barely manage to keep his balance, let alone be alert and observant. His stomach heaved. His brain felt as if it had been turned into a pile of hemp rope, full of rough fibers that scraped his nerves with every step.

  Onshore he allowed a porter from Astor House, which he’d heard mentioned as a respectable establishment on the Bund, to conduct him to the hotel, a quadrangle of one-story buildings around a central greensward—a Western-style establishment, like almost all the other places he had passed inside the International Settlement.

  At the reception he asked for a room, declined the offer of food—the thought of which made him recoil—and took a newspaper with him as he was led away. In his room he opened the English-language paper. But his eyelids drooped heavily.

  He fell into bed, the newspaper crunching underneath his weight. A lovely feeling, all the aches and pains and nausea fading away, anesthetized by the long slide into slumber.

  He jerked as a knock came on the door.

  “Mr. Atwood, open the door, please.”

  He swore under his breath, but as there was no question of running away in his current condition, he only said, “Go to hell.”

  And closed his eyes again.

  He woke up feeling much better. His fever was gone, his stomach was at peace, and his joints moved without any discomfort. The newspaper crinkled as he sat up, reminding him that he had yet to scan the advertisement section for ships departing to Tientsin in the near future.

  The next moment his heart thudded most unpleasantly. Mr. Atwood, open the door please.

  He had registered under a false name. Anyone who knew his real name would be someone who meant to send him back to England. To Sir Curtis.