by Jade Lee
“Out!”
Jing-Li was still laughing as he skipped quickly out of the room. But that left just Anna beside the tub and the mandarin jutting proud and hard out of the water. She looked at his face, trying to gauge his mood. His expression was no longer angry. Perhaps it was more thoughtful, more curious, as he seemed to inspect her carefully. Thoroughly. And with a frank sexuality that unnerved her. Or perhaps not. Her nipples tightened under his dark regard, and she felt her tongue wet her suddenly dry lips.
“You wish to see a show?” he challenged.
She canted her glance away. “I wish merely to entertain, honored sir. I—” Her words were cut off with a surprised squeak as he suddenly gripped her chin and slowly, inevitably, turned her head to face him.
“Do you seek to hide now, clever woman?”
She swallowed. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I would never hide from any sight you chose to show me.”
He grunted in pleasure, as if she had just promised more than she’d intended. But before she could do more than wonder, he began to pull her head down. His grip wasn’t brutal, merely firm as he tugged her chin back to its place on her forearms atop the edge of the tub.
“You wish to see? Then watch.” Then he wrapped his hand around his organ and began to stroke.
From Anna Marie Thompson’s journal:
December 14, 1881
A man came today. His name is Samuel Fitzpatrick, and he has a nice smile. He said he did business with my father, so he knew that Father had a daughter. He said Father
He told me
He was very sorry
I can’t write it! He can’t be! But Samuel brought me a doll. It wasn’t from England. He said it was Italian, and that my father would have bought it for me if he could. But he couldn’t because Samuel said it was yellow fever. That lots of sailors died from it. Samuel said Father loved me very much and he heard from the captain that his last thoughts were of me and how much he loves me.
I told him he was lying. I threw the doll at him and ran from the room. He must have left the doll behind when he left because Susanna has it now. Says it was a gift from her mother. Except I know it wasn’t. She’s a filthy liar. And my father is not dead. He is NOT dead!
Samuel told me something else though. He told me the name of Father’s ship. I’m going to go to the ship tomorrow. I’m going to leave right after evening prayers. I know how to get to the dock. I’ll find his ship and my father. He isn’t dead. He’ll give me a real doll from England like he promised.
I am not an orphan! I have a father!
[We] shall teach such a lesson to these perfidious hordes that the name of European will hereafter be a passport of fear, if it cannot be of love, throughout their land.
—The Times of London
Chapter Five
Zhi-Gang wrapped one hand around his dragon while the other stretched across the edge of the tub to touch Sister Marie’s shoulder. He pretended to hold her down but in truth he simply wanted to touch her skin, to feel her heat, and to know as precisely as possible her reactions to all he did.
Her eyes were huge as she perched her chin on her forearms. And only because he had his hand on her shoulder did he know that tiny tremors shook her. She was not nearly as sanguine as she appeared, and he smiled in real delight.
How unusual was this little fake nun. She had probably seen a man’s dragon before; her reaction when snatching away the sponge had been one of mild curiosity, not a virgin’s terror. And yet she was not nearly as hardened as the usual opium runner, male or female.
“Did you work in a mission hospital?” he asked abruptly.
She jerked at his question, her gaze rising to his face. “What—I—” She swallowed then flushed at his smirk. “Yes, I did.” Then he felt her straighten her shoulders and pretend to a disaffected shrug. “I saw many male organs there. Many much larger than yours.”
He nodded, believing her. “Of course you did. But it is like seeing a sword in an armory. You can see them lined up in a row, care for them, even compare length of the blades, the girth of the hilts, and measure the sharpness of the tips. But until you see one in the hands of a master, wielded by one who knows it as intimately as his lover—well, then, you know nothing about swords at all, do you?”
She blinked as she thought about his words. With understanding came a sweet blush to her features—a virgin’s innocence, despite extensive hospital experience and a somewhat bold nature.
A very bold nature, he corrected. Her gaze had already returned to where he massaged his dragon with long, slow strokes. When she spoke, her tone was mocking. “And you claim to be a master, of course.”
“Oh, no,” he returned with false modesty. “I am much too young to have attained that status. I am more of an apprentice in the bedroom arts.” Then he slowed his stroke, pinching the mouth of his dragon so that a yang pearl seeped out. She stilled in surprise and curiosity, and he leaned forward to push his advantage. “But I learn quickly,” he drawled.
He reached down and lifted the pearl onto his forefinger. “Here,” he whispered as he held the sacred substance before her lips. “My gift of yang to you.”
She did not know what to do, but she was smart: She understood his implication. And yet, even without touching her, he could feel the war within her. Yang emissions were not typically appealing to a virgin. But she was pretending to be world-weary, and he was enjoying discovering the edges of her experience.
She frowned at his finger, and her nostrils expanded as she quietly sniffed. Then she extended the tip of her tongue. It protruded slowly, as if she had to force herself. She clearly had no idea how erotic the sight was to any man: a woman’s shy, questing tongue, nearly touching him. Nearly…
He could not resist pulling his finger away, just out of her reach. How beautiful was the sight of her open mouth! He could see the white of her teeth and the soft darkness beyond.
Then, while he was lost in the recesses of her sweet mouth, she lifted up on her knees and abruptly snatched away the pearl. She did not touch it with a quietly questing tongue; she abruptly surged forward and wrapped her entire mouth around his lifted finger.
Wet heat surrounded him, her swirling tongue. She added suction as she drew back, pulling at his finger. He felt as if his entire spirit went with the yang pearl, drawn into her body as swiftly and as inevitably.
Heat exploded through his body, shocking both him and her. Without his conscious intent, his dragon disgorged its yang fire. Zhi-Gang gasped in release, his mind overwhelmed by all that he felt as it and his qi spilled onto his chest and into the water. Wasted! Yang power and male seed spilled uselessly.
Except, it did not feel as if his energy fell away. He sensed it entered her, drawn in by some white magic. His awareness, too, seemed to connect with her. He flashed briefly upon this woman’s heart—her trembling confusion and deep sweetness. He also knew for one brief instant an overwhelming darkness. She was angry, and bitterness stained her spirit.
So like his own. Her spirit and his—both were angry, both were stained. Both of them were acquiescing to darkness like ink spilled on parchment. He felt a bizarre kinship with this white woman, and his spirit shivered in alarm. His body though still disgorged its essence. It could not stop. He could not stop.
Never before had he felt the flow of qi as he did with this woman. Never before had he felt himself merge—even for the briefest instant—with anyone. He stared at her in open shock, but deep inside he knew a link had been forged. Two people lost in a black fog were now connected at their deepest core.
The thoughts were ridiculous, and yet they were also divine. Any idea that appeared in that moment of release—when qi flowed at its strongest—was deemed Heaven-sent. He believed that now, and the horrifying concept—that this woman might be the only way out of his darkness—made him push away from her in panic.
He reared out of the bath, splashing water every which way. His legs were not capable of sustaining him, and he stu
mbled. Without conscious decision, he steadied himself by gripping her shoulders, thereby continuing their unnatural connection. The fullest strength of it was gone, but there was still an echo, a whisper of knowledge—spirit to spirit—that made him rear backward again.
“Jing-Li!” he bellowed. “Jing-Li!”
He made it out of the bath and wrapped a thick towel about his hips. He did not look at her, but kept his back resolutely turned. He heard her move, though. And what he couldn’t hear, he imagined. She would stand in maidenly shock and confusion, her eyes wide with fright. Or she would slowly stand, a secret smile on her traitorous lips. She would know that she had taken his manly energy into herself. That she had connected their qi, linking them together forever. He couldn’t kill her now. It would be killing himself, slaying his own spirit, because once linked, they were joined forever.
He had bound his spirit to a white woman! Did she know what she had done?
He didn’t know, and so he spun around to discern her true nature: Was she a demon sent to ensnare him, or an angel sent to guide him out of the fog? He didn’t know. And he couldn’t see. She was gone.
He spun around, rapidly scanning every shadow in the room. She was nowhere. He scrambled for his glasses, pulling them on too quickly so that they perched awkwardly on his head. He searched every corner, every shadow. Empty. She was gone.
“Jing-Li!”
How long had his back been turned? Not long. But still long enough for her to make an escape. Long enough to for Jing-Li to slip inside and grab her? Perhaps. He wasn’t sure.
“Jing-Li!” he bellowed again. Then when his friend still did not appear, he rushed outside still clad in his towel.
The boat crew said nothing, of course. They merely averted their eyes at his unorthodox clothing. He didn’t care. Where was she?
“Jing-Li!” Still there was no sign of the people he wanted, and that horrible dread expanded inside him. Could his friend have decided to help him? Could Jing-Li be right now killing her?
He grabbed the nearest worker—the man who beat the drums for the trackers. “The woman,” he demanded. “Where is the woman? My wife!”
The drummer merely shook his head. It took a moment for Zhi-Gang to realize the man shook his head because he didn’t understand Mandarin. The boat people had their own dialect, which Jing-Li spoke.
Spinning away from the drummer, Zhi-Gang scanned the deck and the rocky ground nearby. They had moored for the night, the sanpan tucked tightly against the bank and held in place by a half dozen thick ropes. Any young boy could run along those cords and make the bank. Then it would be an easy matter to hide amidst the shadows and rocks.
Not so much more difficult to drag an unwilling woman ashore—or better yet, carry an unconscious woman like a sack of rice. Was that the rope ladder unrolled off the side of the boat? Yes! Someone had definitely gone ashore! Could Jing-Li have carried her off, dropped her behind a large rock, then slit her throat? His friend would think it a kindness to take such an unpleasant task away from Zhi-Gang.
“Jing-Li!”
In his rational mind, he knew there hadn’t been enough time for such a thing. Zhi-Gang would have heard if Sister Marie had been dragged off or hit on the head. He would have heard something! But where was she? And where was Jing-Li?
What if she attempted to escape? That would be most definitely in her character. And if Jing-Li saw, then he would follow her, wait until the perfect moment to leap upon her. He could be skillful with his knife. The whole thing would be quick and quiet.
“Jing—”
“You bellow like a trapped water buffalo!” his friend groused, popping his head above deck. Zhi-Gang rushed to the edge of the boat where the man was nimbly climbing the rope ladder. “What are you doing out here? Dressed like that?”
“The woman—Sister Marie—she is gone!”
Jing-Li grinned, then spoke in an undertone. “Yes, I know.” He hopped the last step onto the deck. “I made most sure of it.”
Anna felt her ankle roll beneath her and heard the telltale sound of fabric ripping as she slid sideways into the knee-deep mud of a lotus field. She’d been on the run for most of the night now, and her once-beautiful yellow silk gown was now filthy and torn despite her efforts to keep it clean. It was the only sellable item she owned, and so she had hoped to keep it in decent condition. Looking at the caked mud that blackened the delicate flying cranes, she groaned in real distress. What would she sell if not this gown?
She grimaced as she hauled her leg out of the sucking mud, but her eyes lingered on the open lotus leaves floating on the dirty water. Her foot had just fallen afoul of one of the thick below-water vines, so she knew they were there. She knew too, that there were probably edible roots down there. She had eaten lotus many times over the last decade, and her stomach cramped in hunger at the memory.
Unfortunately, she had no idea how to harvest or cook the food, and she had no knife to aid in the process. She didn’t even know if the plants were mature enough yet to eat. In truth, for someone who had lived and worked in this country her whole life, she was woefully ignorant of how to survive. Though she had treated lotus farmers with cracked and brutalized feet, with sores on their skin or infections in their bodies, she had no understanding of what they did, when or how. And knowing how to treat bites from waterborne insects was of no help now.
She grimaced, well-used to her own private litany of uselessness. Her, stomach tightened again, and she blocked it from her thoughts. She should have grabbed some of the Enforcer’s sizzling dumplings when they’d been right in front of her, but she’d been too afraid. Too slow. Too stupid…
She thought again of the opium sack still on the boat. How sweet it would be to just lie back, her feet cooling in the water while she smoked a pipe. How sweet…
But she had left without thinking of the drug, her mind too scattered to remember her only other means of coin beside this dress. And besides, she did not want the dark powder. She didn’t smoke anymore.
Forcing the memories away, she managed to pull herself back to her feet and continue doggedly along the raised ridge between lotus fields. She had no idea where she was going—and that too was added to her list of stupid things she had done—but she knew she had to keep walking.
When the mandarin had turned his back, she had seized her opportunity and bolted. She still could not quite believe no one had seen her scramble overboard. True, it had been dark, but… She shook her head, only able to thank God that He had managed to engineer her escape.
The moment she had hit the shore, she had run as far and as fast as possible. She had not slowed to see if anyone followed. She had hugged the shadows and skirted tiny groups of trackers huddled together in sleeping lumps. She had run and prayed that no one would stop her.
Now it was nearly dawn. She was wandering through farmland well away from the Grand Canal, and it was time to start thinking of finding a place to rest. If God were indeed merciful, she’d stumble upon a Christian mission or even a Chinese monastery. But nothing appeared except muddy lake after muddy lake of lotus or rice.
Then she saw it, rising out of the semidark like the Hand of God: a building. Tall and thin, it perched in the center between four fields. She narrowed her eyes, judging the structure. She knew it was a shed to store tools—they were a common sight out among Chinese fields. But this one was unusually tall, high enough to have an upper-story perch to look out over the fields. Few were built that tall or that sturdy, especially when it was barely large enough for one person to stand inside. But this one had a kind of upper story that would be a perfect place to rest. She could do a lot worse. Especially since she was falling down from exhaustion.
She would have to pray that no one was working in these fields today. Or if they were, that they wouldn’t look closely into the shed.
She fumbled her way inside, grateful that the lock was not a heavy western iron one, but a simple Chinese suaw. It looked like a tiny metal carpenter’s box wi
th two pieces fitting inside and against one another. A metal key—or a well-shaped stick—fit inside both pieces and pushed them apart.
It took too long for her to force the lock open, and she was nervously looking around long before she was done. But she eventually succeeded and half walked, half fell inside. Then she had to maneuver the door shut before climbing up the bamboo ladder. She finally managed it all and leaned awkwardly against the window frame.
The situation wasn’t ideal. Looking down, she saw a thin stream of light on the floor, which meant the door hadn’t fully closed. Worse, anyone looking closely at the window would see her sitting here like Rapunzel in the tower. But there was little she could do about it. She closed her eyes and thought about the mandarin and his sizzling dumplings. But as she turned to the delectable food, they changed into smoking bags of opium. She extended her hand, wondering which she preferred…
She woke to screeching women and children with sticks.
“Ghost! Ghost!”
She blinked into the sunlight, her fuddled mind slow to grasp anything beyond the fact that her legs and back ached like the very devil. She looked down to see children and women screeching. One woman banged a wok with a stick, making a racket that added to the pounding in her head. Another girl and her mother had made it to the building and began beating at the walls.
Anna’s head pounded, and her mouth was dry. Grimacing, she pushed the hair out of her eyes and groaned.
“She is in pain!”
The noise redoubled. A woman grabbed hold of the building and began shaking it while emitting the most unholy shriek. The building began to creak, the tiny floor pitching and twisting in an alarming fashion. Anna abruptly grabbed hold of the walls, trying to stabilize her position. She couldn’t, of course; the place was made of bamboo and would tumble down at any moment.