His words were as much a question as a statement, but she bristled nonetheless, her voice dropping to a low hiss. "If I am so frivolous a creature, then why must I come with you? Indeed, isn't it safer for me to stay here?"
He groaned, his body collapsing onto the bed. "I have insulted you, Joanna. I apologize. I wish to... Understand." His eyes continued to roam, but not to the hallway and back. This time he searched her face. "Are you truly serious? Enough to devote your entire life to a foreign religion and life?"
She sobered, knowing he was looking for honesty. Knowing, too, that his doubt was understandable. She had trouble believing in her own passion. And yet it was there, undeniable and true. "I want this teaching more than anything in my life." She gripped his hands. "I want to stay here. Even if it means risking my life with those soldiers, I want to stay here."
He shook his head, his voice morbid. "Not the soldiers. The general."
She leaned forward, touching his face. "Can you not trust in the Tigress? Maybe she can turn them away."
He shook his head. "I have to leave. And I want you to come with me." It wasn't so much a statement as a plea. And it tore her heart to see him so afraid.
She wanted to go. Lord, she wanted to go simply because his eyes begged her and his hands trembled in hers. But she had just found what she wanted; she had just discovered something wonderful. How could she abandon it? Wouldn't that make her as flighty as he had just accused her of being?
"Do not make me choose," she begged. The thought of him leaving tore her heart. And the thought of finding a different partner was more than horrid; it was repulsive. But she needed Shi Po as well. Sacred scrolls were one thing, but they were steeped in imagery only Shi Po could explain. Joanna and Zou Tun had nothing without her. "Please, can't you trust Shi Po?"
"Do you?" he pressed. "Do you believe she has your best interests at heart? That she understands what it is she does?"
Joanna bit her lip. No, she couldn't say that. And yet... she could. She believed in Shi Po's ability to instruct. But the woman was much more complicated than that. Even Joanna could see that she was struggling to harness forces she did not fully comprehend.
"When countries are at stake, even religions get twisted," Zou Tun muttered. Then there came a sound: the noise of servants and feet, a man's loud protest and a woman's sob. Joanna couldn't identify the voices, but she knew the meaning. The soldiers were coming. If she and her monk were to leave, they had to do it now.
Joanna remained poised, undecided. The knowledge she craved or the desperation in Zou Tun's eyes? Shi Po? Or Zou Tun?
Phrased that way, the decision was clear. The monk. Always. Because he was gentle and kind and protective and honorable, despite this confusion with the imperial army. And yet Joanna still hedged, needing something—one last answer before she threw her lot in with him completely.
"Why, Zou Tun? Why do you want me to go with you?"
He looked at her, his hand poised on the door. "Because you are the only one I have trusted in three years," he whispered, and she could tell that the words caused him pain. "And because I need you."
That was enough. It wasn't everything she wanted, but it was enough for now. Before she could change her mind, she grabbed the blanket off the bed, using it to shroud her very Caucasian hair and face. "Do not forget you have promised to explain everything," she said.
"I haven't forgotten," he said as he checked the hallway. Then he grabbed her hand and together they ran.
* * *
Zou Tun cursed under his breath as he realized the truth: He had nowhere to take Joanna. He'd sworn to keep her safe, then pulled her away from her true passion. And it was a true passion; of that he was sure. It still stunned him to think of a woman—a ghost woman—with the strength to dedicate herself as any monk would at a temple. As he had done three years ago with Abbot Tseng.
And so he had one more sin to add to his growing list: taking a true seeker away from her place of study and worship.
He groaned, trying to focus his thoughts. His sins could wait. Right now he had to find a place in Shanghai where a penniless monk and a runaway foreigner could hide from imperial soldiers. Or more important, from the general, his father.
"You don't have a clue where to go, do you?" There was no accusation in her voice, just a weary certainty that he was a complete fool.
Zou Tun sighed, too ashamed to hide his incompetence. "I have never been in this city before." He tried not to wince as he spoke. The pain in his throat was like shards of glass cutting at his vocal cords. It was his punishment, he knew, for having taken away Joanna's voice. This malady would not go away until after he had atoned.
Joanna was looking at their surroundings with a knowing air. "This is my city," she murmured as much to him as to herself. "I know where we can be safe from the... the general." She gave him a significant look. "Then we can talk."
He nodded, though he wondered if he would have the voice by then to answer her questions. Still, he had promised to explain, and so he would even if he wasn't sure how much of his own inadequacy he wanted to expose. Why, above all things, he would worry what one ghost woman thought of him, he didn't know. But he was man enough to acknowledge his fear.
Yes, he cared what she thought of him. And so he would do his best to earn what honor he could in her eyes.
"Come on," she said, taking hold of his hand. "You got us out of the Tigress's compound. Now I'll get us out of Shanghai. Or more specifically, out of Chinese Shanghai."
It didn't take long. Not only did she know the way, but she got them a rickshaw and they were soon moving quickly through the crowded streets. Zou Tun didn't like the noise or the buildings. The city felt too cramped, too cluttered, and much too smelly. But even as he longed for his silent mountain crags, he blessed every unfortunate soul who clogged the city streets. The more people who squatted like beggars here, the more people there were to confuse and misdirect his father.
All too soon Joanna was taking off her blanket covering. Though the air still had the bite of winter, she wrapped it around her shoulders, allowing her white face and brown curls to shimmer bronze in the sunlight. She was indeed a beautiful woman, and Zou Tun was dazzled by it.
How had he not seen it before? And how had he not realized how commanding and capable a woman she was? She easily handled the guards manning the gate into the foreign concession. With a smile and an absentminded air, she gained passage for both himself and their rickshaw driver. She even cut off the guard's questions with a wink, as if it were her right to wander through China as she would. It was only after they were well inside the barbarians' territory that she leaned over and whispered into his ear.
"Just about every guard knows me," she confessed. "I've been going in and out of the foreign concession for years now, and I tip very well." She sighed. "Of course, there are problems with being recognized. It will take less than an hour for someone to tell my father I've returned."
He caught the note of anxiety in her voice and cast her a sharp look. "Will that cause a problem?"
She shook her head, though her words were heavy. "My father doesn't allow problems." Then she turned away from him, focused completely on giving directions to the rickshaw runner, who, in turn, was wholly occupied with avoiding the increasing numbers of horses and carriages that choked the streets.
Zou Tun could do no more than look about him in shock and awe. These barbarians lived like royalty! There was wealth everywhere he looked. Jewels. Gold. Horses. Towering buildings. It seemed he had stepped from one country into the next, though he knew he still remained on Chinese soil. And yet everything he saw was foreign to his eyes. Strange colors, strange food smells, and even worse, strange words.
Was that what Joanna's language sounded like? It was terrible. And yet perhaps it was musical in its own barbaric way. He didn't know what to think. It was appalling that these barbarians could adorn themselves with jewels and finery while in the countryside his people were struggling for even
the smallest grains of rice. And yet he had been to the Forbidden City. He had lived in Peking. He knew what wealth adorned even the lowest eunuch there. He knew the extravagance of the generals, his own father included.
If those Chinese could adorn themselves with finery, why not these barbarians as well? Was not that always the way of men, to garner wealth at the expense of someone else? China was too poor for all to live in elegance, so those who could grabbed from those who could not.
The truth saddened him. This was not the Taoist way.
His thoughts were cut off as the rickshaw stopped before a mansion—a glittering monstrosity of stone and wood. In truth, it reminded Zou Tun of a grave marker. Large and ugly, it squatted on the land next to all the other stone edifices, monuments to man lacking harmony with nature and Heaven and everything else.
"My home," Joanna said softly, but there was no warmth in her tone.
He reached out, touching her hand. He could tell by the cold sweat on her skin that she was afraid to return. He opened his mouth, intending to suggest another place, any other place, but she shook her head.
"We'll be safe here," she said softly as she disembarked. Then she told the rickshaw runner to wait; a servant would pay the fare. Slowly she turned and began climbing the steps to the mammoth front door.
Zou Tun was beside her in a moment. He would not abandon her to face her father alone. He looked at her, seeing her smile encouragingly at him. The expression was clearly false. She was gripping his arm, her fear obvious for all that she tried to hide it.
"You are safe with me," he lied, doing his best to comfort her. He touched her fingers, knowing how inadequate was the gesture.
They never made it to the door. Within moments of their climbing the first of a dozen steps, the door was flung open. An elderly Chinese man stepped out, his face a wrinkled mixture of joy and fear. His words were unintelligible, but Joanna understood. She ran up the last steps, throwing herself into the man's arms. They hugged, their words fading into silence as they simply held each other. Zou Tun stood back and watched the unusual display.
The man was the butler. At least, he appeared so from his livery. He was head of the household servants, and yet Joanna was clinging to him as if they were friends long separated. Zou Tun intertwined his fingers, searching for a monk's calm as he stood to one side. But no peace centered him. All he felt was a hot surge of jealousy. Even if the two were servant and mistress, they cared for each other, and he envied their emotional reunion.
The pair soon separated, embarrassment coloring both their faces as they realized how public their display had been. The man then turned to Zou Tun, but Joanna stopped him from speaking.
"Someone must pay the rickshaw," she said quickly. "And we need baths. And clothing. We cannot appear before my father like this."
The man nodded, ushering them inside even as he began dispatching orders to other servants. Then all was accomplished in silent haste as they were shown to separate bathing chambers. Joanna did not say another word except to promise to see Zou Tun soon. And that they would talk later.
He did as she told him. He enjoyed the comforts of a heated bath in a copper tub. He used perfumed soaps and thick towels. Then he dressed himself in the finest silks, reminiscent of when he was a pampered and cosseted Manchurian prince. And though his Shaolin soul wanted to claim that the luxuries were repellent to him, he knew that they were not.
The water felt excellent, the silks even more so. And without even realizing the shift, he found himself walking and thinking once again as a Manchurian prince. He ordered the servants to get him fine foods and demanded that someone perfume his clothing. But when he watched a silent girl sprinkle costly scented water upon his person, he felt shame flood his soul. How quickly he had forgotten three years of learning. How quickly he had slipped back into extravagance and all the temptations entailed therein.
He reached to stop the woman. She looked at him, her eyes wide and afraid. He tried to reassure her with a smile, but she was truly frightened, and he wondered what type of household this was that had such anxious servants.
"You have done most excellently," he said gently, even as her hand trembled beneath his. "But tell me, is there any other clothing available for me? Something simpler?"
She bowed anxiously, her head dipping up and down. It was not an imperial kowtow, but it served the same purpose—demeaning one for the elevation of another. "You do not like your clothing? My deepest apologies. I shall find something else immediately. Something finer. Something—"
"No, no," he said, trying to catch her fluttering hands. "These clothes are fine. Just fine."
"But I can search—"
"No," he repeated. "No. You have done excellently. I shall inform the master of this house that I am most pleased with your work."
She bit her lip, obviously too frightened to know if he was sincere. "Thank you, great sir," she said softly.
"Please just show me to where dinner will be served."
"But your sweetmeats are coming. They will be up in a moment."
He winced, having already forgotten that he'd ordered food. He shook his head. "No, miss." He used a formal address. "Those are for you and any you wish to share them with." Then, for fear she would misunderstand, he made his next words absolutely clear. "And I will not need your assistance any more tonight."
"Oh, but, sir!" she cried. "Please do not dismiss me. The master will be annoyed. Please." Her voice trembled. "Please allow me to... to..." She couldn't finish. Did she truly think he would require her sexually tonight?
He didn't have to ask. Some things, apparently, were universal. In both Manchurian and barbarian society, when a man was served by a pretty young woman, certain things were expected.
He sighed. "I will not dismiss you." But he had an idea. "Please go into the city and find out any information you can about imperial soldiers. Do not endanger yourself. Simply listen to what is said; then report back to me in the morning. Can you do that?"
She nodded, her expression lightening. "I know exactly what you wish, sir. I will learn everything I can."
"Thank you," he said, waving his hand in dismissal. However, it was interesting that Joanna's servants were well used to acting as spies. Yes, some things were common in all wealthy homes, and the very thought sickened him. He hated returning to a place where someone watched his every movement, and people spent hours every day planning and devising strategies for gain.
He had no head for playing those types of games. And no will to learn. The very thought was exhausting. And so with a weary heart he left his room, exploring as best he could, finally descending the stairs to the main floor in search of Joanna.
What he found was a formal room, designed not for harmony but display. At least the air seemed to move here; he did not feel so stifled. Then he realized that it was more than just air. It was the energy of the room that flowed, pulling one inside. It didn't take long for him to identify the arrangement. It was that of a merchant, a sucking tide of commerce such as one found in a canny businessman's shop.
It began at the periphery, with a single, simple piece near the door. The tiny tree was an exquisite carving of black ivory. It drew the eye inward to yet another piece, even grander, more beautiful than the previous. White jade like a bleached bone reached for the viewer, drawing him nearer toward a delicate etching of an immortal offering a peach of long life.
On and on one stepped, the flow ever stronger, the temptations grander, more stunning. Cloudy jade was followed by red jade, only to be followed by a pure jade so translucent a single candle flame glowed through the delicate fanlike design. One piece was carved trees, the next was immortals, then angels and deities. And in the end, what did one find? What was the vast sucking center of energy, the merchant's greatest pride and joy for which he would expect a treasure trove of gold?
Joanna Crane.
It was a painting, actually, that hung over a square fire pit; huge, overdone in oils, and yet still beaut
iful. Joanna sat in a flame-orange dress with rubies flashing at her throat. Her long white fingers held a flower Zou Tun did not recognize. He knew only that it was large and funereal white. A fitting match for her face, he thought, which was pale and frozen, without the barest spark of life.
"Hideous, isn't it?"
Zou Tun turned, seeing the real Joanna Crane standing just outside of the room, her warm bronze eyes a hundredfold more glorious than the glorious picture behind him. She was dressed as elegantly as he, though the style was barbarian. She looked uncomfortable, squeezed into her laces and silks that did not move or flow but held her stiffly in place.
He much preferred her in coolie clothing.
"I do not like the flower. Or your face," he stated flatly, referring to the picture.
She laughed, her voice was high and tight. "Trust a monk to avoid flattery."
He hesitated, wondering how honest he could be in this place. "I did not mean to offend," he finally said, resorting to his court manners. "It is a beautiful painting, but it does not capture the bright glow of your essence."
She raised her eyebrows, her face alight with stunned surprise. "My goodness, Zou Tun, when did you turn poetical?"
He shook his head. "As a barbarian you cannot know true poetry. My words are merely a monkey's chatter."
She was in the process of sinking into what he assumed was a barbarian curtsy. She stopped short at his words, straightening with a wry expression. "Now that," she said dryly, "is the Zou Tun I remember."
He frowned, feeling awkwardness settle between them as had not happened since they had met on the road so many days before. He had not intended to sound arrogant, but he had. "Joanna—" he began, wanting to bridge the gap between them.
She shook her head, cutting him off. "It doesn't matter," she said as she crossed the room to stare up at the painting. "My father had this commissioned two years after coming here. All the rich families have one, you know, and so he found an artist. My mother died soon after the crossing, and so it had to be me, sitting for hours on end, clutching that stupid white lily. The artist said it meant purity and majesty, and so I was to hold it like Queen Elizabeth, the Virgin Queen." She blinked, coming back to herself. "I'm sorry. I'm rambling, and you probably haven't a clue what I'm talking about."
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