Aiden took the folder but didn’t open it. He didn’t want to see the number. He knew it was huge.
“Winning the ship wasn’t an accident,” Aiden said.
“What do you mean?”
“The captain set out to lose it.”
Christopher frowned.
“Captain Newgate asked Blind Sally to find him someone who would burn his ship,” Aiden went on. “She suggested he lose it in a card game and sent him to the Elysium.”
“Well, there you have it. It was all fate and we have nothing to feel guilty about,” Christopher said. He was trying for humor, but there was a bitter edge to it.
“Does your father do any business with the Chinese?”
“No. Of course not,” Christopher said.
“Why ‘of course not’?”
“They don’t do our kind of business. The richest of them made their money by bringing in coolies for the railroad. But now, with the railroad nearly done, there are too many coolies, so that’s dried up. They import some regular goods—tea, silk, ivory—but nothing that really matters, no commodities, no industry. Even their banking is private. What are you after?”
Aiden had not told Christopher about his promise to Jian. He had said nothing of the full story even to Fish. He had told them only that Jian had brought him the pottery shards, then had begged to be rescued. Aiden had refused, which was true. He knew Fish had some questions—he certainly remembered Aiden asking about buying a coolie’s indenture—but he also trusted Aiden. Leaving out some of the details, Aiden thought, was not betraying that trust.
“It wouldn’t take much to make things a little better for them,” Aiden said. “At the very least, the Chinese merchants could make what is happening known back in China so other men aren’t tricked into going.”
Christopher dropped into a brocade chair. “You think they don’t know?”
“How could the harshest businessman—thinking only of his profits—allow men to be tricked into that place?”
“Because he wouldn’t believe it was true,” Christopher said. He leaned forward, running his fingers through his hair. “Who could imagine that place was true?” His voice was quiet, resigned. “But if you really want to meet some Chinese, I suppose you could just go to their New Year’s banquet.”
“New Year’s was a month ago,” Aiden said.
“Ours was—not theirs. Theirs depends on the moon—but it’s always late January or early February. I’m sure it hasn’t happened yet this year—we’d have seen or heard something. It goes on for two weeks. They have parades and shoot off firecrackers every night. Were you not here for it last year?”
“No,” Aiden said. “I had just arrived last January. I would have still been living at Fish’s mother’s boardinghouse. It’s not so close to Chinatown.”
“Wow,” Christopher said. “Has it really been only a year?” He got up and pulled his dinner jacket on. “Well, the Chinese merchants host a New Year’s banquet for us every year. Businessmen, politicians—you know, their top people and our top people. Father always gets invited, of course. Come on, then.” He led Aiden into the small anteroom beside his father’s office, where the secretary’s desk and file cabinets were kept. He began to poke through the little wooden slots and trays of letters and invitations waiting to be copied or answered.
“Look for a red envelope,” he directed. “It’s always a red envelope—lucky color. Ah, there.” He plucked the invitation out of a tray. The red paper was thick and smooth, and there was an intricate Chinese symbol stamped into the broken wax. Christopher lifted the flap and pulled out the card. “It’s postmarked just two days ago, so it isn’t likely a refusal has been sent yet, but you can ask Mr. Butter in the morning. New Year starts February fifth. Tomorrow; the banquet is on the tenth.” The invitation was hand-painted with Chinese symbols and watercolor flowers on the outside.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” Christopher said. “They get very serious with the decorations. I went once with Father. Wives are invited, but Mother never wanted to go.”
Aiden examined the card. Five days from now. He thought of Jian chipping away at the guano. Five days seemed an eternity. “You don’t think your father will mind if I go?”
“No. He’ll probably be glad. He went a couple of times, but not for years now. There’s no point, really. But even if the Chinese are not really competitors for anything, he always likes having spies out.” Christopher put the invitation back on the desk. “So, now will you go hurry and dress? We must be prompt. Cook is making a soufflé.” Christopher fastened his collar stud.
“What’s a soufflé?”
“Something French. Apparently all the rage.”
The next five days passed in a strange mix of social whirls and quotidian peace. It was the midwinter ball season, with dances that went on all night, followed by lavish breakfasts. In between, there were days to recover, when everyone was happy to shuffle around the big, comfortable house in loose clothing and undone hair. They read books, played cards and games, ate cheese toast and cold meat and ignored the rest of the world. Elizabeth helped the ducklings write a play, which they performed for the family and the servants. No one really understood the plot—there were lots of fairies and spells and a magical orb stolen first by an ogre (Christopher), then by a wolf (Aiden), and finally recaptured, only to turn out to be a magical egg that hatched a magical bird.
Aiden spent hours each day with Peter, still trying to find a way to communicate with him. The boy had changed little physically over the months, but he seemed to get frustrated more easily. Mr. Worthington had tried two other tutors in Aiden’s absence, but neither had worked out. They were proper trained teachers, and they felt it was a waste of time. Aiden still did not believe the boy was feebleminded. He read to him every day and was convinced Peter was listening, but when Aiden pointed to words, he would not repeat them. He loved playing with a set of alphabet cards but would not put them in order. He would not try to write letters or even trace over them. In fact, he recoiled as soon as the tip of the pencil touched the paper.
Though he did not like to admit it, Aiden sometimes felt annoyed with the boy, even angry. Why couldn’t he just point at the letters on the board or tap for yes or no—anything to communicate? Crippled as he was, Peter still had a hundred times more advantage than most people in the world. Aiden remembered his own mother drilling them hard on lessons in the tiny Kansas cabin in the middle of a brutal winter. Learning was precious. Knowledge was breath. Daily life was all plows and aches—but then came evening, and in the long summer light, or if there was kerosene for the lamp, there was escape in study and reading. They had to struggle to buy books, paper and pencils. All this boy had to do was point.
n enormous lion danced in the street, a great sparkling beast with golden scales and goblet eyes, a scarlet tongue and a fringy beard of blue and green. It twirled and bobbed and cocked its head like a dog. It charged toward the crowd, sending people squealing backward with delighted fear. Though even the children knew it was a puppet—the two men holding it up were clearly visible—it had such personality that it seemed completely real.
The lion danced to a raucous chorus of drums, bells, gongs and flutes, while a dozen men in red and yellow silk jackets marched alongside it holding swaying lanterns on poles. The whole block was a carnival. Bright banners fluttered from the windows, and red paper lanterns glowed from every fence post and entryway along the street. Strings of firecrackers snapped in fiery bursts, sending up acrid drifts of smoke that hung in the chill air. It was easy to find the restaurant where the banquet was being held, since it was the only place other white people were going to. Servants stood by the door with trays of champagne and glasses of punch. Aiden took a glass of champagne. He still did not like champagne but had learned to deal with the bubbles by barely wetting his lips at every sip. It gave him something to occupy his hands, and since it took him an hour to get through one glass of it, he did not worry about dulling his wits.
> Aiden was nervous. Though he was practiced at parties by now, he knew that was largely because he had always had Christopher around to entertain, amuse and charm enough for the both of them. This was the first time he had ever been to any kind of social event on his own, let alone a foreign one. He recognized some of the other guests from parties at the Worthington house. He nodded and was greeted in return, though each time, once they realized that he was there alone, they quickly moved on to more important people. Aiden didn’t care. He actually found it sort of amusing. Though he was rich by any normal standards now, he would need profit from another dozen shiploads of guano to really count for something in their eyes.
He found a place off to the side where he could hang back and observe the whole room. There were ten or twelve Chinese men who were clearly the most important—mandarins, as they were called. These mandarins were all older men, forty at the youngest. They wore exquisite robes of embroidered silk with heavy cuffs of gold brocade. Aiden didn’t know enough about Chinese clothing to be able to tell their ranks or social positions. It had taken him months to learn the nuances of dress for Americans. When he first got to San Francisco, every shopgirl was wearing a ball gown. He would never forget the first time he went to the Worthington house and thought the butler was Mr. Worthington.
Seven of the mandarins had wives by their sides. Aiden assumed they were wives, for they wore equally opulent clothing: silk jackets with voluminous sleeves and skirts covered in elaborate embroidery. They had ornately styled hair adorned with ivory combs or strings of pearls. Most seemed to be much younger than their husbands. Any one of them could be Lijia, Aiden thought, his anxiety growing. What would he do when he met her anyway? He didn’t even know if she spoke English. Would Jian’s tutor have included her in his lessons?
But even if Lijia were here and spoke English, and he could somehow speak to her alone, what should he say to her—I’m sorry, but I had to kill your brother? The first challenge, however, was simply to find her. Each mandarin had an interpreter by his side. Most were younger men, several in Western-style suits, but three were women—perhaps daughters who had grown up here. There were also a dozen or more young men who were escorting the American guests around and introducing them to the mandarins. Aiden crossed the room and began to examine the display of Chinese crafts and paintings. Some were scenes of mountains, some of flowers or animals. Many were done simply with ink and brush. But not simple, really, Aiden thought. He didn’t know much about art, but these seemed unique and beautiful.
When one of the introducers finished with his guests, Aiden boldly stepped up and handed him his calling card.
“I am Aiden Madison,” he said. “Will you introduce me, please?”
The young Chinese man held the card reverently with both hands as he bowed.
“Mr. Madison,” he said with polite deference. Then he glanced up and looked to either side of Aiden, and his expression briefly shifted. He looked puzzled, suspicious even, to see Aiden alone, clearly too young to be an important man.
“I am eager to meet our hosts,” Aiden said with what he hoped was casual authority. The man was in no position to question or object.
“Of course. Please come with me, sir. I will make the introductions for you, sir.”
He began to lead Aiden through the gantlet of mandarins. The introductions, fortunately, were brief, but the Chinese names were difficult to remember, and each man who was not Silamu Xie was a waste of time. Aiden forced himself through polite questions and offered the briefest mentions of his own business. “Shipping and transport,” he would explain.
“Allow me to present…”
“Allow me to present…”
He had never really spoken through an interpreter before, and it was awkward at first. A few of the mandarins knew of Mr. Worthington, or at least politely pretended they did. But one couple, a stout, animated little man with a stouter but silent little wife, had actually toured the zoo. As near as Aiden could make out, he had donated some kind of Chinese bird to the menagerie, but whether it was a finch or a pheasant, Aiden could not tell. The little man talked so fast the interpreter was struggling to keep up. Other guests were beginning to bunch up behind them by the time the introducer finally succeeded in moving Aiden along.
“Allow me to present the Honorable Silamu Xie.” The introducer made a deep bow. Aiden felt his heart thump in his chest.
“Good evening,” Xie said. He did not look sinister or imposing in any way. From the story Jian had told, Aiden had pictured him as some monstrous villain, but he really had little presence at all. He was a small man with a round face, close-set watery eyes and a thin, scrimmy line of dry skin around the edge of his scalp like hoarfrost. The voluminous robes hid his body, but the way he stood with his shoulders low and his feet turned out betrayed a soft condition. His voice was wispy.
“I am pleased to meet you,” Aiden said. “I am Aiden Madison, a business associate of Mr. Worthington’s.”
Silamu Xie’s narrow eyes did not betray much, but the corners of his mouth tightened and there was an allover bristle of interest, like that of a cat that doesn’t move a whisker but alerts to a mouse in the room.
“It is my pleasure,” he said. This appeared to be the extent of his English, for he then spoke in Chinese. His translator was a woman, young, Aiden guessed by her voice, though she kept her face down and so he did not get a good look at her. Not his wife, Aiden assumed by her plainer clothing and subservient demeanor. She stood as still as a statue with her hands clasped in front of her.
“I know Mr. Worthington’s endeavors with great interest,” she translated.
Aiden felt a sudden stab of panic. What exactly did the man know? And how stupid not to have thought of this! The Raven’s voyage to Peru, the names of its owners and its cargo of guano had been reported in the shipping news. If Xie really had arranged Jian’s imprisonment on the Chinchas, he must have a connection to someone there—perhaps even to Koster. So he might also have received word of Jian’s death aboard the Raven! It was almost two weeks since they had arrived home, and much faster ships had sailed past them. A letter could easily have reached Silamu Xie. Aiden felt like the stupidest man alive. Here were a hundred snares he had never considered. I know Mr. Worthington’s endeavors with great interest. The interpreter shifted ever so slightly, and Aiden realized he needed to say something. Maybe she hadn’t translated it exactly. Maybe Xie was just making a polite remark.
“Mr. Worthington has interest in, ah, many different businesses,” he said cautiously, pushing away his panic.
“Of course.” The translator spoke in a stronger voice than he would have imagined from such a slight woman. “I have interest in mining machines such as his company has devised for the silver mines of the Comstock.”
Aiden felt a cautious relief. He knew little about the actual machinery that had built the Worthingtons’ fortune. But he had to think of some way to talk to the man longer. Xie appeared to have no wife—no Lijia—here by his side, so this was the only chance Aiden would have to find out anything about her.
“Perhaps you might tell me more about your interest in mining equipment over dinner,” he suggested. “I could relay your questions to Mr. Worthington, as I am his close associate.”
Silamu Xie fixed Aiden with a steady, inscrutable gaze, then nodded and lifted his hand slightly. Immediately one of the servants sprang to his side. Xie spoke to him briefly in Chinese and the man scurried away.
“You will be most welcome to join our table, Mr. Madison,” the interpreter said. She looked up for the first time, and Aiden felt the air go heavy. She was beautiful. Her eyes were a rich, dark brown and framed by expressive brows. Her skin was creamy and clear, her features delicate. She wasn’t older than twenty, he guessed, and could be as young as fifteen. Her glossy black hair was pulled back in a simple bun, not encumbered with the loops and dangling jewels of the fancier women. Her ears were little seashells, each studded with a tiny pearl earring. She
was sunrise on four continents. He felt hot and disconnected.
“Thank you,” Aiden managed to say as ropes twisted tight around his chest. She gave a small nod and gestured for him to follow.
As soon as all the guests were seated, the servants rushed through the room, setting bowls of fragrant soup at each place. The interpreter sat beside Xie and was kept busy making introductions all around. Her English was very good. She was amazingly calm and never seemed to falter. Could she be Xie’s daughter or niece? But wouldn’t he have introduced her as such? Their eyes met. Aiden’s insides jolted again. She smiled, but quickly looked away. Two spots of crimson bloomed on her cheeks. Her fingers nervously touched a button on her blouse. Aiden tried to focus. He couldn’t tangle up his strategy now because he was smacked silly by a girl.
There were twelve people at Xie’s table, including two other Chinese men, one some kind of builder, one an official of the Chinese police. The American guests were two couples and three other men. Aiden knew one of the couples slightly, Mr. and Mrs. Larson, parents of a school friend of Christopher’s. He recognized one of the men as a city councilman.
Despite his anxiety, Aiden felt enormously hungry and began to eat the soup. The broth was rich and delicious, with a dark, sweet saltiness he had never tasted before. He was halfway through the bowl before he looked up to see the other American guests either sitting silently before their untouched bowls or simply pushing their spoons around. Aiden gulped. The Chinese men were eating their soup, so he knew it was the right time. He had not slurped or sloshed. He had no idea what he had done wrong, but the American guests were looking at him like he was insane. He put the spoon down. There was an awkward silence.
“I was admiring the Chinese paintings,” Mrs. Larson said, rescuing the conversation. “I do like landscapes. Though ours usually have more”—she glanced back at the paintings, trying to decide exactly what was wrong—“scenery in them.”
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