by Elsa Hart
“So you followed him home and hid the knife outside his door. He was so drunk he could hardly stand. You thought there was a chance even he would believe he had done it.”
“I didn’t think he would kill himself. I didn’t mean for that to happen. Maybe he did it because he loved her, and could not bear to live—” She paused and met Li Du’s eyes. “What led you to me?”
He glanced at the table in the corner, where the chess game remained, unfinished. “I believe it was when I saw that board,” he said. “Ji told me that no one could defeat Pan at chess. That game is as even a match as I have ever seen.”
A small, strange smile curved her lips. “I am glad you have come.”
Chapter 49
The sun through the leaves of the pear trees cast red-tinted shadows through the open window of Lady Chen’s study. Li Du and Hamza sat opposite Lady Chen at the green marble table, on which rested three cups of plum wine. Seven days had passed since Li Du had entered the palace. During that time, Prince Yinzao and his retinue had left the city. The abrupt departure, so soon after his celebrated return, had been explained with a brief announcement that he had been honored, once more, with a posting to the frontier.
Hamza was looking thoughtfully out at the crimson leaves. “Had Lady Ai discovered that there was no affair between her husband and Madam Hong, and that Pan was already dead when she attacked him?”
“She seemed not to know,” said Li Du. “But I expect she has since been told.”
“The murder of Madam Hong remains her burden to bear,” said Hamza. “But perhaps it will ease her mind to know she did not kill the man she loved.”
Lady Chen refilled their cups from a black bottle decorated with white plum flowers. “I don’t think new revelations will matter very much to Lady Ai. From what you have told me, all that matters to her is that Pan Yongfa is gone. She will not choose to believe what gives her ease. She will choose to believe whatever protects her pain. Her anguish at his loss is all she has left of him. She will keep it close until they are together again.”
After a silence, Lady Chen lifted her gaze to the Latin books and astronomical instruments arranged on the shelf. “You said you found Father Aveneau’s letter.”
Li Du nodded. “I asked Lady Ai if Pan had a place in the home where he kept secret documents. She told me to look in a pocket on the back of a certain painting—one depicting a hundred birds filling the branches of a willow tree. I found the painting already packed away for the return to Anhui. The pocket was well concealed in the silk that framed the picture. The letter might never have been found.”
“And now?”
“Now it has been destroyed.” Li Du had taken the letter to the South Church. Father Calmette had read it gravely, then held it to a candle flame. Together, they had watched the red seal of the Censor’s Office turn brown as the paper curled, smoked, and became ash. Li Du credited Father Calmette for the immediate sense of relief that had filled the room with the disappearance of the letter. The priest had used the same candle to light his favorite incense. Over cups of tea, he had nodded contentedly at the sounds of construction coming from the roof repair, discussed progress on the new city map with undiminished enthusiasm, and shared with pride his work on translating “The Fisherman’s Ode.”
“One detail that is not clear to me,” said Lady Chen, recalling him to the present, “is why the men who tried to assassinate the Emperor for Prince Yinzao all had histories of Ming loyalty.”
“They were Ming loyalists,” said Li Du. “I expect they were told that if the plot was successful, Prince Yinzao would return the southern provinces to the Ming heirs. The prince used them, knowing that if the plot failed, their allegiance to the Ming would make it easier to divert attention from himself. And that is exactly what happened.”
“With Shu’s help,” said Lady Chen.
“With Shu’s help,” Li Du echoed. He fell silent. He had spent the previous night in Mentougou, where he had given Mei’s children their final lesson for the year. He had made a gift to them of a fine edition of the Manual on Calligraphy, purchased from Wu’s bookstore, and warned them that, when he returned from his journey and evaluated their progress, he would know if they had not practiced. All three had nodded gravely. To their delight, he had read aloud to them the author’s list of all that could be identified in a page of calligraphy, from a drop of dew, to a flock of geese, to a sky filled with stars.
In the evening, while the children played in paths of light that spilled across the garden from the windows, he had spoken to Mei. He had intended to tell her only that her father had never betrayed his Emperor. But his words had freed hers. Haltingly, at first, they had spoken of his teacher, and her father, until their stories mingled like two coiling trails of incense smoke turning into one. Mei had long ago concluded that there was no coincidence in the concurrence of her father’s death and her salvation from the magistrate’s justice. The burden had been difficult to bear, until her marriage, and her children, had eased it. Learning from Li Du that the Emperor honored her father, even in secret, lightened it further.
“Shu accepted his own death because he knew he had saved his daughter,” said Li Du, returning from the memory of the twilit garden to Lady Chen’s bright study and questioning eyes. He had entrusted her with the secrets she had helped him uncover. “I am not certain the Emperor will ever attain the same peace with his decision to sacrifice a loyal subject to protect a son who has now, once again, betrayed him.”
Once more, Lady Chen’s eyes lifted to the shelf on which a winged horse gleamed from the surface of a celestial globe. “And yet, through all our tragedies, the stars follow their same paths across the heavens.” She regarded Li Du. “I anticipate with pleasure the day our paths cross again.”
* * *
An autumn breeze sent a sparkling path along the surface of the moat as the librarian and the storyteller crossed. With their mules close beside them, they shuffled slowly over the bridge, finding a way through the crowd entering the city. Once they had left the bustle behind, Hamza bought a candied crab way apple from a passing peddler, and shared it with his mule. “Have you decided where we are going?” he asked, looking at the hills that rose, blurred and blue, on the horizon.
Li Du patted the satchel he carried, feeling the corner of a slim volume tucked inside. He recalled the room in a shaded palace courtyard where he had recently sat opposite one of the Emperor’s advisors. The stern official had slid the volume across the table to Li Du, and explained that within it was a collection of reports received by the palace that year, each describing an unusual occurrence. The order in which Li Du chose to investigate them was up to him. The Emperor looked forward to hearing of his travels.
“Naturally,” said Hamza, interrupting Li Du’s thoughts, “I am drawn to the account of the island that has appeared without explanation off the coast of Formosa, though the gold-worm poisonings plaguing the hill towns of Sichuan are not without interest.” He paused thoughtfully. “Although,” he mused, “I would very much like to question one of those oracular ghosts that have been seen in the forests of the Evenki…”
As Hamza went on, Li Du turned and looked back at the city. The walls, for all their weight of earth, rock, and brick, were already becoming smaller, their shape more simple. On either side of the path, buckwheat and millet fields spread in oceans of gold and green. He adjusted the buckle on the saddlebag closest to him. The wool blankets on the mule’s back smelled faintly of campfire smoke and juniper. He gave the mule’s neck a gentle pat. Her mane was soft and sun-warmed, but as another breeze breathed softly over the fields, he felt the cool touch of a changing season. He adjusted his hat and set his gaze to the path ahead.
Acknowledgments
As I set Li Du free to continue his adventures in places and dimensions of his own choosing, it seems right to pause and acknowledge the help he has received, outside the confines of these pages, to reach this point in his story.
I first
envisioned Li Du in the shifting mists on Jade Dragon Snow Mountain, where I would not have been were it not for my husband, Robbie, whose botanical research brought me to Southwest China and whose imagination has fired my own since the day we met.
I would also not have been there without the field station staff, who kept us safe and healthy on the mountain. It must have been inconvenient and stressful to host two foreigners who could barely communicate (and who seemed likely to fall into a gorge or enrage a yak at any moment), but we were always made to feel welcome. I credit Mr. Zhao’s pumpkin stew for inspiring just about every scene of comfort and companionship I’ve written. I am also forever grateful to Song and Na, who were always ready to help us navigate life in Lijiang.
It can be hard to lose yourself in a book when you care about the writer, and I want my family to know how much I appreciate their eagerness to be simultaneously engaged readers and loving relatives. My grandparents Hugh and Marge, Dickinsons, McFarlings, McCormicks, Savages, Trimbles, Steve and Karen Hart—I am so lucky.
Both my parents have given me so much, including a childhood abroad from which I’ve drawn inspiration. My mother has worked with me at every stage of writing, from identifying themes to polishing sentences. My father has waited patiently to be the first reader of the nearly finished manuscripts. My brother, Hugh, has a keen eye for scene structure, and a unique ability to listen to my confused ramblings and explain me to myself.
A number of writers have taken time away from their own work to offer me help and encouragement: Fred Moody, Usha McFarling, Donna Leon, Matthew Pearl, Julia Keller, Weina Dai Randel, and Louise Penny, whose hug when I met her at the St. Louis County Library still makes me glow to remember.
Stephanie Cabot, my fantastic agent, connected with me on my writing from our first phone call, and shepherded my books to and through publication. Ellen and the Gernert Company have been wonderful. I’m deeply thankful for the team at Minotaur who have worked to bring these novels to readers, especially my editor, Kelley Ragland, who saw how to make each book stronger and gave me the guidance and support I needed throughout each round of revisions.
The librarians at the Richardson Memorial Library at the St. Louis Art Museum allowed me to pore over Peking Temples and City Life for hours in their reading room. Sitting at the great, gleaming desk surrounded by books made me feel even closer to the scholars that wander in and out of my stories.
Of the many professors at Swarthmore College to whom I am grateful, two should certainly be acknowledged here: Dr. Stephen Bensch, who gave me my first historical fiction writing assignment, and Dr. Craig Williamson, whose lectures on Old English riddles and elegies defined my understanding of imagination as an adult.
And finally, thanks to my friends. Kate and I fashioned our first fictional worlds together, and those snow castles and ceiling worms and bunk-bed boats are never far from my writing. Mary and the whole Hartnett-Norland family have been so unhesitatingly kind always. Tyler and Katina, Dylan and Claire, companions in adventure, conversation, and whisky. Anna befriended me in law school and affirmed during those years that I didn’t have to stop being myself just because I was in a setting that wasn’t quite the right fit for me. And in St. Louis, Irene, Ashley, Jenny, and Celia have lit up the hours with conversation and music and bonfires, those most ancient of storytelling inspirations.
Also by Elsa Hart
The White Mirror
Jade Dragon Mountain
About the Author
ELSA HART was born in Rome, Italy, but her earliest memories are of Moscow, where her family lived until 1991. Since then she has lived in the Czech Republic, the United States, and China. She earned a B.A. from Swarthmore College and a J.D. from Washington University School of Law in St. Louis. She wrote Jade Dragon Mountain, her first novel, in Lijiang, the city that has grown up around the old town of Dayan. You can sign up for email updates here.
Thank you for buying this
St. Martin’s Press ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Acknowledgments
Also by Elsa Hart
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
CITY OF INK. Copyright © 2018 by Elsa Hart. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Illustration by Alan Ayers; blood © Undrey/Shutterstock.com
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-14279-5 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-14280-1 (ebook)
eISBN 9781250142801
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First Edition: August 2018