The Hidden Blade (15 page)

Amah had been looking forward to the outing for months. Not that she and Ying-ying ever joined the sightseeing, but because the courtyards would empty completely during that time: Little Plum always went with Mother, and Cook always took the opportunity for an extended visit to her family.

Amah had been teaching Ying-ying hand-to-hand combat stances inside their suite of rooms. As they were limited in both space and privacy, she couldn’t train Ying-ying as rigorously as she wanted to. But with everyone else away they could at last practice in the middle courtyard, where there was ample area for maneuvers without having to worry about knocking over furniture or kicking a hole in the window.

The stances were a series of postures that flowed one into the next. Ying-ying had been practicing them in a set sequence. But, as Amah now explained, once mastered, the individual elements would become hers to use as she saw fit, like musical notes on a scale.

The process fascinated Ying-ying: Motions that she had considered choreographed and immutable were suddenly broken down into versatile components. Amah had Ying-ying attempt to hit her with fists, palms, elbows, knees, and sweeping kicks. Then for each of Ying-ying’s attacks, she demonstrated a defensive move culled from the same stances, sometimes exactly as it had been taught, sometimes with variations in footwork.

“First you learn how not to get hit,” Amah said.

“When am I going to learn how to hit others?” Ying-ying asked, launching another fist.

Amah sidestepped it easily. “Shame, shame. What kind of nice girl wants to hit others?”

Ying-ying couldn’t help giggling. “My kind of nice girl.”

Amah too, cracked a rare smile. “No wonder we don’t have matchmakers lined up to see you.”

“Ha!” Ying-ying retorted. “I’m going to be so good at this that my husband will never dare look at another woman.”

Amah’s smile vanished. Her forearm met Ying-ying’s in a strong parry. “You don’t know men. The pain of death never stopped any man from sniffing roadside blossoms.”

Ying-ying turned on her side and rammed an elbow toward Amah’s solar plexus. “Then I will kill him in truth.”

Amah formed a saddle with her palms and shoved Ying-ying’s elbow out of the way. Ying-ying stumbled back several steps. When she righted herself, she was surprised to see Amah glowering at her.

“Do not speak so lightly of killing.”

The corners of Ying-ying’s lips bent downward. There was no pleasing Amah these days. “Fine,” she mumbled.

Amah didn’t comment on the tone of Ying-ying’s answer. She shifted her weight onto her back leg, lifted her front foot up on the toes, and beckoned Ying-ying to attack her again. “This time, think of your chi. Starting at the center of your lower abdomen, let it rise through your chest, into your arms.”

Since the previous August, on several different occasions Ying-ying had become aware of tantalizing flutterings of heat along various chi paths in her body. But the sensations had been fleeting, small bursts of warmth that afterward she could not be sure had not been her imagination.

So she took a deep breath and imagined—since she couldn’t reliably feel her chi—a current of energy sparking out of her midsection like reverse lightning. Front knee bent, back leg straight and low, she threw herself at Amah, thrusting her right fist forward.

And felt the flow in her arm—not a torrent, but much more than a trickle, a steady, forceful stream that coursed along her veins directly into her fingertips. When her fist struck Amah’s palm, it was no longer the same contact of flesh and bones, but something both more elemental and more buffered.

“Good!” Amah yelled. “Again!”

Ying-ying needed no encouragement. She swung her fist one more time, and felt again the exhilarating vigor of her chi rushing to her aid. But the same sensation was not there for her left fist. As for her kicks, the situation was reversed, with her chi pulsing smoothly through her left leg but not in her right.

Ying-ying quickly became disgusted with herself. But Amah’s excitement spilled over. She had Ying-ying sit down—even went and fetched the cushion herself—and told her she was about to begin a new series of breathing exercises. “When I first started, it took me two years to get to this point. Now concentrate.”

Ying-ying sat still, eyes closed, one hand on each knee, palms up, thumbs and middle fingers lightly pressed together. But Amah’s instructions did not come. She opened her eyes to find Amah frowning, listening to something with her head tilted.

It was another moment before Ying-ying heard the shouts and the running feet rushing in their direction, a ruckus exactly like that on the occasion of Amah’s injury, except without the night watchmen’s clappers.

Ying-ying’s heart skidded. Had the law come back for Amah? “Leave, Master,” she whispered urgently. “If they come to the door, I’ll say you went to visit your brother in…in…”

She searched for the name of some faraway province.

“Nonsense,” Amah said, and headed for the front gate.

Ying-ying stared after her. And then amid the noises of the men’s pounding feet, she heard Little Plum’s voice, gasping and panicky. “Don’t jostle her, big brothers. Go smoothly, won’t you, please?”

Ying-ying started running. She had nearly reached the opening of their blind alley when she had to flatten herself against the wall as a four-man litter, now carried by eight, careened past her.

The men set the litter down before the gate. Ying-ying ran back. Little Plum flapped aside the front curtain of the litter. Inside slumped Mother, her breath coming thin as a thread, her face entirely colorless but for two splotches of bright red on her cheeks.

Amah came out of the courtyard. Little Plum spoke to her. Snatches of their conversation drifted to Ying-ying.
Vomited blood…fainted…had to come back…court doctor on his way
. The two women hoisted a limp Mother to her room, Ying-ying scampering uselessly in their wake.

They settled Mother in her bed, covering her thickly. Little Plum set to work stoking the braziers. Amah rushed off to cook a potion that would help clear the lungs. Ying-ying lingered before Mother’s bed, not knowing what to do but loath to leave. She had never seen her mother so helpless, twisting, moaning, shivering, strands of her black hair smeared on the pillow.

Little Plum wiped Mother’s face and throat with a warm, damp towel. Then she drew the bed curtains and placed two stools before the bed for the doctor’s arrival, one for his esteemed behind, one with a small cushion for mother’s wrist, so he could study her pulse.

She shooed Ying-ying out. Ying-ying slunk into the store room, where a clay pot already simmered, with Amah staring at it.

“Will she die?” The question left her lips before she could think better of it.

“Don’t ask such things,” Amah answered impatiently. Then more softly, “She is still young.”

Ying-ying crept out to her own room and sat down on her
kang
.

She wanted Mother to have the time for a hundred more landscape paintings and a thousand more conversations with Da-ren. She wanted to see her change from a beautiful young woman to a beautiful old woman. She wanted her to live long enough in happiness and security that she would never again be haunted by the past.

But she could not give any of those things to Mother. She could only draw her knees to her chest, put her head down, and weep.

Chapter 11

China

Throughout spring and summer, Leighton gradually recovered. He was not impatient about it: He had only just turned twelve and he could not realistically go on the run until he at least
looked
old enough to cross borders on his own.

When he was eating properly again and no longer feeling lethargic or dizzy, he began to exercise. Rose Priory was not very big, about a third the size of Starling Manor. But even small distances added up. He walked all the corridors and all the rooms still open to him, and climbed up and down the staircases, putting in about three miles a day.

Inside his room he did calisthenics exercises that Mr. Hamilton, his old tutor, had shown him. He wanted to be strong, but nimble and fast. Not that he thought he would be literally running away—what were steam-powered transports for, after all?—but he needed to be able to sprint, leap, and pivot if he were to elude a grown man chasing after him.

He started again on the Parsi and Arabic Bibles, taking to Parsi much more easily—he simply seemed to have a greater affinity for its structure and vocabulary. He also resumed his church attendance. The village church was where he hoped to speak to Mr. Brown, the post office clerk, before or after the service. But he had to be careful not to appear to single the man out, not while Mr. Twombley was nearby.

It was the middle of autumn before he exchanged more than a nod with the clerk. Another month passed before he learned that Brown was the lead caroler of the village. He promptly invited the carolers to come to Rose Priory, especially since Sir Curtis and Lady Atwood would be spending their Christmas in Italy.

The carolers arrived at Yuletide, the day after the photographer hired by Sir Curtis came to take Leighton’s portrait. Mr. Twombley, who had been informed ahead of time, was ready with hot punch, cake, and a donation for the church on behalf of the absent master and mistress. Leighton and Mr. Colmes mingled with the carolers. Leighton spoke to several other church elders before he wended his way to Mr. Brown and complimented him on his singing.

“I’m glad to see you looking so well, young Master Leighton,” answered Mr. Brown. “For a while it was said your health suffered.”

“I’m glad to be feeling well.”

“I’m sure the good people who write you faithfully from abroad must be relieved too.”

Interesting—he brought up the topic before Leighton could. “They are,” said Leighton.

“I’ve been admiring the stamps on those letters. The American ones are nice—they are. But the ones that come from farther afield are so much more interesting. How I coveted the stamps issued by the colonial office in Shanghai!”

Shanghai, good gracious. Herb had reached
China
.

Leighton was right: All this time, Herb’s letters had been kept from him.

“And the ones from Shanghai aren’t even regular British stamps overprinted with local currency, but their very own stamps!” Mr. Brown went on. “You don’t suppose, young Master Leighton, that if you were to get duplicates, you might consider trading one of them with me? I’ve a fairly substantial philatelic collection, some of them quite novel and rare too.”

Leighton thought quickly. “I would. Unfortunately, I don’t have a collection of my own. But Lady Atwood does, and she has asked Mr. Twombley to send all the stamps to her in London. And you know how Mr. Twombley is—hard to get him to deviate from his duties.”

“Oh, I know that, all right.”

“But you know what you could do?” Leighton leaned in a little closer and lowered his voice. “You could take the next letter, cut out the stamps, and just give me the rest.”

Mr. Brown nearly dropped his glass of hot punch. “But that’s a crime, tampering with the Royal Mail.”

“Not if you have the recipient’s permission. We just don’t want Mr. Twombley to know about it. That’s all.”

Mr. Brown took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead—it was warm in the drawing room, with the roaring fire and the press of bodies. “Let me…Let me think about it.”

Leighton nodded and left him to see to the other carolers, praying that it would be only a matter of time.

By the following March, Leighton had reached the New Testaments in the Parsi Bible, the Book of Proverbs in the Arabic Bible, and the end of Leviticus in the Sanskrit Old Testament, which had arrived by post, a Christmas present from Sir Curtis, who had yet to realize that he actually did Leighton a favor with such gifts.

The second Sunday of that month was a miserable day, full of high winds and lashing rain. Leighton and Mr. Colmes took a carriage to church, instead of walking as they almost always did. Still they arrived in the sanctuary with their trousers wet to the knees.

Mr. Brown sauntered up to Leighton and handed him a new hymn book. “A thank-you present for Sir Curtis from the vicar,” he said, “for his donation at Christmas.”

Any sense of discomfort Leighton felt was immediately forgotten as he saw the small space between the pages—there was something inside, near the very back.

“Thank you, Mr. Brown.” He managed to sound normal, even as his heart slammed.

When Mr. Colmes turned around to speak to a yeoman farmer’s wife, Leighton slid out what was between the pages—an envelope missing its stamps, with Herb’s familiar handwriting—and hid it in his pocket. For the rest of the service he sat with his hand hovering near the pocket, touching it every minute or so to make sure that the letter was still there.

Herb. After all this time.

Sunday dinner, served at Rose Priory after church, had never been so long. Leighton wolfed down everything and waited, barely able to stop himself from tapping his fingers on the table, for Mr. Colmes to finish each course—Mr. Colmes was not a good liar, so they had decided a while ago that it was safer for both of them for him to know as little as possible of Leighton’s actual plans.