The Hidden Blade (2 page)

In addition, she maintained a greenhouse of sorts, a crude contrivance half dug into the ground, with a low mud wall and slanting frames covered with Korean paper. In the dead winter months, with the addition of a tiny smudge stove, she was able to produce fresh flowers for Mother’s coiffure and green herbs for Cook.

“It’s almost done,” Amah said, giving the brew one last stir.

Ying-ying fetched a bowl. Amah poured nearly to the rim and covered the bowl tightly.

Ying-ying ventured to speak something of what had transpired earlier in the afternoon. “You won’t tell Mother, right?”

“No,” Amah answered without looking at her. “But what you did was still stupid.”

Ying-ying blushed. “I wasn’t stealing. I just wanted to see what she had.”

“Don’t go around digging in other people’s things,” Amah said darkly. “Dig long enough and you’ll always find things you wish you hadn’t.”

On her way to Mother’s rooms with the potion, Ying-ying chewed over Amah’s words. Amah had seen the photograph—how could she not, materializing directly behind Ying-ying? If so, did what she said just now confirm the worst of Ying-ying’s suspicions?

Was the foreign devil her father?

Chapter 2

The Rift

Sussex, England

The thirty-sixth year of Queen Victoria’s reign (1873)

“Legend has it that this is the key to a great treasure,” said Herb, lifting up the tablet of translucent white jade.

The tablet was about six inches long, four inches wide, and barely a quarter inch in thickness. Upon it a bas-relief goddess danced, her back arched, her eyes closed. To either side of the goddess were characters in intricate Chinese script. But whereas the goddess was all billowing sleeves and trailing ribbons, the words—to Leighton Atwood’s untrained eyes, at least—gave an impression of solidity and wisdom.

There were other antiques at Starling Manor—suits of armor from the War of the Roses, tapestries that predated the Renaissance by hundreds of years, and, according to family lore, a jewel-encrusted goblet from which Queen Elizabeth once drank. But here in the library, in the midst of a collection of six thousand volumes, there was only this single artifact from faraway China, kept in a special display case near Father’s favorite reading chair.

Herb held the tablet toward the light of the chandelier. The tablet seemed to glow from within, a soft, rich radiance. “Mutton-fat jade, they call it, for its density and creaminess.”

He returned the jade tablet to its glass-topped display case and glanced at Father. “A rare and beautiful thing, would you not agree, Nigel?”

The tropical sun, Leighton often thought, must be something like Herb, an entity of unfailing cheer and warmth. Which made it all the more disconcerting to hear the prickliness in Herb’s tone.

“Of course I agree,” Father answered, his words placating—and slightly anxious.

Father was often anxious, but never when Herb was around. With Herb he was just…happy. It was impossible to be anything else in Herb’s company, or so Leighton had always thought.

Until now.

“Would you not tell the legend behind the jade tablet, old chap?” asked Father. “Leighton always enjoys hearing it. Is that not so, Leighton?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Leighton, all too aware of the note of uncertainty in his own voice.

It was usually Leighton who asked to hear the legend, and Father who teased that he must have already heard it dozens of times.

Herb turned toward Leighton. He had a lanky build, blond hair, and a deceptively young face that sometimes made Leighton forget that he was not a youth but a grown man of twenty-seven, far closer in age to Father’s thirty-two than to Leighton’s not-quite eleven.

“The legend,” Herb murmured. He smiled, a rueful, almost apologetic smile, as if he sensed the uneasiness he had caused Leighton. “All right, the legend. Tell me, Leighton, where did Taoism originate?”

Father untensed. Leighton released a breath he had not known he was holding. “In China.”

“And Buddhism?”

“India.”

“Which means…” Herb prompted.

“That for China, Taoism is indigenous, whereas Buddhism is an import,” said Leighton.

“Exactly,” said Herb. “Toward the latter years of the Tang Dynasty, there was a Chinese emperor who strongly favored Taoism. The Taoists who promised him elixirs of immortality urged him to promote their religion and suppress the practice of Buddhism, which they viewed as a foreign upstart.

“The Buddhist monks of China began to fear that their monasteries would be demolished and their wealth seized. Such wealth—a mountain’s worth of silver ingots, Buddha figures of pure gold, not to mention priceless paintings and calligraphic scrolls.”

At this point Father would usually—and with great affection—ask Herb how much he had embellished the story. Herb would reply that he had added no sensational details, as the story had come to him already feverishly embroidered.

But tonight Father only listened, a glass of whisky clutched in his hand.

His attention seemed to gratify Herb, who smiled again. “Well, such valuables must not fall into the emperor’s greedy hands. So from all over the land the monks gathered under the guise of a great scriptural congress, while secretly moving the riches of their cloisters.”

Leighton imagined squat wagon carts stripped to the bone, in order to not leave deep ruts that would give away the weight of the heavy load they carried. There would also have been palanquins in which the venerable abbeys of the monasteries purportedly sat, carried by the strongest monks. Except only gold and jade rode inside the palanquins; the venerable abbeys, in their plainest robes, dusty and road-weary, walked alongside the humblest of initiates.

“Under the cover of night, everything was unloaded into a huge cavern. Then the cavern was carefully sealed, so that it would not be found by the emperor’s soldiers or other thieves and pillagers,” Herb went on. “The monks were sworn to secrecy. And three jade tablets were made and entrusted to the three seniormost abbeys, for the day when it would become either safe or necessary to find and reopen the cave.

“Almost immediately the legend took root. It was said that grown men shaved their heads and took vows with the sole purpose of trying to locate these jade tablets in the inner sanctums of the greatest monasteries. But time passed—generations, then centuries.

“From time to time stories would crop up of a lucky goatherd who stumbled upon an ancient silver ingot in his path, something that might have been dropped by the monks in their hurry. Others believe that the treasures were ransacked ages ago, much as the pyramids of the pharaohs had been emptied by tomb robbers, leaving behind only pits of vipers. But still others remain convinced that the treasures are exactly where they had been concealed long ago, and if only all three of the jade tablets can be reunited, the treasures too can be found.”

The longcase clock in a corner of the library gonged the hour. Ten o’clock. When Mother was home, Leighton was expected to be in bed with the lights out by nine. Father, on the other hand, allowed him to stay up until the first yawn.

Leighton did not in the least feel like yawning, but he did so anyway—he could sense when the grown-ups wanted to be alone.

“Am I putting you to sleep?” asked Herb, smiling, his hand on Leighton’s shoulder.

For a moment everything felt all right—the storm clouds receding, the sun shining in the sky. But then Leighton sensed it again, the underlying tension in the room.

“I’m just tired.”

They had rowed for hours that afternoon and walked even longer in the rolling hills that surrounded Starling Manor. Leighton was not actually tired—he could have hiked for miles more—but no one questioned his claim.

Herb shook Leighton’s hand. “Sleep well, my dear boy. And may all your dreams be marvelous.”

Leighton was not afraid of the dark—he did not believe in monsters under the bed. All the same, he did not like to lie awake, staring into the blackness of the night.

It was easier to believe that all was well when the sun fell upon his face. That afternoon, atop a hill that gave onto a wide field of poppies in bloom, Leighton had felt buoyantly happy as he listened to Herb and Father discuss how long it would take to return home. The air had been crisp—almost a little warm; the sky had been pale but blue; and Mrs. Thompson’s apricot jam had never tasted so good, in a sandwich made with sturdy bread and fresh butter churned only that morning.

But now, as night stretched on and on, he saw that even then Herb had been a little impatient. He also saw that it was odd for Father to have taken them rowing and hiking the moment Herb had stepped off the train. Leighton hadn’t minded, because he loved to be outside. But would Herb have preferred to spend the afternoon resting at Starling Manor?

Why hadn’t Herb said anything? His presence was what made his visits such highlights, not whether they traipsed over the downs or sat inside and played card games.

It was almost as if Herb and Father could not speak frankly to each other.

Leighton pushed aside the bedcover and sat up. He didn’t want to think about it anymore. The idea of either Father or Herb with a chest full of words they could not say…

A stomachache was preferable any day of the week.

In the library, Herb had created a special nook for the books and magazines he brought Leighton, everything from penny dreadfuls to
The Count of Monte Cristo
—and lately scientific romances by Jules Verne. Usually Leighton would discover new books only after Herb’s departure, but tonight a book he had already read would do. Anything would do.

Light seeped out from beneath the doors of the library. Were Father and Herb still up? It was almost midnight. Leighton climbed up one floor to the solarium: There was another way into the library.

The manor, built by a man who believed himself hunted by mortal enemies out for vengeance, had a number of secret passages. Some had been bricked over by later occupants, but others had been left alone.

Leighton slipped into the library and pushed back into place the bookshelf that had swung open to let him through. A gallery wrapped around the upper portion of the room on three sides. He tiptoed forward, crouched down, and looked through the ornamental gaps in the parapet.

Father sat before the chessboard and stared at the pieces. He was a handsome man, with black hair and green eyes that Leighton had inherited. Compared to Herb, he was quieter, more restrained, yet in some ways far more intense. Sometimes he made Leighton think of strings on a violin that had been pulled too taut. But he never snapped, though sometimes he disappeared into his study for days on end. Nobody had to walk on eggshells when he did that—there was no belligerence or brutality to Father—but the entire house would be so quiet, almost funereal, and every sound seemed to produce a distant echo.

Herb did not sit opposite Father, but paced. Prowled like a caged wolf.

All at once he stopped and spun around to face him.

Father did not look up from the chessboard. But underneath the table, where Herb could not see but Leighton could, Father’s hands clenched and unclenched continuously.

Herb strode toward Father. Leighton bit his lower lip. They were such good friends; he didn’t want them to be at odds.

Herb pushed the chess table out of the way. Pawns wobbled; two knights fell over and rolled onto the floor. Father gripped the armrests, his person pressed into the back of the chair.

Leighton half rose to his feet, a plea emerging.

Herb leaned forward, took hold of Father’s face, and kissed him.

Leighton covered his own mouth, spun around, and crouched low. The inside of his head sounded like a battlefield, all exploding ordnance and hurtling shrapnel.

“You know we mustn’t,” Father said all of a sudden, his breathing labored. “My brother will find out.”

Sir Curtis, Father’s half brother by a different mother, was fifteen years older than Father. Father always became agitated before one of Sir Curtis’s infrequent visits, as if he were a pupil who had to sit for an examination for which he had not prepared. Mother, too, behaved strangely when Sir Curtis was around, prattling on about her support for missionary work abroad and the fact that Leighton had read the Bible end to end, both the King James and the Latin Vulgate translations.

Was
this
why?

“There is no one here except you and me, Nigel,” said Herb—incorrectly. “All your servants are abed, dreaming their own dreams.”

“Still, we shouldn’t,” said Father, his voice anguished. “I made a solemn vow that I would never endanger your soul with our friendship.”

Passages in the Bible that hadn’t made particular sense before now leaped out at Leighton, heavy words avowing eternal damnation to men who consorted with other men. His fingers shook; he clamped them between his knees.

“You assume that my soul isn’t already damned,” said Herb. “And don’t insult me.
Friendship?
I love you, Nigel, and you love me. But I can only go on for so long waiting for you to come to your senses.”