The Hidden Blade (41 page)

Herb didn’t visit at all that day. Leighton consoled himself with the explanation that Herb did come, but was denied entrance by either Dr. Ross or Miller the assistant.

He was much better the next day and impatient to see Herb. When it was near dusk and still his friend hadn’t arrived, he asked Miller for paper and pen to send a message.

The young man swallowed. “Let me speak to the doctor.”

A few minutes later Dr. Ross entered the room, looking grimly determined. Leighton was puzzled by his countenance—surely he wasn’t so ill that he couldn’t be allowed even a brief visit.

The physician sat down. “I’m very sorry to have to inform you of this, Mr. Atwood, but Mr. Gordon passed away the same day he came to see you.”

The words washed over Leighton, a jumble of miscellaneous sounds. “Can you—can you say that again?”

“Mr. Gordon is no more,” said Dr. Ross gravely. “There was a Lantern Festival celebration at his employer’s residence. I am told he attended in an expansive mood, took a drink or two too many, and had an unfortunate fall. I examined his body after it was brought to the legation yesterday, and I believe what I saw was consistent with the explanation of a fatal head injury.”

Leighton stared at him. “His
body
is here?”

“Yes.”

“I want to see it. Now.”

Dr. Ross opened his mouth as if to argue, then closed it again. “All right. I’ll fetch Miller.”

They had to leave the minister’s residence to go into a smaller house on the legation’s property. It was bitterly cold outside, and yet all Leighton felt was a scalding in his chest. They had to be wrong. They had to be. Herb had been incandescent with life. And they had so many plans. The Great Wall, the Ming Tombs, the Temple of Heaven. The teahouse-theater and the candied haws. The visit with Herb’s pupil, the young lady to whom he had been deeply attached.

But there was the casket, set upon a long dining table. And when Miller lifted the lid of the casket, a cry tore from Leighton.

Herb looked peaceful, as if asleep. But he was cold as marble and almost as stiff. Leighton clutched at the side of the coffin. Both Dr. Ross and Miller sprang forward to grab hold of his arms, fearful he might fall.

“Please. Please give me a minute—alone.”

They did.

He fell to his knees. For what felt like an eternity he knelt with his forehead against the side of the casket, drowning in despair. Then he pulled himself to his feet, laid his hand over Herb’s, and told his friend, “I’ll take you home. I’ll take you back to Starling Manor—to Father—and you need never leave again.”

Two weeks later he was back in Shanghai with Herb’s ashes and belongings. There were several telegrams from his mother waiting for him, her relief and happiness palpable in every word. The most recent message asked that he please cable as soon as he returned to Shanghai, so that she, Mr. Delany, and Marland could set out on the next steamer bound for Honolulu.
That way we will see you a fortnight sooner.

Leighton set sail the next week. His steamer called at Yokohama before charting a course east to Hawaii. The islands came into view as beautiful as a dream, green mountains rising from a shining blue sea. And as his steamer pulled into port, he immediately spotted the fair-haired boy, covered to the ears in flower garlands, leaping up and down on the dock, waving his hat wildly in the air.

Marland.

Next to him Mother was already wiping at her eyes. And the man with his arm around her shoulders must be Mr. Delany.

When Leighton came ashore, just as many garlands of jasmine and plumeria were piled onto his shoulders. With Marland’s arms banded tight about him and Mother’s hands on his cheeks, he finally allowed himself to cry, too.

For everything he had lost and everything he had never lost.

The house they had hired was in the hills above Honolulu, with a cool breeze on the lanai that gently caressed the skin, and a breathtaking view of Diamond Head and the azure waters beyond.

It was after lunch. Marland had gone to his room to change into clothes more suitable for vigorous activities—he’d insisted on holding off exploring the island until after Leighton’s arrival. Leighton and Mother remained on the lanai.

“I have a letter from Lady Atwood for you. It reached me shortly before we departed San Francisco,” said Mother.

Leighton took the still-sealed envelope from her.

Dear Master Leighton,

By now you should have learned of your uncle’s passing. What you do not know is that I killed him. I have always been seen as a devoted wife, and he was no longer a young man. It was ruled as a natural death, and now I am free.

But not from my own conscience. I have committed murder and I will always be a murderess. The question is whether I go off to evangelize in the Serengeti or spend the rest of my days in a prison cell, until I am escorted to the gallows.

I will let you decide. If you choose to turn me in to the authorities, this letter will serve as a written confession.

I wish you well.

Yours,

Alexandra Atwood

“Is everything all right?” asked Mother.

“Yes, everything is perfectly fine. Lady Atwood sends her regards,” Leighton answered. He rose and kissed Mother on her cheek. “I’d better go change too.”

In his room, he lit a match, burned Lady Atwood’s letter, and wrote a reply.

Dear Lady Atwood,

Enjoy the Serengeti.

Your servant,

Leighton Atwood

When Marland came to knock on his door, Leighton had already changed, the sealed and stamped letter in his pocket.

“I’ve decided what we are going to do this afternoon,” said Marland, his speech now marked by a noticeable American accent. “We are going to ride to Manoa Falls and then go to the beach.”

“You lead. I will follow,” Leighton answered.

He ruffled Marland’s hair, still not quite used to how tall the boy had become. And how old. Leighton would turn seventeen in weeks, which meant Marland was ten: He had missed nearly six years of his brother’s life.

But then Marland took his hand and together they ran out of the house.

Into limitless sunshine and limitless beauty.

For weeks the caravan had made its laborious way along Hehsi Corridor, part of the route once used by merchant caravans to carry silk from the south of China to the great cities of the Mediterranean. North of the corridor stretched the Gobi Desert, south the Tibetan plateau. Even the oases along the way seemed dusty, their very existence—to Ying-ying at least—infinitely fragile.

But now they had finally arrived at Jiayu Pass, the westernmost gate of the Great Wall. Years ago, Ying-ying had mentioned it during her first meeting with Herb. She never would have believed that she would someday see it with her own eyes, the Gate of Sighs, much less that there were still three thousand
li
to go before they reached their eventual destination of Kulja, the administrative seat of Ili.

Da-ren descended from his carriage to climb up to the top of the great earthen fort that guarded the pass; Ying-ying followed. Beyond the pass the land was brown and desolate, the mountains in the distance equally so—this was the territory of the invading tribes, against which the Great Wall had been built.

Silently Da-ren walked from one end of the rampart to the other. Did he wonder whether he would ever see the imperial city again? Whether his bones would be buried here, half a continent away from those of his ancestors?

Da-ren exhaled. “We will proceed,” he told Bao-shun.

Ying-ying remained a moment longer upon the ramparts, feeling very nearly overwhelmed by the scale and inhospitality of the land ahead. But then she squared her shoulders, followed Da-ren down, and made ready to continue the journey.

Thank you for reading
The Hidden Blade
.

Want to know when the next Sherry Thomas novel will be released? Sign up for her newsletter at
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or at a venue of your choice would be greatly appreciated.

The Hidden Blade
is a prequel to
My Beautiful Enemy
, which picks up the story four years later, when Ying-ying and Leighton meet at last. If you would like to skip ahead to an excerpt of
My Beautiful Enemy
, click
here
. To see a list of Sherry’s other books, click
here
.

About the Author

***

Sherry Thomas writes books in several genres.

On the romance side, she is one of the most acclaimed authors working today, her books regularly receiving starred reviews and best-of-the-year honors from trade publications. She is also a two-time winner of Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA® Award.

On the young adult side,
The Perilous Sea
, book 2 of the Elemental Trilogy, releases September 2014.

And now you have just read her first work of historical action adventure. Or is it a middle-grade book? Or possibly some kind of literary fiction?

To let her know how you think this book should be labeled—or to receive email updates on her upcoming books—contact her at
http://www.sherrythomas.com/contact.php

My Beautiful Enemy
: an excerpt

Chinese Turkestan

1883

Leighton enjoyed an oasis. But unlike the oases of the Arabian deserts, this particular oasis had no date palms. Though it did have farmlands and orchards that suddenly leaped into the view of the weary traveler, the verdant acres lively and defiant against the endlessly arid Takla Makan Desert, never far to the south.

There were also no natural springs. The crops and the fruit trees were irrigated by melted snow that had traveled miles from the nearest mountain, along an ancient and complex system of underground tunnels that had been constructed entirely by hand.