She released her breath. “How long have you been there?” “Not long.” He came closer, looking about him as if he’d never been in her room before. “I...” He sighed, then looked at her again, the slightest admonishment in his voice. “Hannah . . . what have you been doing now?”
“Nothing. I was only—“
You were only what? Spying on him? Stealing things from his rooms?
“Your mother says—“
“She’s not my mother!”
“Hannah . . . Please, my love.”
She stared at him, astonished. His face was crumpled up in pain. There were tears at the corners of his eyes. Agonized, she went across and held him.
“Oh, Papa ... are you all right?”
“I”—he shivered in her arms—“I can’t tell you.”
She helped him sit in her chair, then knelt, looking up into his face.
“It’s okay. 1 know.”
He stared back at her, understanding slowly dawning on him.
“I’ve read it,” she said. “The file. I know what’s happening.”
“And?” His voice was a breath, less than a whisper. She studied his face, seeing how frightened, how confused, he was. “Aiya,” she said softly, taking his hands. “How did you ever get to this point? I mean . . . there’s nothing ruthless in you, is there? So many secrets . . . how did you ever get involved?”
He looked back at her, bewildered. “I don’t know. I—I did only what was asked of me.”
Yes, she thought, and step by step it led to this. “What shall we do?” he asked, like a child asking his mother, his eyes beseeching her. “What in the gods’ names shall we do?” “You must see Li Yuan,” she said, a cold fear gripping her. “You must request an audience. And you must tell him what you know.”
CHEN WENT HOME.
It was just after seven when he got back, tired and on edge, confused by all that had been happening to him. Outside his door he paused, wondering if it was really such a good idea. He needed to shower and freshen up, to grab a bite to eat and change his uniform, but he could have done all of that at Bremen. So why here? There was nothing for him here. He was about to turn away when, through the paper-thin walls, he heard a child’s shriek and then laughter—an infectious giggle that made his heart contract. No. There were still his children. He tapped out the combination, then stepped inside. At once Ch’iang Hsin was on him, her face lit up at the sight of him. “Daddy!”
He held her against his side, the fierceness of that sudden feeling almost overwhelming him. How could he have forgotten? What poisons were in his blood that he could have overlooked them even for a moment? He crouched, facing her. “How’s Mummy?”
She shrugged, then smiled again. “Tian Ching’s been teaching me how to sew! I’ve been making you a surprise!”
He looked up and saw the girl in the doorway to the kitchen, watching him. Did she know? he wondered. Could she tell where he’d been, merely by looking at him?
She turned away, busying herself.
“Where’s Wu?” he asked, “and Jyan?”
“Wu’s still in bed, and Jyan’s with friends,” Ch’iang said unselfconsciously, her left hand tugging at his cheek, as if to check that he was real. “Are you staying this time?” “For an hour or two,” he answered, saddened that this once he couldn’t stay a little longer. Then, taking her beneath the arms, he picked her up and carried her through to the kitchen. He cuddled her a moment, then set her down on a chair. “You stay here with Tian Ching a moment, while I go and see your mother, okay?”
She nodded, smiling up at him.
“Good.” He glanced at Tian Ching. “Thank you,” he said quietly, turning away before she could answer.
Wang Ti’s room was dark and silent, yet from the far side there was a wavering light and there was the faintest smell of burning. He looked. The bed was empty, the cover thrown back, and Wang Ti. . . Wang Ti was kneeling on the floor, her shape outlined against the wavering light. Slowly, quietly, he went across. There, in front of her, was a shrine. A shrine just like the one he had seen down-level. The doors were pulled back, revealing a blood-red interior, against which stood a dozen tiny figures. Household gods, he realized. In front of them three tiny red candles burned in tiny pots, sending up faint wisps of incense. Wang Ti’s eyes were open, staring straight ahead, into the bright interior of the shrine, and her lips . . .
Chen caught his breath. Her lips were moving.
He turned, realizing that Tian Ching was in the doorway.
“How long has this been here?”
She looked down, abashed. “Two days. I—I thought it might help.” He looked back at Wang Ti, saw how she gazed into the flickering shadows, and shivered. For almost three years there had been nothing, not even a flicker of life in her, but now . . .
He turned, nodding to the girl, his eyes thanking her; then, turning back, he kneeled beside his wife, his left hand reaching down to take her right where it lay upon her knee, palm down.
“I’m here, Wang Ti,” he said softly, conscious of the soft murmur of her voice beside him. “I’m here.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Eldest Daughter
Water dripped through the ruined ceiling of the Mansion, pooling in the smoking debris of the gutted Hall. Huojen, their raised visors black with smoke, their eyes red, sifted through the ruins, looking for clues. Not that any clues were really needed this time. Everyone knew who had carried out this atrocity: it was stenciled there on the gateway, above the bodies of the two guards who had been garroted.
Wu Shih stared at the black imprint of the hand and shuddered. The huojen had pulled a dozen bodies from the house already, but the final death toll was likely to be two, maybe three times that number. The Hand had learned their lessons well. This time they had attacked in strength, making a diversionary attack against the local Security post while their main force hit the Mansion. Thirty or forty of them there’d been this time, armed with the latest weaponry. After destroying the small force of house guards, they had rounded up the owners and their servants and locked them inside the house, setting fire to it in eight different places. Then they had waited, standing around the house while it burned, firing at the windows if anyone dared come close. He grimaced, remembering. It was all on camera, from the preliminary skirmish at the gate, to the final moments when, whooping and laughing, the terrorists had run back down the path toward the transit. He remembered particularly one sequence where several of the terrorists had turned, looking directly into the camera, smiling and waving as if on an outing and making no attempt to conceal themselves, while behind them the great Mansion—filled with antique furniture and tapestries, rich silks, thick carpets, and heavy curtains—blazed like a tinderbox, the screams of its unseen occupants piercing the air.