At least the Chinoise girl was company. Cat was beginning to suspect Li Ang knew far more of Cat’s own mother tongue than she employed, too. There was a steely glint in Li Ang’s gaze, a certain something in the way she held her shoulders now, that seemed to say so.
Cat drew a blue silken robe over her nightgown and sighed afresh, sliding her feet into well-worn slippers. Shuffling down the stairs, she yawned hugely, and there was another thumping from the kitchen.
What on earth is she doing? Throwing the crockery? I would not be surprised.
It was, she reflected, dreadfully uncivilized here. She outright hated it. And yet, there was a certain freedom to her daily routine that would have been unthinkable in Boston. Was that not why Robbie had left? It stifles me here, sister dear. His wide grin as she bade him farewell at the train station—Mother would not come, and Father had not seen fit to leave his club that day. Don’t you worry. I’ll send for you soon.
But he never had.
Cat wiped at her cheek. She pushed the kitchen door open, soft lamplight filling the hall and her slippers noiseless as she stepped through.
Her greeting died on her lips.
Baby Jonathan, in his wicker basket on the table, set up a furious howling. The wind screamed. A man had Li Ang by the throat, pressed against the bar on the back door, and the Chinoise girl’s face was plummy-red as she struggled. The man had a long black braid bisecting his blue-cotton-clad back, and odd slipper-shoes, and Cat Barrowe clapped her lips shut over a scream.
There was no time for reflection. Mancy crackled on her fingers, and the stinging burst of bright blue-white hit the man squarely in the back. He yelped with surprise, dropping Li Ang, and Cat had enough time to think Why, he’s Chinois too…
…before the man was somehow right in front of her, and a stunning blow to her midsection robbed her of breath. She stumbled back, clipping her shoulder on the kitchen door, and went down in a heap, the table jolting and little Jonathan sending up a fresh wail at the indignity of being bumped about so. Stars exploded inside Cat’s skull as the Chinois man struck her again, and her Practicality, uncontrolled, bit hard, striking through her charing-charm in self-defense.
He made no sound, but the mancy flung him back. Li Ang choked, and the baby screeched. The table waltzed dangerously as the attacker fell against it, and Cat’s belly gave a flare of agonized red pain as she scrambled, her fingernails tearing against rough planks. The basket spun, the baby howled, and there was a queer meaty thunking sound.
Li Ang’s scream rose, matching the poison wind’s fury. Another meaty thumping, with a crack at the end. The basket was heavy, and its wicker bit Cat’s fingers. She hit the ground in a useless lump, all her breath stolen, and baby Jonathan waved one tiny fist as if hurling an imprecation at Heaven. It would have been quite amusing to witness such fury, but Cat could not breathe; her body refused and darkness crawled over her vision, spots of unhealthy foxfire dancing in the sudden gloom. She curled around the basket, its fall to the floor arrested by her own body. Some instinct deeper than reason had forced her unwilling flesh to move, to save the tiny newborn thing.
There was a sudden, ugly stench, and Li Ang’s face loomed through the dark. Cat tried to gasp, but her lungs would not obey her.
There was a creak, Li Ang’s fingers striking her abused midsection in a peculiar manner, and Cat whooped in a grateful, unending breath. The air sobbed out, and she found her cheeks wet and her entire body shaking as if with palsy. Li Ang crouched, pulling the wicker basket toward her, then collapsed. The two women lay, the basket between their bellies, and the baby screamed as they stared at each other, nose-to-nose. Cat’s breath mingled with the Chinoise girl’s, and the spark in Li Ang’s pupils found a matching flare in hers.
Her wind returned in small sips and a fit of wretched coughing. The stench did not fade. It was a privy stink, and the moment Cat’s nose wrinkled she decided she could, indeed, push herself up on shaky arms. The locket swung free of her chest, sparks dancing on the metal as it struck against her charing, and she could even clutch at it, being fully occupied with heaving her reluctant body upright.
As if her movement had broken a paralyzing charm, Li Ang moved too. She scooped the baby from his basket. The little thing quieted, his lips smacking a little as he fought for breath as well. Li Ang sat amid the shattered table and unbuttoned the top half of her dress. Her breast, luminous gold in the single lamp’s glow, rose like a moon, and the baby latched on.
Cat surveyed the kitchen. The stove was sullenly giving forth heat, and the shelves near the washbasin were knocked askew. The table would be useless unless she could find a mending-charm for two of its four legs, and the chairs were matchwood. A bottle of dyspepsia syrup had broken on the floor, and a sticky red tide spread under the Chinois man, who lay with his head—or what was left of it—cocked at an odd angle, the stain on the seat of his threadbare blue breeches announcing where the reek originated from. The cast-iron skillet propped in the ruins of what had been his skull further announced what Li Ang had hit him with.
Cat found her shoulders against the wall. Next to her, Li Ang crooned to Jonathan, who had fallen silent, suckling and content. The Chinoise girl’s hair hung in her face, strands of black ink, and she was sweating. Great pearly pale drops of water stood out on her skin. Crockery lay smashed across the floor, other implements were scattered, and the largest knife their household possessed was rammed into the barred back door, its wooden hilt still quivering from whatever violence had sunk it into thick wood.
Her head lolled a little, and she found herself staring at Li Ang, who was regarding her with narrowed, black Chinoise eyes. Cat swallowed several times, seeking to clear her throat.
“Li Ang.” Husky, the name dropped into the kitchen’s hush. Outside, the wind mounted another notch.
“Bad man.” Perfectly reasonable pronunciation, too. “He come for baby.”
Well, obviously. “And…to hurt you.” To kill you.
Li Ang nodded, grimly. “Husband. Wants baby.”
A husband? “I thought you were a widow.” Her entire body was heavy as lead. Her mouth tasted of things best left unsaid.
“Husband sorcerer. Mage.” The girl spat the world. “I youngest wife.”
Oh, dear heavens. “Ah. I see.” Except I do not. Youngest wife. Wants baby. She’s hiding.
Apparently the girl who did her washing and cooked her meals had a secret, too.
Cat coughed. Her stomach cramped, and she doubled over. The pain eased in increments.
Li Ang still watched her. “He no take baby. He want go into from baby, make him young.”
Oh, God. Cat’s gorge rose. She retched once, pointlessly, and only grim strength of will kept her from doing so again. That was mancy of the blackest hue, only whispered of in old faerie-stories of witches stealing breath and body from princesses. “Go into? Into…into Jonathan?”
Li Ang nodded. “Brass kettle and herb, and Jin. Fire and mage. Make husband young. I no want husband young. Old man. Nasty. Bad.”
Good heavens. Cat saw again the marks on Li Ang’s legs and back, the ink rubbed under the skin making odd characters, Chinois writing. She recoiled from the memory, her own flesh twitching, and another thought took its place. “Mr.…Mr. Gabriel? He’s helping you?”