It was her understanding that he had only been stopping here in the city, and that his actual home was farther to the north. He might even now be wending his way northward, with nothing but a memory of thwarted desire.
“How is she?” she asked, coming to the couch.
Sarah moaned just then, and the nurse wet a dirty rag and put it to her lips. “She very bad,” she said matter-of-factly. “She will die soon.”
“But she mustn’t,” Lydia cried. “You must keep her alive till we reach Shanghai. The doctors there will be able to help her, I know they will.”
The woman gave her a peculiar look, but did not reply. For a moment Lydia stood watching helplessly as the nurse bathed her mother’s face. A distant clatter in the street outside reminded her that it was already growing late. Peter would surely be back soon. She must have herself and her mother ready to go when he came.
Someone—Peter, or the nurse—had hung their wet clothes out to dry in the morning sunlight. Lydia brought them in and began to dress hurriedly. She was just finishing when she heard the sound of the front door, and Peter came in.
Her quick smile of greeting faded when she saw the grimness of his expression.
“What is it?” she asked. “Has something happened—oh!”
She saw that he was carrying a purple parasol, which he handed wordlessly to her. She recognized it at once; she had seen it only a few days before.
“It’s Mrs. Blaise’s,” she said. “Does this mean...are they...?” She could not bring herself to say the word.
He nodded. “All three of them.”
She shuddered, as though someone had walked over her grave. She thought of Reginald. In a way, he had been responsible for bringing her and Peter together, and now Reginald was dead, and his parents as well, and her own dear father.
“We must get away from this dreadful place,” she said aloud, “while there’s still time.”
“Lydia, I want to talk to you,” he said, taking her hand in his.
“Oh, darling, I love you,” she cried, “but can’t we talk when we’re on the road? Will the nurse come with us?”
“Lydia,” he said again, but he was interrupted by a commotion from outside, and the chatter of several voices.
“Someone’s there,” she said in a frightened whisper. “What are we to do? We must hide.”
There was no time to hide, however, for a moment later the front door burst open, and Ke Loo came into the house, followed by his servants.
Lydia clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle her scream. She looked wide-eyed from the mandarin to Peter. To her horror, she saw that Peter was not in the least surprised to see the mandarin; his expression was one of infinite sadness.
“You?” she cried. “You brought him here?” Peter nodded.
“Lydia, I must talk to you,” he said.
“But how could you? Last night—I thought that you loved me.”
“My poor child,” he said. “Don’t you understand?”
“I understand that you’ve betrayed me to that—that yellow fiend,” she said, pointing. Ke Loo stood just inside the door, smiling, his hands folded serenely in front of him.
“I went to see Colonel Wu first thing this morning,” Peter said, speaking rapidly. “He told me that there was no way he could guarantee our safety. Then I went to Ke Loo. I even tried to buy our safety from him, I offered him all the cash I had left, with no success. Don’t you know what that parasol means? Why do you think I brought it to you, why do you think he gave it to me? Ke Loo had those people stopped on the road, and killed, in a fit of anger because you’d eluded him. He’d already learned that you were here. He’d have had us killed too if we’d tried to leave. I’ve saved your life. This way there’s no real danger.”
“Not for you, at least,” she said bitterly.
“I can understand your anger.”
Tears threatened, but this time her anger was stronger than her grief, and she fought them back. “No,” she said quickly, “No, you cannot. I hate you, Peter MacNair. I shall always hate you. I shall never cease to pray that you will suffer as I am suffering, at the hands of love.”
“Lydia, don’t, please, this is difficult enough. If, as you say, you loved me....”
She gave a shrill, hysterical laugh. “Yes, yes, I loved you, that was my curse. Well then, let it be yours as well. May you never be free of my love—and may it never cease to cause you pain!”
She did cry then, great heartrending sobs that shook her whole body, while the tears rushed down her cheeks. He put out a hand to comfort her, but she slapped it away.
“Don’t touch me, you Judas,” she cried.
He made no further move to touch her. For several moments they all waited while she cried into her hands. When her sobs grew somewhat quieter, Peter said, “The nurse will stay here with your mother.”
“He can’t mean to separate us,” Lydia said, turning her red-rimmed eyes to him.
“But you must know that she’s dying,” he said brutally. “It’s impossible for her to travel, and it can’t be more than a matter of hours. I promise you, I won’t leave myself until she’s—until it’s over.”
“And I’ve no doubt Ke Loo has promised you safe passage to Shanghai, once you’re no longer burdened with two unfortunate women.”
“He’s promised me that he at least won’t try to stop my leaving, though that wasn’t my chief concern. He’s also agreed to take you to your former house, if you want to collect anything.”
“What do you think I might need?” she asked, her voice dripping venom. “A shroud, perhaps?”
At least that made him wince. “Don’t, I beg you,” he said, averting his eyes.
Lydia turned from him, and catching sight of the couch on which her mother lay, she ran across the room and threw herself over her mother’s body. Though she had never been as close to her as she had been to Papa, it was a bitter blow to lose her now as well. It was a cruel fate for her mother, to die with neither husband nor daughter at her side, in a foreign land, in this pitiful way.
Behind her, Ke Loo cleared his throat impatiently.
“I assured him that you would go willingly,” Peter said. “It will be far more comfortable for you than being bound, which I’m afraid is the alternative.”
She clung to her mother a moment longer. Then, feeling incredibly old, as old even as this ancient land in which she found herself a prisoner, she got slowly to her feet.
“I’m quite ready,” she said, squaring her shoulders; she would not give them—especially Peter MacNair—the satisfaction of seeing her cowed and beaten. She was an American, the daughter of the Reverend Joshua Holt; and,
