he would not budge.
“I’ll help,” Sarah said unexpectedly, coming into the room.
“You should be resting.”
“You’ll never move him alone,” Sarah said matter-of-factly. She took hold of her dead husband’s feet and motioned for Lydia to lift his shoulders at the same time.
It was done at last, the earth scraped back into place, the restless birds clucking a benediction. The moon had risen, then vanished behind a bank of clouds, and thunder rumbled in the distance as they started back to the house, breathless from their exertions. They had just reached the door when Sarah again swayed dizzily. This time she would have fallen had Lydia not moved quickly to her side.
“I’ll be all right,” Sarah insisted, though her limbs would not support her.
“Here,” Lydia said, leading her to the cot in the other bedroom.
“We must go,” Sarah protested feebly, too weak to resist being put on the bed.
“In a few minutes,” Lydia said. “You rest while I get everything ready.”
Almost at once Sarah’s eyes fluttered closed. Lydia stared anxiously down at her. Surely her fever was worse, and she was so weak already, how would she ever manage to travel thirty miles over the hills and rice fields?
Their bags were sitting on the hard-packed dirt floor in her parents’ bedroom. They were too much, Lydia decided. She would pack just the essentials into one small valise that she could carry herself. Later, if the uproar should die down—and that was possible; her father had told her that there had been outbreaks of anti-white sentiment before, but they had lasted only briefly—then they could come back for their other belongings.
Beyond that, her plans were necessarily vague. Her mother had a brother, Richard Whitley, in San Francisco. Once they traveled safely to Shanghai, surely they could book passage on a ship there. Brother and sister were not close, but he could hardly refuse to help them, could he?
She began emptying the freshly packed bags onto the floor, tossing things hither and thither. Her nerves were stretched taut and she gave a start at a sound from outside; this time she was certain she heard footsteps in the street. She held her breath, listening. The smoke from the lamp had begun to sting her eyes so that she saw through a veil of tears. She was holding the locket Papa had given her, and it slipped from her trembling fingers, falling open. Her father’s likeness gazed up at her, his eyes seeming to reproach her.
A sob caught in Lydia’s throat and she buried her face in her hands. It was hopeless. What could she do, a mere girl?
Another sound from outside brought her sharply back to reality. Yes, there was someone there. She jumped up and ran into the front room of the house, staring wide-eyed at the door. She heard voices and more footsteps, then suddenly an imperious rapping.
She held her breath. Who could it be? The Chinese hordes, come to kill them? Or someone to rescue them perhaps, the Cabots, or even the authorities?
The rapping came again, louder, more insistent than before. Lydia could neither speak nor move. Her heart pounding, she watched the door being tested gingerly at first, then shoved abruptly inward. Ke Loo came into the room, stopping when he saw her.
Lydia stared as if mesmerized. Ke Loo’s glance went around the room, and came back to her.
“I wish to speak to the father,” he informed her arrogantly. His expression as he regarded her was a contradiction. It was plain that he disapproved of being met by a mere female, for in a proper Chinese home they would remain out of sight when a visitor was present. At the same time, there was an unmistakable glint of pleasure in his eyes as he scrutinized her more boldly than politely.
“He—he’s busy,” she replied. “He’s writing a sermon.”
Ke Loo’s eyes flicked from one end of the room to the other. There was not a sound in the house.
“The mother, then,” he said, taking a step further into the room. “I will speak to her.”
“She’s busy also.” Lydia’s heart was pounding and she could barely trust her voice to speak.
Ke Loo came still closer. His lips contorted into a mockery of a smile. “You are alone?” he asked.
“No,” she said, a note of hysteria giving the lie to her denial. His grin widened.
“The father, he is ill?”
“No, he’s busy, I tell you.”
“In China,” he said, his voice as sleek and sinuous as the snake who lived in the little garden, “we honor the widow. I have much wealth. I am cousin to Dragon Empress. You and honored mother could live as queens.”
He spoke as if he knew Papa was dead. His eyes held hers for a moment. They went to her hair, and she realized for the first time that he had probably never seen hair that color before. It seemed to fascinate him. She had let it hang loose, and now he put out one hand, taking the long curls in his fingers, fondling their silky luxuriance.
“No,” she cried suddenly, jerking her hair from his hand. “I won’t marry you, I won’t.”
His nostrils flared angrily, and again his eyes darted about the room. “Where are the parents?” he demanded.
“They’re both indisposed,” she said, fighting a wave of hysteria. “You must go, please.”
She gestured toward the door. For a moment he hesitated, studying her as if reading the meaning of her actions. Then, without a further word, he whirled about and, silk robe rustling, went out the door. She ran to it, watching as he entered his sedan chair, the curtains falling to conceal him from view. His bearers, so thin and frail looking that she wondered how they could manage the weight, hoisted the poles onto their callused shoulders and set off at once with the peculiar jogging motion they used.
She slammed the door shut and ran into the room where her mother was sleeping. “Oh, Mama, Mama, wake up,” she cried, shaking her mother’s shoulders. “We’ve got to leave right away.”
Though Sarah opened her eyes, she seemed to focus them with difficulty, and her skin was burning to the touch.
“Lydia? What...?”
“It’s Ke Loo, Mama, he’s been here, and he’ll come back, I know he will. He knows about Papa, I don’t know how, but he does, he knows we’re alone. Oh, Mama, we’ve got to leave right away.”
“Ke Loo, the mandarin?” Sarah’s fever-wracked brain wrestled with this information. After a moment she struggled to sit up. “Yes, yes, you’re right, we must go. He won’t rest until he’s carried you off. Help me.”
With Lydia’s help she managed to get to her feet, though she swayed unsteadily. Lydia left her a moment and ran to get dark cloaks for both of them.
“The bags,” Sarah said, seeing them on the floor, their contents scattered about the room.
“There isn’t time, we’ll send for them later,” Lydia said. “Hurry.”
She paused just long enough to extinguish the oil
