Lord at First Sight (The Montevor Royals Saga #8)

Chapter 30

CHAPTER THIRTY

ANTOINE

T he cab jerks forward as the driver slams on the brakes. This is the fifth time in as many minutes, and Laura braces against the door.

We landed in Chengdu an hour ago at five in the afternoon a bit tired but very excited. Laura is pumped at the thought of seeing her grandmother in person after so many years of screen-bound conversations. For me, it’s a different kind of thrill. I’m one step—no, one giant leap—closer to finding the key. That thought alone sharpens my focus and fills me with bubbly energy.

We flew in on a private jet. It was the fastest way to get here. Convincing Laura that I hadn’t spent the entirety of my trust fund on our tickets required the kind of creativity that doesn’t come naturally to me. But I think I did well. When, after the lavish breakfast, she had a panic attack over my recklessness, I told her that our private jet was operated by a low-cost airline for the wealthy. “Think of it as the Ryanair of elite aviation” were my specific words. She rolled her eyes and let it go.

Now she stares out the window of the cab, all worked up with the tip of her little nose almost touching the glass. Around us, cars are packed like sardines, bicycles weave through the gaps, and pedestrians dart between the lanes with a confidence I can only admire. Above it all, a gray dome of smog blocks out the sun, muting the city in shades of dull steel. It feels like the atmosphere is pressing down on us, wrapping everything in a humid, sticky embrace.

Laura leans closer still to the window. “I don’t remember it being this stuffy. Or this hazy.”

“Did you ever come here in summer?”

“No,” she admits.

We pass a massive, bright red archway. The characters etched into the top glow faintly in the midday gloom. To the left, a towering apartment block looms over a tiny Taoist temple with curling green roof tiles. A short time later, we drive past a gigantic statue of a man in a double-breasted coat. Mao Zedong, judging by the hairstyle. Chairman Mao rises high on his pedestal, above a sea of neon capitalist signs that market everything from cell phones to hot pot restaurants. I’m well traveled, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a jarring mix of worlds all crammed together in a single metropolis.

The driver swerves sharply to avoid a cyclist carrying what appears to be an entire wardrobe balanced precariously on his back.

Laura smiles. “You have to look past the mess. There’s beauty here if you know where to find it.”

“Help me spot it?”

“Look there.” She points to a small public garden at the foot of a building.

Red lanterns dangle from the trees, their light soft against the gray backdrop. A group of elderly men sits around a stone table, sipping tea and slapping down cards. Some of the grandpas have a toddler or a baby in their laps. All look supremely content.

I can see what Laura’s saying. It’s not only the juxtaposition of different universes that characterizes this city, but also that of noise and tranquility of public chaos and private peace.

“I can’t wait to see Grandma Feng again!” Laura exclaims. “It’s been so long!”

Thirty minutes later, the cab pulls away, leaving us in a quieter neighborhood, in front of a small house tucked in between looming high-rises. It makes me think of Mount Evor. Just like my tiny principality holding its own against France, Italy and Switzerland, this stubborn relic from another time resists against the encroaching concrete and steel.

The door opens and out comes a petite woman moving with a liveliness that makes me question if she’s really pushing eighty. Her eyes light up when she sees Laura, and she cries out things in Mandarin, spreading her arms wide.

“ Wàipó !” Laura rushes forward to hug her.

I stand a few feet away, smiling politely.

Feng pulls back, her hands on Laura’s shoulders. After examining her granddaughter for a good minute, she turns to me.

“French too hard, Antoine,” she says in English.

“That’s all right, we can communicate in English.”

She shakes her head. “English too hard.”

“I’m afraid I don’t speak Mandarin…”

“Don’t worry,” Laura jumps in. “I’ll help.”

Feng says something in Mandarin that has Laura laughing and glancing at me.

Is she making fun of my garish shirt and torn jeans?

“She says you’re handsome,” Laura translates. “And very lucky to have me.”

I offer a smile. “Tell her I agree.”

Laura conveys that. Feng waves us inside, gesturing as she speaks.

“She’s been watching Wed at First Sight ,” Laura explains as we enter the house. “Every episode, even if it’s in French. She says you dance salsa like a god.”

Feng adds something, gesturing to Laura to relay. Laura shakes her head.

“What?” I demand. “You must translate everything, if you really want to help.”

Feng grins, pokes me in the chest with a gnarled finger, and says in English, “Sexy. Good for my Laura.”

“Why, thank you!” I bow theatrically. “ Xièxiè. ”

The interior of the house is simple and uncluttered. In a stark contrast to the Yangs’ Parisian apartment, all the furniture here is old, though well-kept, and mostly in traditional Chinese style. Even the TV is antique—blocky with a protruding butt. Which might explain why Feng’s daughter Hua is such a sucker for everything new…

On the dining table is a spread of colorful, fragrant food. My stomach growls involuntarily. Feng beams at the sound and pats my arm like I’m a starving child she’s about to rescue.

We wash our hands, and then the meal begins. The food—delicate dumplings, spicy stir-fried greens, and delectable pork—tastes even better than it looks. Feng and Laura engage in a lively conversation. Laura’s Mandarin is good. She has to stop and think sometimes, and she uses French words here and there, but overall, she’s fluent.

As soon as my hunger is satisfied, my thoughts rush to the photocopy of Laura’s sketch that’s burning a hole in my pocket.

Patience, Antoine. Let them talk their fill.

Finally, the conversation lulls, and Laura reaches for her backpack. She pulls out her sketchbook and flips to the page with the rose-and-ribbon design. She shows it to her grandma, before gesturing around us and asking something. Feng tilts the sketch toward the light.

Her eyes narrow, then widen in recognition. “Oh!” She taps her finger on the page and says something in Mandarin.

“That rose is on the front of the old music box she bought at the flea market a long time ago,” Laura translates, shooting me a euphoric look.

My heart leaps. I clench my hands under the table to keep from pounding it in triumph.

Feng speaks again, and Laura translates, “The music box never worked. The mechanism must’ve deteriorated too much. But other than that, it was in a pretty good shape. The craftsmanship was remarkable.”

“Was?” I echo.

Laura asks her grandmother a question in Mandarin. Feng shakes her head, her eyes suddenly wistful. She launches into an explanation. I don’t like the apology in her tone. I don’t like it at all.

“She gave it away back in March to her dear friend and trusted housekeeper, Ting Jie,” Laura translates. “No, wait, I should say ‘Jie Ting’ for you. In China, the last name comes before the first.”

I hate the news so much my mind resists. “What?”

“My grandmother gave the music box to her housekeeper,” Laura repeats slowly.

I force a smile to cover my disappointment. “I mean… why?”

Laura translates that. Feng chuckles, gesturing as she replies.

“She says Jie always loved it,” Laura explains to me. “She’d admired that music box for years. And since neither my mom nor I care for antiques, Grandma gave it to Jie as a gift for her fiftieth birthday.”

I lean back, biting down the string of curses threatening to escape.

Calm down, Antoine. This is just a minor hurdle, not a setback. I’ll find Jie Ting and make an offer she won’t be able to refuse.

Feng pats Laura’s hand, then mine, speaking in a tone that’s both firm and encouraging.

“She says Jie doesn’t live far,” Laura translates. “Tomorrow is her day off, so we can pay her a visit and take a look at the music box.”

I nod and spend the rest of the evening giving myself the cheeriest pep talk I can muster.