Chapter 20 #2
Your father was a remarkable diplomat. When he was at court, members from different factions tried to recruit him for the
credibility he would bring to their side.”
Yao, she realized, was in awe of Prince Tsai. Her father. Father. She rolled the word in her mind, considered how it made her feel. “No, no more about him,” she said, putting her head in
her hands. “All I want to know right now is why you haven’t told me any of this before.”
“It seemed like a blessing that you lost your memory,” Master Liu said. “Your father was relieved you couldn’t recall the
horrors of your last day in Peking. Of seeing your mother and sisters dead. He felt it was an omen, a sign to forget that
life and leave it behind.”
“Furthermore,” Yao said, “you were so young we weren’t sure you would understand the need for secrecy.”
For weeks, newspapers printed supposed sightings of the prince and his daughter: a man and a little girl on a steamship bound for South America, a father and daughter seen at a silk shop in Singapore, or riding on horseback across the Mongolian grasslands.
Lisan could inhabit her new identity far more easily and safely if she didn’t remember the past, if she didn’t refer to her father as a prince.
“And the problem and the danger,” Master Liu said, “which this woman, this fraudulent princess, does not seem to understand,
is that each faction would prefer your father dead than have him support a rival. And since the prince is on the side of the
Nationalists, then all the Royalists—all of them, regardless of stripe—would want him dead.”
“But how can he still be of consequence,” Lisan said, “when he’s been gone more than ten years?”
“Masako Kyo was correct when she said our nation is on the edge of revolution,” Master Liu said. “China stands on the edge
and any small nudge could tip it in any direction. Any one person, any one incident. Prince Tsai is one such person. Or at
least that’s what desperate men think whether or not it’s true. It’s what they want to believe because killing dissent is
easier to them than admitting their mistakes, their own crimes. Easier than the effort needed to remake China.”
“Masako Kyo has put you in danger,” Yao said. “She may be keeping quiet for now, but she won’t be able to resist telling others
she’s found the missing fourth princess once she gets to Peking. She said as much herself.”
“Why would I be in any danger?” Lisan said. “I’m not important.”
“You’re his daughter,” Master Liu said gently. “They could kidnap you, use you to force him out of hiding. His most dangerous
enemy is a powerful man called Prince Duan.”
A hard-line conservative who considered Prince Tsai and other progressive members of the court traitors, Duan had often clashed with Prince Tsai.
In 1900 when the Boxers and the Chinese Army attacked the Foreign Legation, they did so with the blessing of the Empress Dowager, advised by Prince Duan.
Duan gave Chinese troops instructions to attack the homes of foreigners and also those of his political enemies—Prince Tsai’s included.
“Duan is a hero to hard-line royalists,” Yao said. “All he has to do is give the word, and assassins will target you and your
father, for no reason other than Duan’s hatred. If Duan takes you hostage, you will not be treated kindly.”
“But it would only be Masako Kyo’s word against yours,” she said, “and her reputation is scandalous. Tell everyone I’m just
an orphan you rescued from the streets. I’m nothing.”
“The trouble is, you have your mother’s features,” Master Liu said. “The guest who saw you at my New Year’s party remarked
on it. He’s a court official who has met your parents. And now Masako Kyo has noticed.” He shook his head. “I should’ve noticed
it myself, but I see you every day, and somehow . . .”
“Why did you make me leave my job at St. Clare’s?” she said. “Was it because of this?” And she swept a hand over her face.
Her guardian nodded. “At first, I just wanted you to stay home as much as possible so that no one else would see you. But
you got the job with the Stantons, and Fourth Uncle pointed out you’d be safer living with foreigners.”
“The Stantons were unlikely to invite anyone except other foreigners to their home,” Yao said, “and they wouldn’t look at
you twice, let alone connect you to Prince Tsai. But then Masako Kyo . . .”
“I can’t talk about this anymore. I’m going to my room,” Lisan said, standing up. “I’ve not slept well in weeks.”
As she made her way along the corridor, almost running, she heard Master Liu’s voice. “Let her get some rest, Yao. This is
unexpected and disturbing to her.”
She lay on the bed in the room where she’d slept for more than ten years.
Lisan wished the sturdy door could shut out the confusion, put a barricade between her and what she had just learned.
She sank under the covers and turned on her side, curled up until her knees nearly touched her chest. The bedroom was cozy, just enough space for a bed and chest of drawers, a tiny armoire, a schoolgirl-size desk and chair.
This bedroom was her first memory. She remembered waking up one morning and seeing daylight through gauze-curtained windows.
The scent of sandalwood soap on her skin.
A middle-aged woman looking down with an inquiring smile.
Her amah. One time, there had been a man who watched while the amah fed her congee and pieces of fruit.
She never saw that face again, and sometimes she wondered whether she’d dreamed it.
Now she realized it must’ve been her father.
Other than that, she had only flashes of memory from dreams.
And now she was back, trying to gather her thoughts, regain the feeling of safety she’d felt here as a child. But with all
that she’d learned since leaving Lennox Manor she could barely think. What she had learned and what it meant. She didn’t know
how she ought to feel instead of simply numb.
She sat up and looked at her feet. Another revelation. All these years, her big feet had been evidence that her origins were
lowly, her dead parents so poor they expected a daughter to labor and walk long distances. Foot binding was still practiced
by the Han Chinese, but more and more, families shunned the custom. At St. Clare’s her classmates were a mix of girls with
bound feet, bound feet that had been “let loose,” and normal feet. Now she knew why she had normal feet. She was Manchu. Manchus
never bound their daughters’ feet.
As a child, whenever she felt lonely, she’d make up stories about her parents, about why she had been abandoned.
Perhaps her family had once been wealthy but lost their fortune.
This was a common enough tale, and when it happened sometimes families sold off their daughters.
More often though, she wanted desperately to believe she was Master Liu’s daughter, an illegitimate child.
After all, he had given her a good life and sent her to school for an education no servant would ever need.
In an absent-minded way, he was even affectionate to her.
Her emotions churned. What she needed was a visit to the Goddess of Mercy at the family temple. There she would light some
incense, whisper her requests, and sit for a while on the floor to contemplate the goddess’s carved features, the string of
wooden beads draped around the wooden shoulders. As a child she’d been sorely tempted to play with those beads, but even then,
she knew Master Liu would’ve frowned on her touching anything in this sacred place. She would visit the Goddess of Mercy in
the morning.
Lulled by the familiarity of her own bed, the comforting weight of woolen blankets, she gave in to exhaustion and let her
thoughts drift until sleep took over. And yet, even here at home, she could feel a strange tugging at the edge of her consciousness,
something that urged her to go back to Lennox Manor. Come find me.
She is in the garden at Lennox Manor, but it isn’t winter. The skies are a cerulean blue. Early blooming roses flourish on
shrubs in the formal garden, the fresh, elusive green only found in springtime tints leaves and grass, and the plum trees
behind the house are in flower, some already dropping pink and white petals on the grass. Lisan recognizes the season—late
spring is her favorite time of year, days of soft sunshine and turquoise skies. But she had never seen the gardens of Lennox
Manor at this time of year.
A flash of color and it’s Rosalie, kneeling on the grass by the water’s edge; the crimson train of her dress spreads out behind
her like a pool of blood. She stands up when she sees Lisan. She isn’t very tall. Barefoot, she is more petite than Lisan.
Rosalie smiles, looks up at the sky, and Lisan hears laughter, a man’s happy voice.
A young man across the lake is pointing to a family of ducks clambering up from the water and onto the grass.
He’s the same man Lisan saw by the piano in a previous dream, and she realizes he’s a younger version of Mason Burnett, not as broad or as tall but with the same unruly brows and deep-set eyes.
His dark head is bare, his chin covered with a short beard.
The young man and the lake fade out of her dream but a voice lingers in the air, murmuring words Lisan can’t make out. A red
dress flutters, then vanishes into a stand of silver birches growing in front of a row of poplars.
Come find me, the voice says. Rosalie’s voice, she now realizes. Red fades to gray, this time vanishing completely.
Lisan rolled over in bed and opened her eyes. How would she even know what Charles Burnett looked like? There were no portraits
of him in the house, no photographs, nothing at all. When she and Caroline had stolen into Mason’s rooms, she had peered at
the artwork on his walls, mostly landscapes and hunting scenes. On a side table she’d found a sepia-toned photograph of a