Zhihao had certainly made a mess of things. He had ruined Rebecca’s life—twice. First, when his negligence led to Eli’s death, and again when he abandoned her without telling her. He’d been unfaithful, or at least disloyal, to Jiayi. She was right. His feelings and actions toward her had been unstable. Changeable. She was never able to know where she quite stood with him and it had upended her life even more than usual. And now, his mentor, and Jiayi’s as well, was dead. He had no reason to think he was responsible for that, but at the same time, Jiayi’s words had hit a nerve. He would not be surprised if he somehow had played an indirect role in Hu Xiaosheng’s death.
He needed to talk to someone. But who? Without Hu Xiaosheng, there was no one in the world that Zhihao could speak to who knew about Jiayi’s abilities. People in the palace knew, like Prince Kang. But he didn’t consider Prince Kang a friend, someone he could confide in. Besides, this late, Zhihao would not be allowed to enter the Forbidden City.
He went to the university, but not to the library. He couldn’t go back there yet.
The university had been a stabilizing force in his life since his return to Peking. After spending so many years abroad, returning to Peking had not felt like returning home, but like arriving in a new country. He was glad to be reunited with his mother, but everything else had felt strange. Foreign. And he knew that his mannerisms—his way of dressing, speaking, and acting—set him apart from everyone else. His education abroad was supposed to have given him an advantage upon his return. Set him up for success at court. But instead, it had been a severe handicap. The old guard refused to accept him, offering him only the lowliest position as an assistant secretary for the Ministry of Trade.
For weeks, his life was in flux. His father had died not long before his return home, so he had to find a way to support himself and his mother. His only friends were other young men who had also returned—none of whom had any more success or contacts than Zhihao.
Thankfully, Prince Gong took all the young men under his wing, offering them positions at his newly founded university. Not all of the men could accept. Some of their families refused to allow their sons to work in the private sector. But Zhihao, Lian, and a few others were allowed to accept the offer. It was not ideal. Zhihao and the others all thought they would be able to have positions of influence. Zhihao missed being out in the field, discovering and digging up lost items and civilizations. But the university positions paid well and offered security the men would not have found otherwise.
The university also provided familiarity for them. Prince Gong had structured the university on many Western principles, and even hired a British professor to serve as university chancellor. For the young men like Zhihao who’d had difficulty reacclimating to life in Peking, the university was a taste of the West. A balancing force in their otherwise Chinese lives.
In spite of the murder, Zhihao felt calm and comforted as he walked around the university campus at night. The moon was full, and there were gas lamps lit along the main paths. There were several classrooms, offices, and dorm rooms emitting light as well. People reading or working late into the night by the light of candles or fireplaces. He paused when he saw that the light in Lian’s office was on, but the shade was pulled. It was not strange for Lian to be working late, but he paused when he saw what he thought were multiple shadows moving about the room. He wondered if Lian was meeting with some of his revolutionary friends. It seemed foolish—dangerous—for them to be meeting on campus where anyone could see them.
A rock sank into the pit of his stomach. Surely Lian did not have anything to do with Hu Xiaosheng’s death. But the nagging doubt in the back of his mind—Lian was a revolutionary, he worked with Marcus, he was involved in the slave trade—compelled him to investigate his friend further. He hoped he was wrong. But Jiayi had been right—Lian was not the man Zhihao thought he was, and he had to at least consider the possibility that Lian had been involved in Hu Xiaosheng’s death.
He entered the building and slipped as quietly as possible up the wide stairs to the third floor where Lian’s office was. He approached the door and could see light seeping out underneath it and hear muffled voices. He couldn’t make out any of the words, but he could hear at least three different people speaking.
Zhihao inched closer to the door and crouched down, hoping he could better understand what they were talking about, but the voices suddenly raised and he no longer had to strain to hear.
“How could you be so stupid?” Lian asked.
“He knew too much!” someone else said. “He was going to report you. All of us.”
“But now the Ministry of Justice is poking around,” the other man said. “How long before they come looking for us?”
“If the girl does her job, she can then get the ministry off our backs,” Lian said.
The first man scoffed. “If that girl does what you want, we will be the last problem she has.”
“And you think he’s stupid?” the other voice pipped up. “Assassinating the empress has to be the most foolish plan you’ve ever come up with.”
They had to be talking about Jiayi, Zhihao realized. And they mentioned killing someone. It sounded like Lian hadn’t committed the murder, but he knew who did, one of his revolutionary friends. One of the men in the room right now!
Zhihao stood back up. He moved toward the stairwell to go and alert the authorities. But he stopped. The men might leave the room at any moment. And that investigator probably wouldn’t believe what Zhihao had heard anyway. He didn’t have any evidence. It would be his word against theirs.
He needed to do something, but what? He needed proof that the men had killed Hu Xiaosheng. But he couldn’t just barge into the room. They had already killed once. What would stop them from killing again to protect themselves?
Zhihao was pacing, flailing, trying to decide what to do when he heard the men move to the door and the doorknob turn. He rushed to the stairwell, hiding in the shadows. He heard the door to Lian’s office close and the men’s footsteps as they went in the opposite direction. He sighed in relief. They must be going to the stairwell at the other end of the building.
Zhihao wiped the sweat from his brow and noticed that his heart was beating fiercely. He was terrified but energized at the same time. He peeked around the corner, and when he didn’t see anyone, he crept toward Lian’s office. The door was locked, but it was not particularly sturdy. He reared back and kicked the door in easily. He lit one of the candles that was still smoldering and went to Lian’s desk. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but there had to be something that he could use to prove that Lian’s friends were killers.
Zhihao shuffled through the papers on the desk, but he saw nothing more than notes on various political systems, books about communism and socialism, and student papers waiting to be graded. He cursed to himself as he shoved the papers aside. Of course Lian wouldn’t be so stupid as to leave evidence lying around that he was selling women as slaves. He was about to leave when his eyes fell on a piece of paper with English handwriting on it. Familiar English handwriting. His hand was shaking as he picked up the letter written in Rebecca’s lovely penmanship.
The demand for Chinese brides in California is higher than ever. If you can provide more girls, you can name your price. Marcus has had no difficulty forging the papers.
Zhihao felt like he wanted to vomit. Not only did Rebecca know about the slavery, she was part of it. Rebecca had mentioned that they had been to California on their travels. She must have made contacts there that made it possible for Lian and Marcus to sell the women as brides and prostitutes in San Francisco.
Zhihao shoved the paper into his pocket and slammed his fist on the table. He fought back tears as he realized that Jiayi had been right all along. Rebecca and Lian were not the people he once knew and loved. They were dangerous, and for some reason, Hu Xiaosheng had paid the price.
He didn’t know where Lian had gone, but Rebecca would be at her hotel. He would confront her. Reveal her to her husband. Then he would alert the authorities and have them tossed out of China.
He heard the click of a revolver behind him.
He ducked just as someone fired a shot at him. He turned and ran at the assailant, knocking him into the dark hallway. The man cocked the gun again. With only the light of the candle in the office to see by, Zhihao reached for the man’s hands until he found the gun. They both grunted as they wrestled for control of the weapon.
The gun fired again, and Zhihao cried out as the heat from the gunpowder burned his hand. The man grunted as well, and Zhihao felt the warmth of fresh blood leak onto his hands. The man cursed and stumbled to the ground. Zhihao recognized the voice.
“Lian!” Zhihao said, grabbing his friend and lowing him to the ground. “No! I-I-I didn’t see you!”
“I thought you were from the government…” Lian said, his voice raspy. “They are coming for us. The new age is under attack.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Zhihao said. “We need to get you to a hospital.”
Lian shook his head and grabbed Zhihao’s collar. “The revolution will come,” he said. “When the empress dies, the end will come.” His voice was growing weak and he was coughing blood.
“Why?” Zhihao asked, holding his friend in his arms. “Why Hu Xiaosheng?”
“He knew,” Lian said. “He was going to stop her…”
“Jiayi will never kill the empress,” Zhihao said. “You didn’t have to kill him—”
“You don’t know her…” Lian sucked in a breath and cried out in pain.
“Lian!” Zhihao called out. “No! What do you mean?”
“Run,” Lian whispered. “Don’t let them find you here.” Then he closed his eyes and let out his final exhale.
Zhihao choked out a cry. How could this happen? Why?
“Hey!” someone called out in the darkness. “Who’s there? What’s going on?”
Zhihao realized that he was once again covered in the blood of a dead man. If he were caught, he would certainly be pinned as a murderer in both cases. He let go of his friend and ran down the hall, jumping down the stairs, three, four at a time, and was out of the building before anyone could see him. He fled the university and into the dark narrow streets of Peking, hoping to get home and cleaned up before anyone thought to question why a man was running through the city streets covered in fresh blood.