Suling jumped up and followed Reggie, who was heading for the metro station. Suling knew the signs of Reggie’s distress as well as she knew her own heartbeat: the slight tremble in Reggie’s hands, the slump of her shoulders, as though trying to make herself less conspicuous, and worst of all, the way those green eyes lost their light. Everyone else may have just seen Reggie striding away in a bad temper, but only Suling could tell there was more to it.
“I know, I know,” Reggie said, when Suling caught up to her. “I’m behaving abominably.” Her cheeks were flushed almost as red as her scarf, a sure sign of her embarrassment.
“They understand,” Suling said, “and so do I.”
“I hate hearing his name,” Reggie said, taking Suling’s hand and tucking it in the crook of her arm. “I’d rather stay ignorant of his existence.”
“We both know better, dearest love,” Suling said. “It may be more comfortable not hearing anything of him, but if he’s alive, we won’t feel safe until he’s gone to trial for murder.”
For the murder of Madam Ning. For the murder of the young Pinkerton detective. Suling unconsciously touched the jade ring that hung on a gold chain around her neck. Both had belonged to her auntie. They replaced the ring Reggie had given her, the ring she now wore on her finger instead of on a red silk cord.
The flower vendor at the entrance to the Simplon metro station smilingly held up a small bouquet but Suling shook her head. They often bought from this young woman, but not today. In the underground passage to the subway, the busker with an accordion was playing a passable rendition of the “Radetzky March.” When his music was lively, Reggie and Suling often danced in front of him before dropping a few centimes in his hat, but today Reggie just handed him a coin and they hurried along to the platform. Neither spoke a word on the ride home to the Barbès–Rochechouart metro station. From there it was a short walk to their apartment on the rue Cazotte.
Their home.
Suling wondered when it would truly feel like home. But of course it’s our home, she scolded herself. The studio apartment was becoming known in their little circle of artists and writers, every gathering filled with good conversation and laughter, and more often than not, Chinese food. Sometimes the dinners made Suling miss her mother’s cooking and the wonderful variety of food that Chinatown offered. But she’d been so busy learning French, so busy getting to know Paris, so busy with her new career that she never thought of the missing as homesickness. Not until the day Marie Callot told her about an antiques store called La Pagode.
“So many exquisite porcelains and beautiful furniture,” Marie had told Suling, “and the owner is from Shanghai, a Monsieur Louis Deng, such a pleasant man. His antiques were quite inspiring, they’ve given me some new design ideas. I’d like you to take a look, Suling, and tell me what you think.”
The moment she stepped inside La Pagode, a tidal wave of memory washed over Suling. It wasn’t the fine inlaid furniture or carved jades that made her think of San Francisco; it was the scent in the air. She breathed in rose and sandalwood-infused incense, the same kind Madam Ning had used at the Palace of Endless Joy.
And suddenly she missed the gregarious, messy community of San Francisco’s Chinatown. She had often wished her neighbors there weren’t so inquisitive, that they’d mind their own business and let her keep to herself. She now understood the kindness behind such apparent nosiness, the mutual care and protectiveness that allowed the Chinese community to live in relative safety. In Paris, in spite of Reggie, in spite of their lively dinner parties and the many friends in their circle, Suling realized she was lonely in ways she hadn’t believed possible.
She missed the quicksilver laughter of children watching acrobats at New Year’s, the talkative neighbors who handed out nuggets of gossip about people and families she’d known all her life. She missed the marine smell of San Francisco Bay on a muggy afternoon. The mouthwatering fragrance of roast pork and garlic in hot oil, incense smoke wafting out from temples. She missed the loud, insistent calls of street vendors. How could Paris give her all that? Barely three hundred Chinese lived in France. There was only one store out by the Gare de Lyon where she could buy Chinese herbs and cooking ingredients.
This wasn’t simply a matter of missing the food of her childhood; it was a yearning so strong it nearly buckled her knees. She wanted to weep.
“Is that rose-scented incense?” she had asked La Pagode’s proprietor. After nearly an hour of conversation reminiscing about the foods they loved, Louis Deng introduced her to his son and niece, Theo and Pauline. Then he gave her an earthenware jar of pickled mustard greens and a bundle of incense sticks. She went home and burned incense for her auntie. Then for Third Uncle, the cousins she’d never met, and for Old Kow. Perhaps they’d survived the earthquake, but it didn’t hurt to make offerings to the gods for their well-being, either in this world or the next.
At least she knew Madam Ning’s girls were thriving. Two had returned to China with their share of Madam Ning’s savings. Four had married, their age and beauty—and money—making them highly desirable. Butterfly and Hyacinth were running a boardinghouse at the edge of Oakland’s Chinatown.
In return for the antique store owner’s kindness, Suling had made him a bouquet of silk magnolias. She braised a side of pork belly with the pickled mustard greens he’d given her and laughed at the expression on Reggie’s face upon taking her first delicious, unctuous mouthful.
Reggie then asked Suling to teach her how to cook Chinese food; now she could prepare a few simple dishes. “You’re not Amah Chung,” Suling said, teasing Reggie, “but it’s nice coming home to shrimp sauteed with green peas. Even if you don’t use enough ginger.”
“I know you miss San Francisco,” Reggie said, “and if I can’t paint, I may as well cook for you. With enough practice, perhaps I could open a Chinese diner in Paris.” It broke Suling’s heart to hear those words, even if spoken in jest. Without her art, Reggie was drifting. Suling often worried that Reggie might feel dispirited by the contrast between their career trajectories.
Suling was a senior embroideress at Callot Soeurs, and now, Paul Poiret was trying to hire her away. His fashions often featured simple draped fabrics decorated with lavish embroidery. Inspired, he claimed, by the Orient. He had even invited her to his costume party, so confident had he been that the position he was offering—head of the Poiret embroidery studio—would prove irresistible. That, and his use of Oriental design elements.
“What he calls ‘Oriental’ is Arabic and Persian,” Suling said to Reggie after her first visit to Poiret’s atelier. “Harem pants. And there were some coats cut in the style of Japanese kimonos.”
“He’s offering more money than Callot Soeurs,” Reggie pointed out. “Aren’t you just a little bit tempted?”
“We have enough to live on, don’t we?” Suling said, and Reggie nodded. As senior embroideress, Suling’s salary at Callot Soeurs was more than sufficient for their modest needs. “The Callot sisters have been very good to me. If they hadn’t given me a chance, Poiret wouldn’t even know of my existence.”
“I am so terribly proud of you, bao bei,” Reggie said, pulling her into a big hug. “You took the risk to make your dream real, and here you are.”
“Only because you came with me,” Suling said, returning the embrace. But she didn’t voice the worry that swam constantly at the back of her mind. She had hoped that with time, they could both be proud of each other. But Reggie still struggled to leave behind the horrors she’d suffered at Thornton’s hands. Even with the companionship of other artists and the inspiration of Paris’s incredible cultural riches, Reggie hadn’t finished any serious projects. What Suling truly lived for was the day when Reggie picked up her brushes and began to paint, really paint. And that day had seemed just around the corner.
Until they received Alice’s telegram.
Reggie had been drinking more since then. Normally Reggie drank very little. But in the weeks after Alice’s first telegram, Reggie had been buying more wine. “What?” she’d said at the look on Suling’s face. She poured herself a second glass. “A girl can’t have a drink in her own home?”
“It’s the third time this week, Reggie,” Suling said. “It’s not like you.”
“Oh, it’s very like me,” Reggie snapped, “or it would be if I weren’t pandering to your irrational worries. Honestly, Suling. Not everyone who drinks is an alcoholic.” Suling shrank back, surprised and hurt by Reggie’s belligerence.
Would everything change for Reggie once Thornton was behind bars? Let it be so, Suling prayed.
“I’d like to murder that son of a bitch Thornton. Van Doren. Whatever he’s calling himself,” Reggie said now, unlocking the door to their apartment. She hung up her coat and red scarf, ran her fingers through her curls. “Someone needs to tell that Viennese fiancée of his. How can she even guess what kind of man she’s marrying?”
“Once Clarkson arrests him, his fiancée won’t have anything more to do with him,” Suling said. “We do nothing. It’s Clarkson’s job to take Thornton back to San Francisco to stand trial.”
“Men like Thornton never have to face justice,” Reggie said. “Even if he goes to trial, his money will make sure he’s never convicted. He’ll buy off judges and bribe witnesses.”
“Bribe witnesses? That’s simply not possible,” Suling said, putting away her coat. “We are the witnesses. You and me, Gemma and Alice. He can’t bribe us. He’ll get the trial he deserves.”
Bedsprings creaked behind the folding screen and Suling knew Reggie had flung herself onto the mattress. Reggie’s demons began and ended with Thornton. They had all suffered at his hands, but Reggie most of all. She’d seen him murder the Pinkerton detective, watched him shoot Madam Ning in cold blood. Had almost burned to death. Worst of all, had woken up to find herself incarcerated without hope of escape, shut in a cell for the rest of her life, no one listening to her screams of protest because the nuns thought she was delusional.
Suling paused by the corner table that held their Queen of the Night plant; a single stalk of buds dangled over the stoneware pot. She’d show it to Alice tomorrow. Alice would be able to predict when it might bloom. She needed to get out of their apartment for a while because Reggie needed some time alone. “I’m going down to the shops, dearest love,” Suling said, putting her coat back on. “We’re out of eggs.” There was no reply and she stifled a sigh on her way out.
Suling bought six eggs and a pound of green beans from the épicerie on the corner. She wasn’t allowed to leave the store until the grocer’s wife and daughters had admired and exclaimed over her turquoise blue coat, examined its cut and construction. In Paris, fashion was always center stage and Suling’s role at Callot Soeurs gave her cachet in the neighborhood.
Returning to the apartment, she saw that Reggie was sitting under the skylight, a pad of drawing paper on her lap and a stick of charcoal in her hand, a tumbler of wine on the table within easy reach. If Thornton were out of the way, would Reggie be able to complete a painting? She knew Reggie longed to create beauty pulled from the depths of her soul; if she could only paint again, Reggie would heal. Suling didn’t have any illusions about getting back the same Reggie she had known in San Francisco but all she wanted was some joy for them both.
For now, all Suling could do was carry on as though all was well. It wasn’t the best option, but she didn’t know how else to handle it.
“Alice hasn’t changed at all, has she?” Suling said in her most cheerful voice as she put the eggs in the food locker. “She’ll spend any amount of money to collect some obscure plant specimen but never anything on her own wardrobe. I wish she would come to Callot Soeurs and order a few items. Just a few basic essential pieces.”
There was no reply, so she continued. “And Gemma looks well. She’s obviously happy in both her marriage and career.”
“Didn’t you get an invitation to that costume party out in Versailles?” Reggie said, finally looking up.
“Yes,” Suling replied, “and I’m glad I decided not to attend.” She glanced at the invitation, pinned to the corkboard alongside sketches of dresses with intricate embroideries. A day dress designed for Hortense Acton, a tea gown for Rita Lydig, an evening scarf for Nancy Cunard. She had pinned the invitation from Paul Poiret to the corkboard as a trophy, an emblem of how far she’d come in her career.
“I hear that Poiret wants every guest in costume,” Suling said, still attempting cheerfulness, “so he’s had extra outfits made up for lending to those who show up in ordinary evening wear. Caftans and such.”
Reggie got out of bed and stood behind her. She rested her chin on Suling’s shoulder and put her long arms around Suling’s waist. “I’m sorry for my rudeness earlier, bao bei,” Reggie said. “Let’s invite everyone to our apartment. Then we can meet Gemma’s husband. And I’ll apologize for leaving the café so abruptly.”
“We can invite the entire Moulin Rouge if you wish.” Suling turned and lifted her face up for a kiss, glad Reggie had calmed down.
“It was the thought of Thornton finding himself another victim. That he thinks he can get away with it.” Reggie’s arms tightened around her. “His bride has no idea who he really is, none at all.”
“Try not to think about him, dearest love,” Suling said. “Let’s think about that little party for our friends.”
Reggie remained in a good mood for the rest of the evening and didn’t mention Thornton again. She didn’t drink any wine and made their dinner, a simple cheese omelette and green salad. When she thought about it afterward, Suling berated herself for not realizing that Reggie had been lulling her into a false sense of security.
Because when she woke up the next morning, Reggie was gone. And so was the invitation to Poiret’s ball.