The Book of Bones (16 page)

Then we passed through another large stone gateway, elegantly carved, into the city itself and here the streets were wider. Flowering treetops exploded from secret courtyards. Carved roofs arched upward, many paved with yellow tiles that reflected the sun. Tiered pagodas and temples, brilliantly adorned with dragons and mythical beasts, glinted scarlet and gold. The streets were thrumming with life. Tea merchants resplendent in silk relaxed outside their shops, coolies pulled sedan chairs or were weighed down under sacks of grain. Up above
hung banners and flags of all sizes, brilliant in turquoise, crimson and yellow. Silk lanterns fluttered in the breeze. Everything was flowery and elegant. Yin translated some of the signs written in gold Chinese letters: “Garden of Eternal Spring” sold pickled vegetables. “Brilliant Fountains” was a wine merchant.

She couldn't understand why we found “Palace of Long Life,” actually a coffin makers, so amusing.

“The Chinese would never call a spade a spade,” Waldo explained.

“What is spades?” she replied suspiciously.

I could sense they were about to argue when our cart was pushed back against the walls. Rachel almost fell head first into the street and was only saved by a helping hand from Waldo. Two burly men dragged split bamboos along the streets, making a splintering din. Behind them came two other men armed with whips. They shouted for people to get out of the way, flicking stragglers in the face with the lethal-looking leather thongs. Small boys ran behind wearing tall black hats, and among them was a towering bare-chested servant carrying a large red umbrella.

“Is it the Emperor?” Rachel gasped, for we could imagine no other person being given such royal treatment.

“Even Queen Victoria wouldn't make such a fuss at home,” I muttered, quietly.

Yin shook her head: “Not Emperor. Mandarin. Very important government man.”

Finally, puffing round the bend, came three stick-thin coolies carrying a sedan chair. The man who had caused all the fuss was inside, fat as a toad. We glimpsed him through the silken hangings, dressed in a satin gown complete with a square badge adorned with two beautifully embroidered peacocks. His tall black hat was decorated with a peacock feather and topped by a large blue ball. The mandarin lay back against his cushions, perfectly content with the world.

“Mandarin of third rank. Peacock feather,” Yin whispered.

She obviously expected me to be impressed, but I found the mandarin's smug face repulsive. Sometimes Yin and I found it very difficult to understand each other.

Eventually the cart dropped us off and we followed Yin as she turned and twisted through lanes with a couple of coolies carrying our baggage. She stopped before a door of a
hutong
, which looked much like any other and knocked on the door.

“This important mandarin house. My sister Mr. Chao's fourth wife,” she explained.

Rachel mumbled something and I saw Waldo and Isaac grinning in amusement, but Yin seemed unaware.

“Imagine being a fat mandarin's fourth wife,” Waldo
whispered to me as we were shown into the courtyard. But I didn't find the whole thing so very amusing. I thought Yin had said her father's views were modern, he hadn't forced his daughters to bind their feet, yet he had married off her sister to some high official.

The courtyard was so beautiful that I forgot to be angry. It was wonderful, with water splashing in a fountain. Silvery and spotted fish flitted around in little ponds shaded by flowering blossom trees. The floors were polished smooth as mirrors, the pillars around the courtyard lacquered in red. Through a half-open door I glimpsed hundreds of songbirds in bamboo cages warbling away.

Waldo whistled in amazement while the rest of us just gazed.

Then a golden sedan chair was carried into the court-yard and we saw the mandarin who was married to Yin's sister. A scholarly man, dressed in silk robes embroidered with a golden crane, his mustaches nearly as long as his pigtail. He peered at us short-sightedly, looking slightly dismayed at our tattered appearance, but then he bowed to us politely and we followed him into a drawing room, where he got out of his sedan and into a carved chair.

We collapsed into the remaining chairs. But Yin bowed down and knocked her head on the floor several times while we stared in surprise.

“You forget kowtow,” she hissed once seated. “In China very important remember manners.”

I remembered vaguely now that one had to knock one's forehead onto the floor in China when greeting important people. This was called to “kowtow.” Well, Yin might think it bad manners but I didn't intend to hurt my head, banging it like a slave. Englishwomen were free and bowed to no one. The moment had passed anyway, for now tea had arrived in delicate blue and white china cups. There were plates of unusual sweets.

Politely we sipped the chrysanthemum-petal tea and bit into the sweets. After a few minutes of this two small boys came in, dressed in yellow silk trousers and long embroidered coats. They knelt down before us and knocked their heads on the ground, humble as could be. Uneasily, I felt that maybe I had been ill-mannered. One had to try to adjust to the rules of the country. Maybe I should have kowtowed, though I hated the gesture. Having performed the ritual, the boys withdrew.

“Is your sister coming?” I whispered to Yin.

She shook her head. “Only son meet guest.”

“She's your
sister
, Yin.”

“Girl not important. I see sister later.”

The mandarin, a Mr. Chao, having finished his cup of tea and apologized to us in perfectly clear English for
his lack of knowledge of our language, began talking animatedly to Yin. It seemed an age, us listening and smiling politely while Yin and the mandarin chattered in their fluting tongue, before we were dismissed.

The mandarin had invited us to stay. Rachel, Yin and I had been given a large and beautifully furnished chamber. The boys were put up elsewhere. Once we had all gathered together in the peace and secrecy of our room, I turned on Yin.

“Wha
t are
we doing here?” I hissed.

Yin looked up from the plate of dumplings a servant had brought her and held up a small hand. “Be patient.”

“Who is Mr. Chao?”

“He a very good man. There is now battle in Imperial palace between reformers who say Chinee people must learn from West and others who say that China must go back to old ways and old days. But these old ways have become sick now. China must learn new things so she can be stronger. This is what Mr. Chao say and he have ear of old dowager Empress. This Empress very powerful lady. They call her Little Orchid.”

We listened to all this, bewildered.

“What has this got to do with us?” I asked. “I don't care two hoots for Empress Orchid or the old ways.”

Yin looked disturbed. “Bad manners.”

“I know.” Rachel soothed her ruffled feathers. “But you
must understand, Yin. One of us has been poisoned.
One of us is going to die
. Unless we do what the Bakers ask we're condemned, and time is running out.”

“True.” Yin sighed.

“So what are we doing here?” Waldo burst out.

“Looksee,” Yin burst into pidgin English for a moment. “Mandarin Chao very kind man. He like foreigners. He not say you devils. He invite you his home. He kind.”

“We don't want to seem ungrateful,” Rachel said. “We're just anxious about our mission.”

“This why I bring you here. When you tell me in Shanghai about poison, I not
see
anything. The future is fog. I think there is only one man in whole China can help you. This is a very great doctor. He is Empress's own doctor and he can cure you. This why I come to Mr. Chao's house because he is friend of this doctor.”

“I'm sorry,” Rachel gasped, and we all added our apologies.

“Be patient,” Yin advised.

There was a knock on the door and a servant appeared, his arms full of rich silks. He handed the bundle over to Yin and disappeared with much bowing.

“Hurry!” Yin said. “We invite to feast. Must change into proper China clothes.”

I suppressed a giggle when Isaac walked into the dining room in his Chinese robe—he looked so very uncomfortable. Waldo wore his turquoise silk gown, embroidered with elaborate flowers, with a certain swagger. Like Rachel, who looked radiant in a loose red silk with broad red trousers, he does love dressing up.

There were already a number of people in the room, sitting at small square tables. I was pleased to discover ladies as well as men had been invited to the feast, which must mean our host was modern indeed.

Yin glowed when she saw the ladies and quietly pointed out her sister, sitting with a group of the mandarin's other wives. She was a tiny, slender girl—surely not more than thirteen or fourteen years old—with Yin's high cheekbones and slanting eyes. Like the other wives, some of whom were old enough to be her mother, she was dressed in an elaborate gown with her hair done up on top of her head in the shape of a teapot and studded with flowers and jewels. Still, her stiff clothes could not disguise the bloom of youth, which lay fresh on her cheeks.

Yin's sister saw us and gave us a small smile. She moved rigidly, her pink lips hardly opening. Her eyes were blank, puppet-like. This was the first time the sisters had seen each other after many years of separation. I expected the two of them, reunited after so much tragedy, to
embrace. At the very least! But no. Once again I had misunderstood the formality of Chinese manners, for they barely acknowledged each other. Perhaps Yin didn't much like her sister. The disturbing thought came to me that maybe Yin was too cold, too wrapped up in her strange gifts, to really care for anyone.

We were shown to the top table, where Mr. Chao was already seated, discussing something with a person wearing a vivid crimson robe. Politely, our host stood up and insisted we be seated in the place of honor. Equally politely we refused, as Yin had instructed us. Finally after a little of this to-ing and fro-ing it was good manners for us to sit down. It was only when we were seated that I saw the face of the person in the red robe.

It was Aunt Hilda. Her pleasant pug-dog features were wreathed in smiles, her sandy hair hidden by a velvet hat. She was dressed as a Chinaman right down to the fake pigtail dangling down her back. At least I assumed it was fake.

I goggled at her, totally dumbstruck. My friends were also gaping—only Yin seemed unsurprised, but of course she did not know my aunt.

“Not pleased to see me?” Aunt Hilda murmured. “I don't call that civil.”

“Where have you sprung from?” Waldo demanded.

“Aunt Hilda!” I finally managed to gurgle. Of course I
wanted to fling my arms around her stocky shoulders, but I knew that would never do in China. “What? What the—”

“I'll tell you later,” she hissed. “In the meantime, eat Mr. Chao's lovely food, smile and play along.”

Dumbly we nodded. Waldo managed one last gurgle: “Why are you dressed as a Chinaman?”

“I'm an honorary man here,” Aunt Hilda said smugly. “Much better all round. Now eat.”

This wasn't hard, for my stomach was grumbling. I was starving! The feast looked wonderfully appetizing. I was coming to adore Chinese food. Heaped on the table in front of us were masses of small plates, brimming with sweets, nuts and rice. Each of us had been given a plate, a porcelain spoon, a pair of chopsticks and a wine cup. What an array of food. Sweet pork, shark fins, bamboo sprouts. Greedily we heaped our plates, throwing caution to the wind.

I ate with pleasure, savoring the salty tang of soy, the rich and deep taste of plum sauce. It was delicious, though unusual to devour sweet tastes with savory morsels. But I soon got used to it.

A servant walked around the room with a kettle of steaming wine. I took a small sip—it was sugary and rich with a gingery bite. But I didn't dare drink more than a few mouthfuls in case it was intoxicating.

Mr. Chao was placing something in a small bowl before me.

“Eat well,” smiled Yin. “This special delicious.” Yin had certainly followed her own advice, heaping her plate with yet more dumplings.

It was a strange sort of soup, gluey-looking with odd fronds floating in it. I took a large swallow with my spoon.

“Mmm, not bad. What is it?”

“I dare you to guess,” Aunt Hilda said.

“Fish or some sort of prawn?”

“Birds' nest soup,” Aunt Hilda answered with a big smile. “A specialty here.”

“Ugh!” Waldo, who had gulped down a large mouthful, turned pale.

“It's a delicacy!” Aunt Hilda hissed with a sideways glance at the mandarin who was looking on. “An honor to be served it. Act like you're enjoying it.”

“But is it really made of birds' nests?” I gurgled, for suddenly it tasted foul, and the seaweed felt glued to my throat.

“They use a special kind of swallow's nest, I believe,” Aunt Hilda replied, glugging a spoonful with gusto.