The Russian Concubine Part 47

He dreamed. And always the dreams were of fire. Sometimes the fire was in her hair, bright and flickering, but other times it was in his blood, burning him up. The fire of pain and the fire of hatred. Together they consumed him.

'Chang An Lo.'

He opened his eyes. Instinctively he flinched. A hand was coming at his face. But it was only a damp cloth that touched his skin, cool and fragrant. Not a hissing red poker.

'It's all right.' Her voice was low. 'You were having another nightmare.'

His heart was hammering. Sickness rose in his stomach but he fought it down. He knew he had already lost all face in front of this girl, he was so weak and helpless, his dignity gone, but he refused to vomit noodles over her bed and watch her clean them up.

'Here.'

A cup brushed his lips. He sipped. Tasted the bitterness of Chinese herbs. They calmed him. The fires and sickness receded. He sipped again and knew the time had come.

'Lydia.'

'Hush, don't talk. You need rest. I'll read aloud again if you like.'

'The tales of Shere Khan are strong. But you must read of Mulan. She is famous in Chinese legend. You would like her, she's a lot like you.'

'Poor and skinny, you mean.' But she smiled.

'No. A risk taker. And brave.'

She blushed and hid her pink cheeks behind a fall of hair. 'You are mocking me, Chang An Lo. Be careful what you say or I might drop this cup of what smells like shark's gallbladder or something equally noisome all over you.'

He gazed up at her, at the challenge in her eyes, at the exquisite roundness of them and their colour of warm honey. How could she possibly think he was mocking her?

'Lydia, I must walk.'

He walked. Though he would barely call it walking. His weight was all borne by the fox girl, not by his own worthless legs, which crumbled the moment he asked them to do anything more than stand there. They felt as weak and unstable as the noodles in his belly. He was ashamed of them.

But she made it easy for him. First she brought in one of the long striped shirts that belonged to the new husband of her mother, and though it was too large for his fleshless body, it reached down over his thighs and gave him a sense of decency. It smelled of lavender, which surprised him, but she told him many people kept sachets of lavender in their wardrobe. Second she lit the second bar of the gas fire, so that the air grew warmer and his muscles less stiff. And lastly she slipped an arm around his waist as he pushed himself off the bed, and drew him to her, close against her own body, as naturally as if they were two halves of the same whole.

With his arm across her shoulders he dragged his feet into motion. Together they shuffled toward the door and back again, over to the window and back again, past the fire and back again. Walk. Foot. Move. Heel. Toe. Turn. Lift. Progress was unbearably slow. His head was spinning in a grey spiral and at times he lost his vision, seeing nothing but blackness in front of him, but he kept walking.

'Enough.' Lydia spoke firmly. 'Or you'll kill yourself.'

'My muscles are weak, Lydia. I must give them strength.' His voice was barely a whisper.

'What is the point of my healing your body, if you then make yourself ill again?'

'I cannot stop. Time is short.'

'You must. Stop now, please. And we'll do some more after you've had an hour's rest.'

'You'll wake me?'

'I promise.'

He collapsed onto the bed and instantly slid down into a tunnel of fire.

'You have a visitor, Chang An Lo. A guest.'

Before his eyes were even open, his hand slid to the long carving knife that lay beside him under the sheet. He had asked her to fetch one from the kitchen after that time her Russian visitor came, the one with the knowledge about the Kuomintang. If that man was back now, Chang would not die without a fight.

'Say h.e.l.lo.'

Chang blinked in surprise, frowned, and started to smile. He never knew what this fox girl would do next. She was standing beside the bed holding a white rabbit. Its pink nose was twitching frantically at the scent of herbs in the room and its eyes were wide with excitement, but it sat happily in her arms and made no attempt to escape.

'Say h.e.l.lo to Sun Yat-sen.'

'Sun Yat-sen? No. He is the father of revolutionary China. A great and n.o.ble man. You insult his memory by giving his name to a miserable animal.'

'No, no, don't be silly. Anyway, how dare you say he is a miserable animal? He is a magnificent rabbit; just look at him. He is an honour to his namesake.'

Chang looked. The creature was indeed a fine specimen. Its body looked strong and muscular, and its coat gleamed as white as snow in sunlight. Chang envied the animal its health. And its position in her arms.

'Very well. I greet you with respect, Sun Yat-sen.' He bowed his head. 'I am honoured to see you here, but I hope one day to see you on a plate. With hoisin and ginger root.'

'Chang!'

He laughed at her expression.

Nighttime was the hardest. She always changed the bandages on his hands and the poultices on the burns on his chest before settling him down for the long dark hours. He did not let her know how much pain it caused or how long he lay awake afterward behind closed eyelids.

But pain was not all bad. It gave him something to think about when he was not thinking of Po Chu.

She sat in the chair and laid her head on the eiderdown. He could feel the gentle weight of it on his hip, though he could scarcely see more than a faint outline in the darkness. Slowly he withdrew his right hand from under the sheet by the knife. He had made her remove the heavy bandages from that hand and instead bind it just in thin gauze that left the tips of his remaining three fingers and thumb free and mobile. Her chemist's sulphur had drawn out much of the poison and the maggots were long gone, so the hand was nearer its normal size and able to grip.

Like a thief stealing a chicken from its roost, he stole a lock of her hair. As the knife sliced off a curl at the back of her head, he almost expected her to cry out in pain but she didn't. Just murmured in her sleep. He wondered what dreams stalked her mind. He tucked the curl under the mattress for safekeeping and then stroked her head with a feather-light touch. She murmured again and shifted her body uncomfortably in the chair. His fingers crept forward to lie in front of her lips where they could feel the warmth of her breath. He closed his eyes. Then he tangled his fingers around a strand of her hair but it was not enough. The need for her was like a gaping cavern inside his chest. Ignoring the protests of pain that flared through his hands and up to his armpits, he lifted her head and the quilt and drew her whole body onto the bed, where he let the quilt settle over her. He held his breath but she didn't wake. She muttered, 'I've spoilt the dress,' which made him smile, but her breathing steadied into a slow easy rhythm.

She would not be angry, he told himself. There was a blanket and a sheet between his body and hers, and she was fully clothed, so it was not indecent. But he knew her mother would kill him if she found them like this, and that meant it was was indecent. But the warmth of her body flowing into his flesh felt right. She spoke the truth when she said she would heal him. Not her potions or her herbs. Her. Just the musky smell of her was cleansing his blood, he could feel it. indecent. But the warmth of her body flowing into his flesh felt right. She spoke the truth when she said she would heal him. Not her potions or her herbs. Her. Just the musky smell of her was cleansing his blood, he could feel it.

In the dark he wrapped an arm around her and kissed her cheek.

42.

She was aware of being warm. But when she stretched like a cat in the morning sunshine, she instantly realised where her limbs were lying. In his bed. Again. She opened her eyes and found his face only inches from her own, watching her. Again.

'Good morning,' he said softly.

'h.e.l.lo. How did I get here?'

'You needed sleep. Not in a chair. You feel better?'

'Much. And you? Did you sleep well?'

'Yes.'

She knew he was lying, but it felt so odd to be having this conversation with him while she was flat on her back in bed with him that she didn't contradict him. He reached across and touched her ear for a brief second. She noticed that the swelling in his fingers was less and she wanted him to touch her ear again. Her ear, her face, anywhere he wanted. This close to him she could see a slight stubble on his jaw but it was only light, not like Alfred's. Chang's chest was hairless, and she decided she liked that. That smoothness.

They lapsed into silence, just staring at each other, but the silence was easy, not stiff or stilted. It felt as natural as the sunlight that spilled under the curtain, so that when she leaned toward him after a while and gently kissed his lips, there was no embarra.s.sment, just a sense of wholeness. And a fierce sense of wanting more. The wanting was so strong it made her body ache. But just when she least expected it, he closed his eyes and shut her out. The disappointment made her swallow hard, but she reminded herself he was ill, seriously ill, and needed rest. When she slid out of the bed, he did not try to stop her. He lay there breathing hard, as if his chest hurt, his dark head immobile on the pillow that still bore the imprint of her own.

She gathered together some fresh clothes and went to the bathroom. Gospodi! Gospodi! She must stink. She ran a bath and emptied a stream of her mother's bright green bubble bath into it, plunged in, and scrubbed herself hard. To scrub the ache away. Afterward she wrapped her wet hair in a towel and put on her other dress and the new lambswool cardigan Valentina had bought her, all soft and primrose yellow. She must stink. She ran a bath and emptied a stream of her mother's bright green bubble bath into it, plunged in, and scrubbed herself hard. To scrub the ache away. Afterward she wrapped her wet hair in a towel and put on her other dress and the new lambswool cardigan Valentina had bought her, all soft and primrose yellow.

She looked in the mirror above the washbasin, trying to see what Chang would see, but she couldn't. There was some flesh on her bones these days, which was an improvement. And it seemed that her mother was right because in the last few months the good eating, which was thanks to Alfred, had filled out not only her cheeks, but her b.r.e.a.s.t.s too. They weren't as good as Polly's but they were getting there.

She smiled. At the mirror. And was surprised by what she saw. It was a whole new smile.

When the doorbell rang this time, Lydia was half expecting it.

'It'll be Polly,' she said and went down to open the front door.

'h.e.l.lo, Lyd, I've come to see how you're getting on. Bit lonely?'

'Oh Polly, now is not a good time actually. I'm just . . .'

'h.e.l.lo, Lydia, dear. My word, you are looking well. Positively blooming. And that colour really suits you.'

'Thank you, Mrs Mason. No need to check up on me, honestly. I'm doing fine.'

'I'm just making sure you are managing all right, as I promised Mr Parker I would. We were worried the bomb might have frightened you yesterday, weren't we, Polly?'

'I wasn't. I thought it was exciting.' Polly grinned. 'I told Mummy you wouldn't be scared.'

'Have you time for a few of your favourites?' Anthea Mason held up the cake tin in her hand and smiled enticingly. 'Macaroons.'

Lydia was not exactly in the mood for macaroons.

'Mummy made them specially,' Polly said pointedly and beamed when Lydia stepped back into the hall, allowing them to enter.

She seated them in the drawing room.

'Isn't this a pretty room?' Anthea Mason said cheerily. 'Adorable colours.'

Lydia gave it a glance. 'The colours are Mama's and the furniture is Mr Parker's.'

The c.o.c.ktail cabinet and leather chesterfield were a bit dark and gloomy for Lydia's taste but her mother had already started to soften their impact with her own personal touches, warm textured cushions and curtains. But at the moment Lydia's mind was on other things. She remained standing, shifting from foot to foot, pushing a toe into the thick Chinese carpet.

'How's Sun Yat-sen?'

'Fine.'

'And the cook? Is he looking after you?'

'Yes.'

'So you're eating well?'

'Yes.'

'But I'm sure you have room for one of these, don't you, dear?'

'Yes. Thank you.'

'A cup of tea perhaps?'

'Oh. Right. I'll go and make one.'

'Ask the cook to do it, dear. I know you've dispensed with your houseboy, though for the life of me I can't understand why.'

'I won't be long.'

She headed quickly for the kitchen, made a hurried pot of tea, carried it on a tray back into the drawing room, and froze.

'Where's Polly?'

'Oh, I think she popped upstairs to take a peek at your bedroom, dear. You don't mind, do you?'

Lydia dumped the tray and ran.