Kate Furnivall - The Concubine's Secret

Jens read it again. And again and again. He paced his cell, absorbing her words, studying the bold slant of her script until he knew each comma and each letter by heart. Then he tore it into confetti and fed it to his tongue.

‘Have you told Alexei?’ Popkov asked.

Lydia shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Hah!’

It was warm as summertime in the bakery, the heat from the ovens misting the window so that Lydia had to struggle to see out. She shifted impatiently from foot to foot, watching the road for the cart, nerves brittle as ice. Behind her Liev was lounging against a wall, a loaf of thick black bread tucked under his arm, casually tearing off great chunks and stuffing them into his mouth. Chyort! How could he eat? Her own stomach churned.

At last the lazy sound of a horse’s hooves carried through the dark street and seconds later the boy burst into the shop, a wide grin and a livid bruise spread across his face. She seized his bony shoulders and hugged him so hard he squealed and wriggled free. Even Popkov cuffed the mop of milky hair in a gesture of relief.

Lydia walked over to the counter where the baker was waiting and placed Antonina’s gold bracelet down on it.

‘You did well,’ she said.

‘What price a father, Alexei?’ Lydia asked.

They were walking side by side down Granovsky Street near the university, the way they had once strolled the streets of Felanka together not so many months ago. But nothing was as simple between them as it had seemed then. Alexei was insisting on finding a room of his own in Moscow and, though the rain had eased, they were moving fast as if they could outpace the dark shadows they threw behind them.

‘What do you mean?’ Alexei asked.

‘I mean are you so ready to buy yourself a new father? One who provides false identity papers as soon as you ask and in return tells you what you can and can’t do. Is that the kind of father you want?’

Alexei didn’t slow his pace but he turned his head to look at her for a moment. ‘This isn’t about fathers, is it?’ he said quietly. ‘It’s about sisters.’

Lydia lowered her eyes. She refused to say yes.

‘You must understand, Lydia, that Maksim Voshchinsky is my way of reaching Jens. It’s not a question of changing fathers. Or,’ he paused and the wind snatched at his coat, flapping it around his legs, ‘or sisters.’

‘But you like this Maksim.’

‘Yes, I like him. He’s clever, he’s complicated.’ He shrugged as he walked. ‘And he’s amusing.’

‘He doesn’t like me.’

‘What does that matter? I like you.’

She looked straight at him. ‘That’s all right then.’

The moon had risen and fought its way out from behind the clouds that had sat stubbornly over the city all day. It drenched the small silent room in a silvery light that made it hard for Lydia to hold on to what was real and what was shadow. She sat very still.

Chang An Lo lay on his side, breathing softly, his head on her lap, the weight of his cheek warm on her naked thigh. His eyes were closed and Lydia was studying his face with the same intensity she used to study a snowflake as a child. As if by looking hard enough and long enough she could learn to unravel what it was that held such miraculous beauty, and so know how to put it back together again when it melted.

She studied his features minutely. The fine bone under his eyebrow that swept up in such an expressive arch when he was amused, the thick fringe of black lashes. The long smooth eyelids. Were there images, she wondered, etched behind their surface? In the translucent gleam of the moon the flesh of his lips looked metallic. Was that what his gods did? Forge him for themselves? And for China? Were they gathering unseen around her head even now, laughing at her presumption?

She listened carefully. No sound, no whispers, no sneers hidden behind hands. No invisible presences floating through the cracks in the window or crawling in thin trails under the door. The night was godless. Just Chang’s breath, soft as the moonlight itself. How long could she keep him isolated? Steal him like this from his gods and his companions, and slide him right from under the nose of danger? She knew it couldn’t last for ever. Her fear for him was like a knot inside her, tightening each day, and her fear frightened her.

‘Does Kuan know you leave the hotel at night?’

Chang opened his eyes, his black lashes heavy, and Lydia regretted speaking. His gaze was unfocused – she hadn’t realised he was on the edge of sleep. He’d told her earlier that she needed more rest, that if she was tired she’d make mistakes, but the same applied to him. Now she’d woken him.

‘Do you mean,’ he said with a slow smile, ‘is Kuan jealous that I leave the hotel at night?’

‘Of course not.’

He laughed, and she bent her head and kissed his open mouth.

‘Does she know?’ she asked again.

‘She says nothing, but I’m sure she suspects.’

‘Is it safe?’

‘Nothing is safe.’

‘Do the Russian watchdogs know?’

‘I think not. I am quiet. I leave through the bathroom window and over the roofs.’

‘Take care.’

‘I do.’

‘Promise me.’

‘I promise.’

She laid a hand on his silky black hair, fanning out her fingers to protect him. ‘Sleep now,’ she whispered. ‘You need rest.’

‘I need you.’

‘You have me.’

She could feel his breath stirring the fiery curls at the base of her stomach. At times like this she had taught herself to stop thinking, to disconnect and just be. To feel the musky warmth of his body and the bone of his shoulder embedded in her own flesh, as comfortable as though it were part of herself.

‘Chang An Lo,’ she said. Because it was time.

His lips lazily brushed her thigh in response. ‘What are you hatching now?’

‘Chang An Lo, if I asked you to come to America with me, would you?’

It was so easy Jens almost laughed out loud. No rain this time, just a pinprick of stars lurking somewhere above the floodlights. The baker drove into the courtyard and the boy in the wide-brimmed hat scurried back and forth with trays and woven baskets, his limbs shooting off in different directions as he juggled his loads, scuffling his feet. Jens was impressed. His timing was immaculate.

The boy emerged with an empty tray just as his boss plunged into the building with another full one, which meant the boy had about one minute. But he didn’t appear to rush. With a moan of irritation he dumped his tray against the wall, flopped down on the mildewed stone bench, and started fiddling with the fastening on his boot. It seemed to have come undone.

Jens was watching through the compound fence the whole time and knew exactly where to look, but still he didn’t spot the moment the letter vanished. He had slotted it inside a square fold of thin metal which he had fashioned specially for it, like a rusty old flake that had dropped off the guttering above. It was behind one foot of the bench, no more than a scrap of shadow on the cobbles.

Jens didn’t see when it disappeared. It was there, then it wasn’t there. Behind his back he clasped his hands together to stop them shaking, and only when the horse clopped its way safely out into the street did he start breathing again.

This moment had to come. Chang knew it like he knew the sun would rise and the stonechats would fly south in the winter. But not yet. There was no need for it yet. He didn’t lift his head from Lydia ’s lap. Instead he raised a hand and touched the strong tip of her chin, feeling a quiver so faint he would have sworn it wasn’t there.

‘ America?’ he smiled, keeping everything the same. ‘Why America?’