suite is on the north side of the house. He has no business on the south side. He smells of tobacco, liquor, a cologne evocative of some exotic spice. He doesn’t hurry down the hall like the other boarders do, but purposefully steps in her path, his expression inexplicable.
“Good day, Mr. Watkins,” she says and attempts to pass him, but he stands in her way. The tension she always feels around him rises in her nerves, making her clumsy. She had a man friend once in her early twenties, but their brief relationship couldn’t survive the rigors of the Cause or Zhu’s dedication to the Daughters of Compassion. She isn’t totally ignorant of sex. Still, she can’t explain why his glance makes her heart lurch. “Mariah’s not in. I believe she went out to the apothecary.”
“I am not here to see Mariah. I am here to see you.”
“Is Miss Malone troubling you for the rent? I’m just the bookkeeper, there’s nothing I can do.”
“Miss Malone does not trouble me. You trouble me, Miss Wong.”
“Oh, indeed?” She ducks around him, hurries down the hall. “But why?”
Close behind her, he catches her wrist. “You are not who you claim to be. The runaway mistress of a British gentleman, by way of Hong Kong and Seattle? I think not.”
She’s speechless. He stands over her less than a hand’s breath away. She is acutely aware of his physical presence, bristling and insistent. Paranoia rushes through her, and her heart knocks in her chest. He and Mr. Schultz are forever regaling her with questions at the dining table, and she isn’t sure her answers are always correct. Damn the Luxon Institute for Superluminal Applications for rushing her through the training! The shuttle will be ready in two days, Chiron told her. It’s vital that you go on the t-port at once. Muse will fill you in, Chiron told her. Yes, well. Muse seems to have forgotten just exactly why she’s here. The Pest House, the jail for Chinese. Trust me, you don’t want to go there. She’s a Chinese woman without family or allies or documentation in San Francisco, 1895. A wealthy white American man could do so many bad things to her.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir,” she says, polite and deferential, casting her eyes down.
Daniel just stands there, boldly examining her.
“Won’t you tell me what you mean?” she persists. If she’s made errors, she’d better find out about them. She’d better consult with Muse and correct them.
“Mr. Schultz works for the China Line. He says you do not know the proper name of the ship that supposedly brought you from Hong Kong to Seattle.”
“Why, it was the Wandering Jew, sir. I told you that.”
He shakes his head. “The Jew’s port of destination is Cuba, not Seattle.”
She can only stare. How could the Archivists have been wrong about the name of her ship? They knew all sorts of tiny details—that a runaway Chinese girl would seek refuge in the Japanese Tea Garden on the Fourth of July, 1895, for instance. What kind of damn fool did Chiron take her for?
“Go to your room,” he says, “and I shall follow.”
He’s got something on her, and she knows it. The immigration authorities would be very interested in a Chinese woman without proper papers. Under the Exclusion Act of 1888, a Chinese woman like her is strictly forbidden to enter the United States except under specific circumstances. Proper connections. A husband. A family. And documentation. Above all else, documentation.
Does he mean to turn her in, collect a reward? She knows he’s got family assets in town, but he’s hard up for cash. Is that what this is all about?
She takes out her key and unlocks the suite, misgivings pounding in her heart. They enter the small parlor she and Mariah share. Mariah is as secretive as Zhu and considerate beyond the bounds of courtesy. She has created her own aesthetic in the homey room—handcrafted oaken chairs, rustic colorful braided wool rugs, wood carvings of farm animals, black iron tools set before the brick fireplace. One day, the country look will be considered as significant a form of interior decoration as Jessie’s Victorian excesses, the carved animals highly prized antiques. But in this Now, Mariah’s parlor is merely provincial, reflecting the tastes and means of the American lower classes.
Zhu gestures to a chair for him, seats herself.
“I said, in your room.”
It occurs to Zhu that he’s drunk. “We can talk here, Mr. Watkins. I told