“Who was it?” I awaited the answer with a superstitious dread that I had already guessed it.
“Dame Nightingale,” Jack said. “She does not miss a chance to see an old enemy of the British Empire humiliated.”
I put my book away. “But you told me she’s not really interested in China.”
“That’s what she told me.”
I searched through my satchel to get my pen. “Fine, but now I need to write a letter to my mother.”
“Make sure you do not mention where we are in case it gets intercepted.”
“You need not tell me things I already know,” I said. I tried not to be uncivil — he did bring me breakfast, after all; I just disliked being treated as a child. Somehow it was more acceptable from the hussars: at least, they thought I was sixteen and fresh out of a military academy. But even so, they spoke to me in a way men had seldom spoken to me before — as if I were their equal, to be teased a little due to my youth, but otherwise as one of them. I worried I might get used to it.
Jack went back to his reading as I contemplated my letter. I was supposed to uphold the lie of staying with friends, and I could betray neither my whereabouts nor my concerns. Instead I poured my anxiety into the only form available to me, which, by happy coincidence, was something she would most likely understand. I did not think my mother a dull woman, but her interests lay firmly in the sphere of the domestic and the courtly.
“Dear Mother,” I wrote, “I miss you every day, and I cannot wait for the summer when we will be able to spend our days together in the happy embrace of our home. I hope your cats and servants are well, and your days are filled with serenity and contentment. Is the river frozen yet? I hope it is, and that the village children skate and amuse you with their merriment.
“I have to confess I write to you not only because I am feeling deprived of your company or because it is my duty as you daughter, but I also hope to receive advice from you on matters of the heart. Even though Eugenia visited with me before my departure, you know well she is not the one to advise on courtship matters.
“I confess also that despite my great interest in my studies and my hopes to continue them until I accumulate enough courses to be called a Baccalaureate, two young men came recently to my attention. Both are of foreign origin and both possess pleasant qualities; although neither had proposed, I feel reasonably confident that at least one of them might be compelled in that direction with a most subtle demonstration of my benevolent interest.”
“Sasha,” Jack called from his bed, where he sprawled, reading. Apparently, the change of costume on my part allowed him to dispense with any semblance of courtly behavior — which was an asset, I supposed, since traveling together and being elaborately polite seemed unnecessarily taxing.
“What?” I answered, also unceremoniously.
“Did you know that the Masked Temerain could peel his face off?”
“He was burned to the crisp, as I recall, and disfigured. What of it?”
Jack smiled at me fondly. “I just wondered if you knew. He is quite an extraordinary creature, that Temerain.”
“So are you,” I said, still a bit uneasy about Jack’s leaping prowess. “Maybe I should write a penny dreadful about you.”
His grin grew wider and he folded his long arms behind his head, staring dreamily into the ceiling. “Someone ought to. As long as I don’t die in it.”
“You can’t die in a serial,” I told him. “Maybe if someone wrote about you they would explain how you were able to do the things that you do.” It started to snow outside, and I felt grateful to be inside, where it was warm and cozy. I pulled the woolen blanket around my shoulders, making a nest of sorts for myself, my ink bottle, and my unfinished letter. “Well? Are you going to tell me?”
“You’re busy,” Jack said.
“I’m not. I can finish this letter later.”
He sighed then. “No, I wasn’t always capable of leaping over buildings. I was born poor, and quite undistinguished in any way. My parents managed to make ends meet, and I helped as I could — sometimes I worked in a textile factory, sweeping the floors and cleaning up; sometimes I stole. When I was fifteen, I left home and got hired as a sailor on a ship named The Oxford, and we left for China. I had a propensity for languages, and I learned a smattering of Cantonese from a Chinaman traveling with us by the time we landed in Canton. This was in 1839, when things were deteriorating so badly. My ship stayed anchored at Canton, unable to take cargo or unload, because no one was not even thinking about anything that wasn’t opium.”
“I get the picture,” I said. “Chiang Tse told me about it.”
“There were Chinese merchants who helped with the smuggling. The streets adjacent to the English factories were choked with opium dens and supply shops. I was a boy, with nothing to do. It was in these shops that I found something unusual.”
“A wise Chinese mystic,” I suggested, being familiar with the conventions of the penny dreadfuls.
“No,” he said. “A Portuguese man, from Macao — he had come to Canton to patronize the opium dens there, and he… I don’t really know much of his story, but he said he would teach me to do things that no one else could do.”
“And the fact that he spent his days in the opium den did not seem suspicious?”
He laughed. “As I said, I was bored. But he did keep his word.”
Jack smoothed his hair, remembering. “This Portuguese man, Paolo was his name, he spoke of strange things — of how opium unlocked something within him, enabled him to fly. He said he would teach me to fly.”
I made a face. “Please tell me that you didn’t become one of… those.”
“You mean opium smokers?” Jack smiled. “No, although hashish eating was something I picked up later in India. But no, Paolo spoke of unlocking my mind’s hidden abilities… I suspect that he was intoxicated, insane, and extremely dull, but there wasn’t much else to do. His teachings seemed to be based on imperfectly understood Confucian philosophy and local superstitions, as well as whatever foolishness he had learned in his homeland.”
“And? He told you some magic words, made you a potion?”
Jack grinned and picked up his booklet. “I shall not tell you anything more if you keep interrupting me.”
“Sorry.”
“Oh no, it is too late. You’ll have to wait for the next time I feel like talking.”
I sulked. “You are just trying to be like one of those serials you love so much.”
“Maybe. Go read about your Sweeney Todd.”
“The stories are all the same,” I complained. “I read The String of Pearls a million times, and all the other Sweeney Todd stories are the same. Tell me how you became Spring Heeled Jack.”
“I will,” he said. “Just not now: I have to maintain my mystery, after all, or you won’t ever want to talk to me.”
I sighed and went back to my letter. There was at least two weeks on the train ahead of us and I decided he would tell me during the journey. At least it would keep the boredom at bay.
“I feel conflicted,” I wrote to my mother, “for even though I have no immediate plans of marriage, I feel I should be moved by the attentions of at least one of these young men. One of them especially has proven himself a loyal friend who has risked much to help me, and who was always considerate and kind. I feel I should be returning his interest, and I wonder whether I should compel myself to develop affection for this fine gentleman.
“Now, the other gentleman is a more complicated case — he is also a good friend and a kind companion, but I fear I have not have many opportunities to talk to him of late. Moreover, I fear that if I were to start a courtship with him, society would not approve. He is a foreigner, and recent political tensions may prevent any possibility of marital happiness. And yet… ”