At that moment, a commotion broke out somewhere in the distance. A woman squawked in fear or outrage. Voices shouted, and a pistol shot rang out. Gavin froze. Footsteps pounded down the walkway toward him, and out of the yellow mist emerged a boy a year younger than Gavin. With a start, Gavin realized he was Oriental and dressed in a red silk jacket and wide trousers. He tore down the footpath with angry voices coming behind him, their owners still hidden by fog. The boy skidded to a halt in front of Gavin and grabbed his elbow.
“Help me!” the boy begged in a light Chinese accent. “Please!”
Gavin didn’t pause to think. He pushed the boy to the ground in a crouch and flung his filthy jacket over him. Then he sat down on the boy’s covered back and opened his fiddle case just as half a dozen angry-looking men came into view, sliding out of the mist like sharks from murky water.
“Where’d the little Chink go, boy?” one of them snarled. He brandished a pistol.
Gavin could feel the boy shaking beneath him. “That way, sir,” he said, pointing down a random path.
The man flipped Gavin a small coin as the others tore off. Gavin caught the coin and pulled his fiddle from its case as if nothing interesting had happened. The boy didn’t move. Once the noises of pursuit died away, the boy shifted a bit.
“Don’t,” Gavin murmured. He set bow to strings and played as if he were simply perched on a rock covered by his jacket. Not much later, the men materialized out of the mist again.
“Did the little bastard come back here?” the man with the pistol demanded.
Gavin shook his head and continued playing a bright, happy tune, though his fingers felt shaky. The men conferred a moment, then rushed off in another direction. When their footsteps and voices had faded completely, Gavin whipped his jacket off the boy, who leapt to his feet.
“Thank you,” he said, pumping Gavin’s hand. “Thank you so much.”
“What happened back there?” Gavin demanded.
“A misunderstanding with the lady,” he said.
Gavin squinted at him. “That usually means the man did something he shouldn’t have.”
“No, no.” The boy put up his hands. “She kissed me. But then her husband jumped out of the bushes with friends. I didn’t even know she was married. She screamed, he fired that pistol, and I ran. You were wonderful.” He fished around in his pockets and thrust something into Gavin’s hands. “Take this.”
Gavin looked down. He was holding a tiny mechanical bird no bigger than a pocket watch. Its silver feathers gleamed in the pale light. Tiny sapphires made up its eyes and tipped its claws.
“It’s beautiful,” Gavin breathed. He touched the bird’s head. It opened its little beak and trilled a miniature melody, a perfect replica of a nightingale’s song, then fell silent.
“I can’t accept this,” he said. “I don’t even know your name.”
But when he looked up, the boy was gone.
Although a carriage horse clopped in the distance, crowds in the park were nonexistent, so Gavin put his fiddle away, perched on a bench, and examined the bird. Its wings were etched with tiny Chinese pictograms, and more tiny gems were hidden among the strange icons. Whenever he pressed the head, it trilled the same song over and over, without fail. The first few times, it was beautiful, but after a while Gavin realized it was really nothing more than a music box-very pretty, but lacking the soul of real music. Still, the bird was immensely valuable. The money he’d get from a pawnshop or fence would be five times the cost of a ticket home, though it would be only a fraction of the bird’s true worth.
Gavin stroked the nightingale’s smooth feathers again. It seemed a dreadful shame to sell something so beautiful for so little money.
Footsteps shuffled through the yellow mist. Gavin stuffed the nightingale in his pocket and leaned casually back on the bench as two well-dressed young men strolled into view. They were engaged in an animated discussion that involved a great deal of hand waving. Gavin whipped out his fiddle and set to playing-no sense in losing a chance. The men stopped just in front of Gavin and continued their discussion.
“This is the best time to invest in China,” the first man was saying. “War always makes money. That little tiff they had over the opium trade proves that-I made a mint. And now it’s flaring up all over again. When the conflict ends, China will become much more open to foreigners, and those of us with money on the inside will make our fortunes.”
“The Treaty of Nanking was an unequal proposition,” the second retorted. “Why do you think the locals are in revolt again? Once Lord Elgin puts the Chinks down, he’ll do something dreadful to Emperor Xianfeng to ensure this never happens again, and that will send your speculations into a downward spin.”
“You’re always a pessimist, White,” the first man said. “Tell you what. Let’s ask this enterprising young man what he thinks.”
Both men turned to Gavin, who stopped playing, startled.
“A street player?” White said. “You can’t be serious, Peterson.”
“Completely. We can make a bet of it.” Peterson fished around in his pocket. “Young man, would you like to earn a sovereign?”
Gavin’s eyes widened. It seemed to be a holiday for flinging enormous amounts of money at him. “A sovereign? For doing what?”
“For failing to pay attention, I’m afraid,” Peterson replied.
“I don’t understand,” Gavin said. “What’s-”
A cloth bag flipped down over his face and hard hands grabbed him from behind. The bag had a sweet, chemical smell. Gavin struggled and tried to shout, but the hands held him firmly, and the fumes made him dizzy. Soft cloth filled his mouth, muffling his voice.
“Sorry, my boy,” said Peterson. “We’ll try to make this painless.”
The man’s words swooped and swirled and faded. Gavin felt a pinprick on his upper arm just before he lost consciousness entirely.
Time stretched and bunched. Voices rushed at him and slid away. Hands prodded him, then forced him upright. Tones and chords burst into his ear, and a voice demanded that he give each one a name: C, B-flat, D-sharp augmented. The voice ordered him to sing, and he sang, the notes falling from his lips in an uncontrolled torrent. He sang songs and changed keys in midmelody as the voice ordered. It never occurred to him to disobey. In fact, he was only vaguely aware of his surroundings. He seemed to be sitting on a soft chair, and he had a vague impression of stone walls. Twice, he caught a flash of wine red velvet. The mysterious lady? Then he fell asleep.
Gavin awoke with a dry mouth and a vague headache. He sat up with a groan and put a hand to his forehead for a moment, then looked around. The stone room was round and small, but brightly illuminated by the light from two electric lamps fastened to the curving walls. A carpet covered the floor. The bed he was lying on felt springy and comfortable, and the blankets were thick. A single narrow window looked out on a darkening sky. Gavin decided he must be in a tower. But why? Slowly he got to his feet. A nightstand near the bed bore a pitcher of water and a glass. Gavin poured and drank, too thirsty to care if the water was drugged. When he bent his arm, he noticed the bandage on his left bicep, and he remembered the needle pricking him in the park. He checked underneath and found a tiny red wound, nothing more.
“Hello?” Gavin called. “I’m awake! Is anyone here?”
No response. Nervously, he searched the room more closely. The heavy door was locked, no surprise. The lights could be turned off by means of a switch near the door. Interesting. He knew a little about electricity, but only a little. Why give something so expensive to a prisoner? Against one wall stood a radiator, which heated the room and drove the dampness away, another odd luxury. He turned his back to it and let the heat soak in.