The Shadow and the Star (12 page)

Hawaii, 1871

It was in the garden, a few days after the shark, that
Dojun came to him. Kai had been climbing in the monkeypod tree while Samuel stood watchfully by until a rain shower had brought the nanny running to whisk her squealing inside. Samuel leaned against the tree trunk with the big raindrops plopping down between the branches onto his head and shoulders. He was torn between following, which he wanted to do, and staying out of the nanny's domain where Kai was no longer his charge.

The rain brought a steamy, pleasant smell of soil. He listened to it rattle on the broad leaves of the white ginger, closed his eyes, and thought again of the shark and the song and the way they'd tossed him in the air.

Hip-hip-hooray!

He smiled with his eyes closed, and opened them to find Dojun in front of him.

The Oriental butler had come silently; stood silently. He was only a little taller than Samuel himself, a familiar figure with a long, square face and gloomy mouth, dressed in a white uniform, his black hair partially shaved and tied in an odd knot at the top. He watched Samuel for a moment, and then bowed slightly. "Samua-san. Good day."

The polite greeting surprised Samuel. He hesitated, and then said, "Hello."

"Got question. You shark see, no move. How, ask."

Samuel just looked back at him. Dojun had never spoken to him before, outside of giving him a message from
Lady Tess or Lord Gryphon once or twice, or telling him that dinner was served.

Dojun put his finger to his temple. "Samua-san think how, ask. Shark come, no move. How, ask."

Samuel pressed back against the tree, not knowing what to answer. The butler's black eyes watched him intently. For the first time, Samuel realized that Dojun had thoughts about the people around him; that he was more than his duties and position in the household. The rain came pattering down and Dojun stood there just as Samuel did, feeling it, but choosing not to go inside for reasons of his own.

The discovery was alarming, as if the ginger bush had suddenly sprouted a mouth and eyes and begun to talk.

"You 'fraid?" Dojun asked softly. "I scare?"

Samuel turned his head, wiping a trickle of water from his cheek, avoiding Dojun's eyes. He shrugged.

Dojun tapped his chest. "Secret thing say," he murmured. "Maybe you savvy. When danger come—I tiger. Sirent tiger." His dour mouth turned up a little, half of a smile. "You savvy, Samua-san?"

"No, sir," Samuel whispered.

"I Japan, come here before. Come down here Hawaii. No wish, choice no got. Japan stay, Dojun die. Four year come. Here Dojun find for boy. Boy, boy, boy, all boy see. Japan boy. Chinese boy. Hawaii boy.
Haole
white boy. Find for, find for. I tiger need." He jerked his head sharply and made a sound of disgust. "No boy good. No tiger. All stupid, soft, scare boy. Boy make suckling pig, no more better. I angry. I shame. What I can do? I tiger need." Dojun's eyes were intense, dark and foreign. "See Samua-san, big shark danger, no move, no scare. No stupid boy. Dojun ask—Samua-san see this shark—Samua-san think how?"

Samuel dug his fingernail into the soft bark of the tree.

"You scare? Shark see, you no can move? Just stupid, stand stop stupid?"

"No," Samuel said indignantly. "I wasn't scared."

"Ah. Big brave boy. Stand stop, shark come, shark near, show everybody brave! Number-one man then!"

He looked at Dojun uneasily. "Not really. I didn't think about being brave."

"OK. No scare. No brave. Now talk-talk, Samua-san." Dojun's voice became gentler, not so demanding. "Shark come—how think, ask you."

"Well… I thought of the song."

The butler's half-smile came again. He lifted his head slightly. "Shark-song?"

Samuel stirred. "Do you know it?"

Dojun's smile deepened. "Tiger-song know. Know good."

Samuel gazed at him, feeling a flicker of excitement. "There's a tiger song, too?"

"Tiger-song. Fire-song. Dragon, earth, air, shark. All song if hear."

Samuel leaned a fraction away from the tree trunk toward Dojun. "Where can I hear them?"

A grin grew across the man's worn and sour face, transforming it. He nodded slowly. "You hear."

"I want to hear them all. Can you sing them?"

Dojun laughed and shook him by the shoulders. "Long time, long time find for boy know tiger-song; find boy know shark-song. OK." He lifted his hand and rested it against Samuel's jaw, a light and cradling embrace, as if he were touching something precious. "Is OK, Samua-chan. Good fortune, yeah. OK."

Just at dawn the train came through, rumbling the walls
and rattling the pitcher. Leda turned over, stiff, her hip and shoulder pressed painfully against hard wood. She opened her eyes, saw the floor beneath her bed, and jerked herself upright.

He was still there.

He sat motionless above her in his dark, supple clothing, his lashes lowered, his fingers locked lightly together in a twined steeple like a child's shadow game.

She remembered his hands from the showroom: he'd picked up the silver scissors; rolled the bolts of fabric; held out the sealed envelope she'd dropped. A gentleman's hands, strong and well-formed.

She put her palms over her eyes. When she took them away, he was really still there.

Merciful heavens.

It wasn't a dream. Here was this man, in her room, on her bed, while she had been sleeping away on the floor next to a stolen sword as if she hadn't a care to her name.

His hands relaxed from their intertwining. He tilted his head and slanted a look toward her beneath his dark lashes, silent and beautiful with the dawn light behind his head.

"Good morning, Miss Etoile."

She would not say "Good morning" to a thief in her room. She simply would not; it was just too much. One had to keep one's sense of sanity about one.

On the other hand, she wasn't certain what one did say upon waking up in the awkward situation of finding a criminal and his loot still hanging about.

"Do you feel stronger?" he asked.

Her bare feet were poking out from beneath her gown. Leda scrambled up, grabbed her cloak from the peg, and pulled it around herself. As she did it, she realized that what she ought to do was burst out the door that very moment and go running downstairs to rouse the house. She was amazed that she had slept; how possibly could she have slept? With him right there, able to do what he willed, she had slipped into a dreamless sleep on the wooden floor as if she'd been drugged.

She felt herself beginning to panic again. The image of the waterfall formed in her head, unbidden, and she let out a long breath.

"Well done," he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You remembered to breathe, Miss Etoile."

"You stay right there!" she said in a quaking voice. "I'm going to—to fetch some water!" Without pausing, she flung the bar off the door, unlocked it, and slammed it shut behind her. She locked it from the outside and stood there, panting. It took another image of the waterfall to get her hysteria under control.

All right. She was safe now. She was out of his power. She was in the attic hall. What next? The police. She pulled the cloak around her, realized she'd forgotten shoes—forgotten even to dress—a perfect picture she would make, running along the mucky street barefoot in her night rail.

Leda stood uncertainly in the dim hall. She curled her toes against the threadbare weave of the carpet.

If she went to the police now, it wouldn't be Sergeant MacDonald and Inspector Ruby who would make the arrest. They wouldn't come on until evening. By then everything would all be done up and some other officers would have the credit.

She put her hands over her mouth, calculating wildly. His leg was broken. He couldn't leave. If she could keep him in her room until evening…

She didn't think she had the nerve for it.

But his leg was broken. He was harmless. Where was he going with a broken leg?

Before reason could catch up with her, she turned back and unlocked the door. She opened it carefully, preparing an excuse about being so scatterbrained she'd forgotten the bucket and pitcher.

Her room was empty.

She grabbed the door and peered behind it. The sword was gone. He was gone. She looked at the open window and ran across to it, scrambling onto the bed and leaning out so far that she almost knocked her geranium over.

From her garret window she had a clear view up and down the roofs over the canal, and no figure lurked on the shingles or disappeared over a peak. Balancing precariously, she sat on the windowsill and pulled herself up, craning her neck until she could see if he was hiding overtop her own window, but the mossy slates were unmarked and empty there, too.

"Broken leg indeed," she muttered, lowering herself carefully back inside. "Prevaricator! Horrid man!" She sat down on her bed and put her hands on her breast, letting out a deep sigh. "Oh, thank the good Lord he's gone."

She rested on the bed for a few moments, thinking of the waterfall, remembering to breathe. The sensation of relief that he'd gotten away and it was no longer her duty to rush to the police was out of ail proportion to her sense of reprieve from danger. She hadn't
really
been afraid of him.

But she got up and pulled the casement window closed, latching it securely, and then locked the door.

She had a moment's uncomfortable thought that she truly ought to dress and go down to the station, to alert the officers that their thief had been in the neighborhood, at least. Even as she considered it, she realized how preposterous everything would sound as she made her report. Mr. Gerard! A thief! Friend of Lady Ashland and the queen of the Hawaiian Islands! Oh, yes, the police were quite likely to accept her word for that. She would be fortunate if she weren't committed to a lunatic asylum on the spot.

She would tell Inspector Ruby and Sergeant MacDonald about it this evening. They would believe her, she thought. At least they might listen to her.

Normally she left the house at this hour, but this morning hurrying away just to deceive Mrs. Dawkins was beyond her. If the landlady questioned her, Leda resolved, she would say that she wasn't feeling well and had overslept. And truly, every muscle in her body seemed wobbly. Her teeth actually chattered as she righted the fallen table and hefted the sewing machine back onto it, examining the device anxiously. It had a scratch in the enamel, but beyond that it seemed unharmed. The baths would not open for some time yet, so she lit her grate and made tea, pulling her gown up to her knees and settling on the bed cross-legged to eat the stale scones she'd saved from yesterday.

Her mind went round and round with Mr. Gerard. It was incredible. She must have dreamed it. She stretched out her bare legs, turning her toes this way and that. She thought she had rather pleasing ankles, trim and snow-white and refined. He would have seen them. She put her fingers over her mouth, flushing, and tucked her feet up under her gown with a bit more maidenly reserve.

Her hands were still all shaky with reaction, and the saucer rattled immoderately. She drew the curtains before she pulled the pins from her hair. The room took on colors as light filtered through the gay patchwork of scraps she'd brought home from the cutting room.