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“If you’re not going to tell me, I’m going home. It’s cold here.” Clutching the bag, Anyu veered toward the road. In a short distance, her landlord, wolfing down a purple sweet potato, cocked his head and then looked at the Russian man behind her.

“Wait, young lady. Don’t go. I’ll tell you all you need to know. Please don’t go.” The man caught up with her.

Anyu stopped. “Where are you from?”

“St. Petersburg.”

“Why did the empress give you the egg?”

“It’s a long story. I am a jeweler.”

She had never come across a jeweler before.

For all she knew, a jeweler in Harbin could mean an artisan who crafted jewelry or a trader selling jewelry; in any case, it was an obscure profession, almost secretive, and exclusive.

The man in front of her didn’t look like a typical craftsman or a dealer.

She couldn’t help but think that he was trying to deceive her, yet he appeared earnest. Despite his evasiveness, there was something sophisticated about the way he spoke, and his manners were different from the people she knew.

Maybe he was indeed a jeweler from Russia, but what was he doing in Harbin?

The man spoke again, his voice composed but raspy. “Young lady, I was one of forty-two workmasters working under the direction of Mr. Peter Karl Fabergé, the greatest goldsmith in Russia. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

She shook her head. The name Fabergé was unfamiliar; Mother would have known.

“Then it’s my privilege to tell you that Master Fabergé was commissioned to craft eggs for the imperial family, the Romanovs, for decades.

He made eggs for the dowager mother and the empress, our eminent royal patrons, before the revolution.

Our dowager mother adored the egg held in your hands, the Winter Egg.

It was her favorite, crafted by one of my colleagues, with my assistance.

When the treacherous Bolsheviks threatened to break into the palace, the imperial family, worried their gifts and treasures would be stolen, gave some of their keepsakes to the workmasters.

I was entrusted with this egg and told to guard it and never to let it fall into the rebels’ hands.

It’s my duty, and my honor, to safeguard the egg .

.. I’m sorry. I’m afraid it is not at my liberty to divulge more. Does this answer your question?”

Anyu studied his face.

“May I have my bag?”

“There’s one more thing. Are you on the run?”

The man froze.

“You were not forthcoming about who you are, and then you have this.” She pointed at him—there was a trail of dark red on his right ear, running down his neck and into the collar of his turtleneck sweater.

The man’s gray eyes glittered; he glanced around him—the carriages, the peddlers, the travelers. “If I may—”

“What do you have there? Let me see.” Her landlord, who had been sidling close, reached out, startling her.

Anyu hid the bag behind her back. “Not your business.”

“You’re a good girl. Show me your bag. I just want to take a look. What’s inside? Is it worth a lot of money?” her landlord said.

“Nothing valuable,” Anyu said.

“Let me see. Give it to me.”

“No.”

“I said give it to me!”

Knowing what her landlord was capable of, Anyu had to be decisive. She stuffed the bag into the jeweler’s hand and pulled him along. “Take your bag. You must run now. Hurry. Now. Quick!”

“Oh ... thank you!” The jeweler took off, rushing along with her, holding the bag.

Behind them, her landlord cursed, Bitch, bitch, bitch . A poor runner, he shuffled his feet, gasping, struggling to catch up. The distance between them widened; the train station, sitting in the curtain of drifting snow, appeared closer with each of her steps.

When they reached the platform, the jeweler turned to her, his eyes flooded with gratitude. “You’re an incredibly honest child. I truly admire your integrity. May I ask, what’s your name?”

“I am Anyu,” she said. Peaceful jade, Mother had named her, despite all that she had gone through.

The jeweler murmured her name in his barely passable Chinese, mispronouncing it as something that meant “dark fish” instead of “peaceful jade.” Then he rummaged in his pocket. “Let me give you something. I’m indebted to you.”

“You don’t have to give me anything. It’s your egg, mister.”

“Isaac. Call me Isaac ... I’m Isaac Mandelburg. How about this, take this.”

She looked down at her hand—it was a silk handkerchief, large, clean, with crosshatched blue lines. One corner was embroidered with the letter M in a sweeping, elegant curve and an address in Chinese.

The train’s whistle sounded again. The conductor’s voice rang out. It was the last call for boarding.

The jeweler said hurriedly, “I’m on my way to my uncle’s shop in Shanghai. This is the address. If you ever come to Shanghai, Anyu. Anyu? Please find me. I’ll look after you.”

Anyu had heard of Shanghai, a lucrative market for fur trade, a distant city in the south that she had never visited and perhaps would never visit. And the handkerchief, a man’s token. She wasn’t supposed to take it. What would Mother say?

But the jeweler had dashed forward, fading into the crowd on the platform, carrying his suitcase and his egg.

“You idiot!” A sharp slap. Her landlord appeared, panting.

Anyu held her face, burning. But the man was just getting started, his arm swinging up again. Before it slammed down, Anyu ran.