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Bellefeuille was having a party in the mansion.

“ Ma chérie . ” He waved at her when she entered the ballroom. “Come meet the esteemed Mr. Moller, a shipping business owner who controls the ships and shipyards on the east coast of China, the chair of the Shanghai Horse Racing Club, and his daughter, Miss Irena.”

Anyu smiled and walked to them. On her way home, she had done some thinking.

She had to start her life with Pierre somehow.

He was a generous man, charismatic, wealthy, and he loved her.

Their wedding was in two months; she would soon be his wife, and she was willing to play her role.

Socializing with his clients was an inevitable obligation, even though she no longer wished to be a jeweler. “Delighted to meet you.”

The father-and-daughter pair were each other’s reflections; they stood shoulder to shoulder, at the same height; they had the same onyx-shaded hair gleaming with luster; and both were adorned with gold-rimmed eyeglasses.

They looked deeply in love, a father-and-daughter duo, holding each other’s arms, chattering about an acrobatic show they had watched in the Great World amusement center, oblivious to Bellefeuille and her and the people around them.

Now and then, they leaned over and planted a kiss on each other’s cheek.

Bellefeuille winked at her. “Mr. Moller is a doting father. He wants to give his daughter a gift for her eighteenth birthday. An extraordinary gift for this momentous occasion. Naturally, he thought of you. What would you say?”

She couldn’t believe Bellefeuille would put her on the spot. Hadn’t they discussed this?

“I—”

“A set,” Mr. Moller said. “I’d like a necklace, earrings, a brooch, and a ring for my precious daughter. It must have at least eighteen rose-cut diamonds and eighteen types of precious gemstones to celebrate her eighteenth birthday.”

“Eighteen diamonds!” Bellefeuille exclaimed.

“Do not be concerned about the cost. Do you have a design in mind? I’m eager to take a look.” Moller kissed his daughter’s cheek. The daughter giggled and kissed him back.

“Of course. It will be Anyu’s honor to design such a unique gift for your daughter.”

Moller laughed. To start with, he said, he’d be happy to make a deposit of one thousand dollars. Bellefeuille nodded, assuring him a most beautiful birthday gift for his daughter would be crafted.

Anyu pulled him aside. “Pierre, we’ve had this talk before. I’ve sworn not to design jewelry or make any jewelry again. I can’t design a birthday gift for Mr. Moller’s daughter.”

“Would you make an exception? Just one exception. It’s one thousand dollars, just the deposit. And more to come!”

“I can’t.”

“You will turn down such a lucrative commission?”

“Perhaps you could give this commission to someone in your shop?”

“Mr. Moller made a specific request that you design the gift. I can’t renege on that.”

“But I didn’t agree to it.”

“You have to help me, ma chérie . You’re the most famous jeweler in this city!”

That was why he had proposed to marry her in the first place—he wanted to use her for his business, she realized. “Pierre, listen to me. I can’t accept the commission.”

He turned his back on her and chatted with his guests. For the rest of the evening, he sulked; he didn’t speak to her.

But the following evening, when he came to their bedroom, he was all smiles. “I’ve found a perfect solution, ma chérie , that makes good business sense and respects your wishes.”

She put down the fashion magazine she’d been reading. “What’s the solution?”

“I’ll have one of my jewelers design the gift for Mr. Moller’s daughter and inform him it’s your creation. You might take a look if you wish, but you do not need to move a finger.”

She sat up. “You can’t do that. That’s dishonest.”

“Dishonest?”

“I simply can’t allow other people to use my name for jewelry I don’t create.”

“Oh, you won’t design it, and you won’t allow others to design it? Don’t be selfish.”

“I’m not being selfish. It’s my name you want to use.” Her name, her reputation.

“And you’d refuse a large commission from a reputable businessman?” He stormed out.

Bellefeuille was in a bad mood for the next few days. He complained about the food and threw the tray at the amah’s face—Mr. Moller had commissioned the House of Clemente, he said.

Anyu felt bad about losing his business and tried to comfort him.

In a Chanel nightgown with nothing underneath, she waited for him, flipping through pages of fashion magazines, and pouring wine in a glass—Bellefeuille liked to drink before bed.

But he didn’t come to the bedroom that day, or the next day.

She phoned the Shanghai Club, which Bellefeuille frequented. The man on the other end hung up when he heard her voice. For a month, Bellefeuille didn’t come to her bed.

At her insistent inquiries, her amah, wringing her hands, whispered with halted breath that Bellefeuille had brought another lady home and slept in the guest room.

Stunned, Anyu went to the hallway outside the room. There was a woman’s laughter and Bellefeuille’s cheering from inside; Anyu listened, balling her hands, trembling.

A cigarette in her hand, she looked for the suitcase she had brought in her bedroom, but her amah said Bellefeuille had tossed it out, together with the contents inside, a long time ago.

She couldn’t find her savings either. She stuffed whatever she saw in a suitcase the amah gave her, packed up, stubbed her cigarette in the porcelain ashtray, and then went out of the room.

Her amah was wringing her hands at the door, her eyes asking, Where are you going?

She hesitated. After all these months, she was, again, facing a question for which she had no answer. She had no home, no money, no one to turn to.

Trembling, Anyu dropped the suitcase.

It made things easier that Bellefeuille didn’t come to her bed for the next few days.

When she heard the car’s engine, she went to the atrium and looked out the window to see the couple who were now inseparable—Bellefeuille’s new mistress wearing a black sable scarf and a hat shaped like a box.

Anyu remembered seeing her at a party, Miss Lucy.

A few days later, Anyu woke up nauseous. In the bathroom, she threw up; when she called for the amah, she realized she had missed her period. Calculating the days, she had conceived the life about two months ago.

She slumped on the high-back chair, feeling cold.

She was twenty-one years old; she had never considered becoming a mother or the idea of conceiving a child with Bellefeuille, especially at the moment they had drifted apart.

He wouldn’t like the idea. Or maybe he would?

Maybe this would energize him and make him love her again?

She felt tired, a wave of lethargy overwhelming her.

When she closed her eyes, she slept fitfully, falling in and out of a dream where she was wandering in a snowstorm.

She felt her mother beside her, calling her name, asking her what was wrong and whether she had angered her landlord again.

But she couldn’t see her. Spinning, searching, she reached out for her, but all she saw were flakes of snow.

Anyu awoke, the image of Mother vivid in her mind. Was this a sign her mother would chastise her? Or a clue that Bellefeuille would love this child?

She would like to become a mother and have someone to look after.

She could sing a lullaby to the little one, take him out for a walk in the garden, have him ride on her back, and teach him to draw, to make a ring or a necklace.

And she would whisper to him about the beauty of the imperial Fabergé egg that had changed her life.

She wrapped a fur robe around herself and smiled. What would her child look like, she wondered. Would it be a boy? A girl? Would her child be gifted in drawing?

Two days later, she finally found Bellefeuille in the dining room, wearing his smoked silk pajamas and looking ill-tempered, berating the servants for his lukewarm coffee.

“Pierre, where have you been? I’ve been waiting for you. There’s something exciting I need to tell you.” She put his hand on her stomach.

He glanced at her stomach and then her face. His eyes glinted in the chandelier. “What is it, ma chérie ?”

“I have good news. I’m with child.”

He got up and went to pour some whiskey. Then he drained the glass. For a long moment, he paced before the ormolu clock.

She hated that she was right—he didn’t care. But she was resolute. The child was hers, and she would take care of it, even if it had to be born out of wedlock. “I’m going to bed.”

Later, Bellefeuille came. He looked like he had had too much to drink but spoke clearly.

He was pleased with her pregnancy and hoped she would stay well for their impending wedding ceremony.

He went on to suggest she eat a healthy diet rich in meat and cheese for every meal, and he had already scheduled a physician to examine her.

The physician came the next day, congratulated her, and ordered some pills to ensure an easy pregnancy.

Bellefeuille was smiling, walking with her in the garden, his talk splashed with plans and promises.

Once she gave birth to his child, he’d plan a trip to France and introduce her to his family, and the child would be raised in Paris.

Would she agree to relocate? he asked. Anyu nodded.

It was an easy decision—she would go wherever her child needed her.

Two days later, Anyu was tormented by a racking headache. The physician prescribed some herbal tea—a bowl of amber liquid; it smelled strongly of ginseng and star anise. “Will this hurt my baby?” She looked at the bowl, hesitant.

“It is for the health of the fetus,” the physician replied. She drained it. She would drink anything for the health of her child.

To her dismay, she felt worse as the days went by. Her head pounded, her chest felt as if crushed by a brick, and she was too weak to get out of bed. One day, she awoke soaked with sweat and realized she was bleeding.

The amah fetched the physician again. It was only minor discomfort due to pregnancy, the physician said and advised her to keep drinking the herbal tea and have bed rest.

But two days later, she began to bleed profusely, and she could feel her body expel chunks of flesh or membrane. An intense pain shot through her abdomen; blood soaked the entire bed.

She must have passed out because when she came to, she was lying on a narrow bed in a hospital; echoes of groans and shrieks rang out from the hallway.

Bellefeuille was beside her, telling her to take care of herself and not to worry about anything else, then a Catholic nun in a black habit with a cross was saying, “Opium, opium,” and another nun said, “Poor child, poor child,” like a prayer.

Then there was no pain.

The days unfurled into an endless helix of fire and agony, the nights a starless, motherless sea.

She turned away from the Catholic nuns who held out bits of opium to ease her pain, unable to open her mouth to speak, for if she did, she would scream and cry.

She pulled the cotton cover over her head and mourned the unborn life lost before it had a chance to thrive.

She had wanted it, the life that would make her someone, the life that would give her a family, the life that would make a difference for her.

She would have fought for it and changed her whole world to protect it, just like her mother had done for her.

Had she asked for too much? What had she done wrong to deserve this despair?

Bellefeuille’s voice came; she pulled down the cover, longing for him. The room was dark, smelling of alcohol, smoke, and cologne, and she was alone. She couldn’t tell if she was hallucinating or if Bellefeuille was nearby.

“How many days will she need to recover? She’s been here for two weeks.” Bellefeuille’s voice again—he was on the other side of the wall, outside the room. The door was left ajar; his voice slipped through.

“One more week at most.”

A man’s voice, but she couldn’t figure out whose.

“How much did you give her?”

“One bowl at night, one in the morning, as you instructed, monsieur.”

“Are you sure you didn’t give her too much? Why is she so sick?”

“Her body might have had an adverse reaction to the herb, monsieur.”

“See to it that she will survive. I don’t want her to die.”

“Give her some time. She’s still young. She’ll recover.”

There was silence. “Does she know?”

“I doubt it.”

“Good. She must never know. I have no intention of raising a bastard half-Chinese child.”

Anyu shivered. She looked at the bowl that contained the herbal tea, the tea that had been said to strengthen her body, the tea that her amah had given her every day since she had revealed her pregnancy to Bellefeuille. All those days, she had drunk it and never suspected it.

Trembling, she picked up the bowl and threw it against the wall.