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Someone was knocking on the door.

Anyu paused sweeping the kitchen floor, the broom in her hands.

She wondered who was outside. The shop had been closed for a month, or months, she couldn’t remember, and her days were mere repetitions of cleaning, wiping the dust on the shelves, and sweeping the floor.

She couldn’t make any jewelry. When she sat down at her bench, she fiddled with the pliers and the hammers, her mind racing.

Who killed Mrs. Brown? Who robbed the vault? Where were the treasures?

Then when she stood in the showroom, she felt as if in a trance, looking at the naked sockets in the ceiling, the bare windows without the velvety curtains, and the empty shelves without glass.

All her means to find out the identities of the robbers and murderers had led her nowhere.

She didn’t know what else to do or how to reopen the shop.

She was the chief designer of the house, and it was up to her to keep the business going.

But she had lost Isaac and the Winter Egg that was entrusted to her, and she was lost, too, in the storm of grief, rage, and despair.

She could barely feel anything, her hands wooden, her heart a rock, and she wanted nothing other than to sink in the dome of pain, to sleep in the spiral of sorrow, and to be drowned in the darkness that would be her salvation. If there was salvation.

She lowered her head and continued to sweep from the wall to the empty table, from the sink to the back door. The scratching of the broom echoed in the small space.

The knocking persisted.

Anyu went to the showroom and looked out the window.

It was Confucius, carrying a wreath of white chrysanthemums. His face looked thinner, his eyebrows thick. His shirt was torn near the collar, and his shoes were coated with mud.

“Come on in. Look who’s here. I thought you were dead. Where have you been?” Anyu said, a glimmer of happiness rising from her chest. She had thought of him, and yes, she had missed him.

“On vacation.” He looked apologetic.

“That must have been a terrible vacation. You didn’t gain weight.”

“You can say that again. The hotel had poor sanitation standards, and the staff liked to answer my call with a baton.”

“I see. How long were you in jail?”

“Long enough to know you regained the crown of the best jeweler and then got robbed.” Confucius handed her the wreath of flowers. “For your mentor. My condolences. You’re lucky you survived.”

“You’ve heard.”

He scanned the empty showroom. “My men told me of the hijacking and the killing in the shop. The bloodiest thing I’ve ever heard of.

All happened on the same day, to the Russian family.

I asked around. I hear the taxi driver was scared to death, but he remembered the faces of those two robbers.

It didn’t take that long to find out who hired them. ”

“You know who hired them?”

“You’re going to hate me if I say this. But what is done is done. You can’t bring the dead back.”

“You have to tell me. Who hired them?”

“If the rumor is right, the two thugs were seen talking to a Japanese man after the robbery. They met him at a restaurant nearby and gave him the box they took from the taxi.”

A Japanese man. “What did he look like?”

“He was quite short, slim, and carrying a samurai sword. My men say he lives in a massive mansion that used to house Japanese soldiers. It’s called Maison Iwar.”

Kawashima’s residence. Since Isaac’s death, Anyu hadn’t thought of her. But it didn’t make sense. “She paid a deposit of one thousand dollars for the egg. Why would she rob me of her own egg on the day of the delivery? It doesn’t seem logical.”

“So she wouldn’t have to pay the rest? Who knows.” Confucius shrugged.

“I don’t think so.” The robbers had also demanded to know the hiding place of the Winter Egg.

“Well, that’s what my men told me.”

Anyu frowned.

“Look at me, Anyu. You have to let it go.”

“No. I have to find out who did this.”

“You want a professional opinion? The street robbery and what happened in the shop were organized by highly skilled criminals. They killed cleanly and left few traces. You are no match for them.”

“Wait. You said they killed cleanly.”

“Yes, the robbers had guns.”

“But the uncle, Samuel, and the aunts were not shot. Their wounds were not gun wounds. They were killed by a knife.” Or a sword.

Confucius sighed.

“Could that killer be a swordsman?”

“That’s possible. I don’t know. I’m starving. Are you hungry? We can go get some food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“All right. You know I’m back and I’ll be in the neighborhood. I’ll see you around.”

Anyu opened the door to let Confucius leave.

Then she sat on the chair near the screen, took out a cigarette, and began to smoke.

The robbery and the slaughter in the shop had to be connected, committed by the same criminal group or even the same criminal.

If what Confucius said was true, then the robbers, who also snatched the Kawashima Egg in the car, must have been instructed by the Japanese man to kill Isaac and find out the information about the Winter Egg; the Japanese man must have also organized the slaughter of Uncle David, Samuel, and the aunts and the theft of the Winter Egg.

Who was the Japanese man? Did he know Isaac? Anyu forgot to smoke—didn’t Isaac mention the Japanese officer in Harbin who pursued him? Could they be the same person?

And Kawashima. Did she rob her own egg to save money? Was she involved in the crime? She also carried a sword. Anyu had not seen her use the katana, but would a princess carry a sword purely for ceremony?

All the questions to which she had no answer. But she knew one thing—once she uncovered the identity of the Japanese man, she would be one step closer to the murderer and the robber who took her Winter Egg and the Kawashima Egg.

Anyu went up to the attic, changed into a gray tunic and pants, and tucked a wallet with some money into her pocket. Then she opened the shop’s door.

Esther was outside with Matthew. He wiggled out of his mother’s arms and raced to her, giggling, his hair shining like gold. A cute little thing.

“Matthew!” Anyu bent over and enfolded him into her arms—she could feel his heart pump against hers, his small frame, his smooth skin, and smell his sweet scent. She closed her eyes, branding him into her memory.

“You’ll spoil him,” Esther said.

Anyu let him go. “Esther, I’m going to Kawashima’s residence. I’ll be right back.”

Esther folded her arms and frowned. “Why?”

“I’m looking for a man in her residence. I think he might be the killer.”

Esther shook her head. “They’re gone. You can’t bring them back.”

Oh, Esther. She was still grieving for her family, still angry at her. What could she say? She wished it had been her, not Isaac, or Samuel. Anyu put her right hand on her chest to feel the diamond under her cotton tunic, the stone’s irregular shape, its inconspicuous size.

“I want to let you know your father was very important to me. He taught me the jewelry-making craft. He gave me a life and more. He made me who I am today. I loved him.”

“What does it matter?”

Anyu wanted to give her a hug. Esther, her friend, her sister, her blessing. Would they ever feel close to each other again? “I just want you to hear it from me.”

Esther lowered her head, sobbing.

“Goodbye, Esther.” Anyu walked out of the shop and closed the door behind her.

On the street, Anyu hailed a rickshaw. It bounced past the banner-flying streets, the lattice-windowed storefronts, the bicycles parked under bare oak and hickory trees.

It was nearly the end of the year, she realized.

What a horrid year of 1934. The months had coalesced into a murky puddle of tears.

She wondered how she could find the Japanese man and what to do if she came across Kawashima. Did Kawashima have anything to do with the murders as well?

Finally, she arrived at Kawashima’s residence.

It was a traditional Chinese compound with high gray walls that extended all the way to the end of another street; on the street, a lush ginkgo tree leaned to the side like a wind-blown umbrella.

The enormous front gate was guarded by two stone lions with wavy manes and a soldier in a Japanese Imperial Army’s khaki uniform.

Above the gate, etched in the stone, were two words: Maison Iwar.

Anyu passed the front gate and heard a shout, guttural, almost angry, coming from inside the compound, followed by the sound of a bell. She frowned, unable to make out the significance of the sounds. From everything she could see, this was not an ordinary residence.

How could she enter the building with the high walls and a guarded gate?

She wandered to a side street and saw a broom abandoned near a restaurant. She took it and went back to Maison Iwar and began to sweep, gathering piles of golden fan-shaped leaves on the ground. She was dressed modestly in her tunic. She could pass as a sweeper.

She had been sweeping for two hours when she saw a fleet of trucks chug down the street. They stopped in front of the mansion, and the gate opened.

The guard waved, and the trucks, engines roaring, slowly pulled into the compound.

Holding her broom, Anyu sidled beside the rear wheel of the last truck, hiding her legs from the guard on the other side, and snuck inside the compound.

She didn’t know what to expect once she entered; for all she knew, she’d be standing in front of an army of Japanese imperial soldiers who’d shoot her like a target.

But there was only one soldier, who shouted something, and she pointed at her ear, shook her head, and raised the broom in hand. The soldier frowned and waved her to the side.

Her heart pounding, she swept across a slab of stone on the landing near the wall; out of the corner of her eye, she could see more soldiers in a garden to the left, with winding paths and tall stone lanterns.

When she moved along the trimmed bushes, she spotted in the distance a row of three-bay buildings with crimson pillars, a pond surrounded by a grove of willows, and an empty pavilion with a stone table in the center.

In the air wafted a strong odor of manure and animals.

When she peered through a stand of pines, she could see the stables along the wall, a brown horse grazing, and a group of men wearing leather overalls shoveling manure into wagons.

It occurred to her that Confucius had not described the Japanese man’s appearance in detail, and she would have trouble identifying him.

Dusk came. Anyu swept around a stone lantern near a pine tree and stopped to wipe her face. She was tired and cold; her entire body had been so tense. Had any soldiers discovered who she truly was, she would have been dead in a second.

Then she heard a strange chorus of shouts again.

Following them, she came to a courtyard with columns of soldiers holding broad swords.

They were practicing some kind of swordplay, and leading the group was a man in a short crew cut, a yellow scarf tied around his head, wielding a samurai sword like a thunderbolt.

His movements were smooth, his thrusts decisive, his footfalls light as autumn’s fallen leaves.

Anyu stared, her heart jumping to her throat. There was something uncanny about the man’s appearance. A thought came to her. She shouldn’t have come here; this was a trap. Anyu had an urge to run. She had just turned around and taken three steps when she heard a voice behind her.

“Hello.”

Anyu dropped her broom and found herself face-to-face with the person who was said to be a princess—Kawashima, dressed in a khaki uniform, with a yellow scarf around her shorn head and a sword in hand.