Page 51

“You,” Kawashima said.

Anyu swallowed hard, not because of the sharpness of the princess’s sword, nor her agility, but the look in her eyes—they were the eyes of a killer. “Who are you?”

Without the wig with long hair and the kimono, she had completely shed her captivating femininity. “I am Yoshiko Kawashima; I also go by Ryosuke Kawashima.”

“Are you a woman? A man?”

“I am a woman.”

“Then why the crew cut and the uniform? Is it a kind of disguise?”

“It doesn’t matter what you call it. I prefer to wear men’s uniforms.”

“I knew you were not telling the truth when we met. Are you even a princess?”

“Why should I explain to you? But since you dare pay me a visit, you earned it. Everything I told you was true. I was born to Chinese nobility and adopted by a Japanese samurai. I am Japanese.”

“Then why are you here in China?”

The princess laughed.

“You want to restore your family’s power.”

“China belongs to my family. It will bow before us soon. Manchukuo is only the beginning; my cousin is already sitting on the Dragon Throne. Emperor Puyi, the great ruler! It’s his birthright.”

“But the Qing Dynasty is long gone.”

“We’re restoring it. It has been a long, torturous journey. Had I been born a man, I would have taken over China years ago.”

“Do you mean you or the Japanese Kwantung Army?”

Kawashima narrowed her eyes. “The army follows my command. But enough is enough. You and I have unfinished business, jeweler. You owe me the Kawashima Egg. Where’s my egg?”

“We were robbed on the way to your residence.”

“So I’ve heard. That’s a pity.”

“Why did you ask us to deliver the egg to you at the last minute?”

The princess shook her head. “That’s my business. I don’t need to tell you. Now, I commissioned an egg and gave you a deposit of one thousand dollars. But I didn’t receive the order. How would you like to pay the debt?”

Anyu was at a loss as to what to reply. She could accuse Kawashima of the robbery, but she had no proof, and as a customer, Kawashima had the right to receive the egg she had commissioned.

“I’ll reimburse you the deposit, rightly.

Would you be kind enough to accept the deposit in installments?

” The safe, where the family’s savings and the jewelry inventory had been kept, had also been robbed.

“I don’t need the deposit. I commissioned an egg, and I expect to receive it. Is this not what your master agreed to do?” There was a subtle tinge of threat in her voice.

“Yes . . .”

“But he’s dead. Will you honor his words?”

“I will, and as the chief designer of the house, I shall craft it for you.”

“Good. I’m glad we’ve reached an understanding. I request you craft my Kawashima Egg here.”

“Here?”

“I’m offering you a chance to repair your house’s reputation, as well as an employment opportunity.”

Anyu would rather die than work for a murder suspect. “Respectfully, I must decline.”

Kawashima’s eyes narrowed.

Anyu held her head up.

“You don’t have a choice. Or I’ll announce to the entirety of Shanghai that your house took the money and failed to honor our agreement.”

The last thing she wanted, after Isaac’s death, was to damage his name. “Very well. I’ll work for you for six months to complete the egg.”

“I offer you a contract of two years,” Kawashima said.

“I don’t need two years to craft an egg.”

“It’s the minimum required employment.”

Kawashima wanted to use her, Anyu realized, but maybe she could use her, too—this was her chance to go deep into her lair, to find out if she was the real mastermind of the murders. And if she was, Anyu would take back her Winter Egg and avenge the Mandelburgs’ deaths.

“Two years. Will you honor that and free me after that contract?”

“I’m a samurai. Honor is in my blood.”

“I accept your offer.”

“Chizuko!” the princess ordered. “Take her to the workshop.”

Her assistant, the girl with the plump face, appeared beside her with a lantern.

“This way,” she said to Anyu.

“Workshop?”

The assistant didn’t reply, and Anyu followed her as she turned to a path on the left.

For a fleeting moment, Anyu was pierced by regret.

What was she doing? Slaving here for two years.

She should have been thinking of restoring the Mandelburgs’ shop.

Without her, the House of Mandelburg would cease to exist. What would Esther think if she didn’t return?

In the flickering lantern light, she trekked through a small bamboo grove, passed under a red wooden frame, and arrived at a five-bay one-story building decorated with traditional Chinese curved eaves and dragon gables.

A Japanese man in a black kimono came to greet her; he was the foreman, Mr. Tanaka, the assistant said and led Anyu to a nearby room where she was to strip off her clothing.

It was routine, the assistant said, that her clothing would be inspected before entering the workshop and after leaving to prevent stealing. Anyu disrobed.

With nothing other than the necklace of the Diamond of Life on, Anyu waited; after a while, the assistant returned with her clothing. She got dressed and was led into the workshop.

Inside, the room was permeated with soldering fumes, thick kiln smoke, and pungent chemical odors; through the pale miasma, she could see there were about thirty men.

Some sat at workbenches along the walls, some gathered at the kiln near shelves of enameled eggs at the far end of the room, and some were gathered at tables with irregular semicircles, measuring, carving, or sawing.

No one turned their heads toward her or stopped the work at hand.

They were in their forties or fifties, with paper-white beards, rust-colored faces marred with grooves and welts, and soot-smudged fingers.

Untidy, they looked like they hadn’t bathed for a year.

Some wheezed, clearly from inhaling too many noxious fumes from casting; some had strange red-rimmed eyes, and their movements were labored, lethargic.

The room, vast like Mrs. Brown’s ballroom, was loud with hammering and sawing, strangely devoid of human voices.

“I’ll take you to your workbench,” Mr. Tanaka said.

Frowning, Anyu wove her way through the clusters of tables to reach a workbench at the end of the room.

Mr. Tanaka gave instructions: she would have her own measuring tape, a jeweler’s saw, sheets of white paper, pliers, and a file and other small hand tools, but soldering equipment and casting machines were to be shared; she would need to fill out forms to request solder sheets, wires, tracing paper, polishing tools, gemstones, diamonds, copper, brass, or any other metal and scraps from the foreman.

The day’s schedule was outlined: Six o’clock, at the sound of the bell, rise from bed, breakfast in the hall next to the workshop, exercise, work, lunch break, work, dinner, and work. At ten o’clock, bedtime.

Work, work, work.

“You may start to work tomorrow,” Mr. Tanaka said.

“What are they making?” Anyu asked, looking around her.

“The treasures.” He led her to a group of men at a corner, who craned their necks, scrutinizing the sketches on the pillar.

One glance, and her jaw dropped. The sketches formed a collage of Fabergé egg drawings, ranging from the first Hen Egg, presented to Tsar Alexander III in 1885, to the Renaissance Egg in opaque agate, the Rosebud Egg in vibrant-red guilloché enamel adorned with rose-cut diamonds, and the Coronation Egg adorned in glossy yellow guilloché enamel accented by gold strips.

It also included the last two eggs, created for the dowager empress and Empress Feodorovna: the Cross of Saint George Egg and the Steel Military Egg.

A total of forty eggs. Her egg, the Winter Egg, wasn’t part of the collage.

“Why do you keep the illustrations of the Russian ornaments?”

“By the order of Her Highness Kawashima, the jewelers here are required to make them.”

“All of them?”

Mr. Tanaka nodded.

Kawashima was obsessed with Fabergé eggs, Anyu realized, and by the look of the sketches, she knew their names, their workmasters, and their dates of production.

It must have taken her years of research to unearth the details of the Romanov treasure.

Would an obsessive collector of objets d’art like Kawashima go to extremes, scheme, and commit murders for an authentic Fabergé egg?

The bell rang, signaling the end of the work for the night.

Mr. Tanaka led her to a room on the second floor of the adjacent building.

It was small but clean, with a sliding door made of bamboo and paper.

There was no furniture, no bed, only a lamp on the floor.

Then Mr. Tanaka opened a closet and handed her rolled-up bedding—the floor was reserved for her fellow jewelers.

She, a woman, would sleep in the closet for privacy.

If Kawashima had the Winter Egg, where would she keep it?

The next day, at the sound of a bell, Anyu awoke and slid open her closet.

Following the trickle of men out of the building, she trod down a covered corridor to a dining room, where she held a tray and accepted a hard-boiled egg, a block of fried tofu, porridge, and pickles from two servants holding ladles.

She ate standing by the wall; the men either squatted or sat on the floor.

Then the bell rang. They filed out to the space in front of the five-bay room and stretched their arms and legs to a Japanese song from the radio.

When the bell rang again, Anyu filed into the workshop.

The sounds of metal sawing, filing, hammers striking against anvils, filled the room.