An uncomfortable silence hangs between us, and several passersby stop their hacking to regard us curiously.
Annie’s eyes search mine from above her scarf of hair, and I can sense her deliberating.
“And you’ll do anything?” she asks.
“Anything.”
She sighs, aggravated, and breaks into a brisk walk in the opposite direction of the flowing crowd.
“Follow me,” she calls. “It’s not far. And have you brought a handkerchief?”
Easily following her hat and matching her stride, I’m already reaching into my shirt pocket for it. Necessary for entering the larger crowds. “Of course. The air here is atrocious.” I frown. “What’s not far?”
Annie reaches over to snatch the cloth square out of my hand. I scramble for it, but the tissue is already gone, twirling away into the wind.
“What iswrongwith you?”
She beckons me into the coughing crowds filing out of the mills. “How else do you think you’re getting into Beecham’s?”
CHAPTER 3
IN WHICH RICE PORRIDGE IS HAD—THUS, I FORGET MYSELF, MY PURPOSE, AND THE FUNCTION OF BUTTONS
The sun has retreated behind the clouds, blanketing the streets in their usual grey pallor. It feels tighter here. The crowds no longer thrum with life, everyone eager to retire to their beds. I hold my breath around the hacking, fighting the urge to press my sleeve to my face and keep the bad air out.
Now, all there is to do is wait. Through my headache and churning stomach, I wonder if risking my life over this case is worth it.
The woman leading me fearlessly through the crowd sure seems to think so.
My worries fade when we turn onto a different street—the Limehouse Causeway. The grey and glum buildings are peppered with vibrant red and green shop signs, some with striking characters painted in gold. Alleyways narrow, as do the buildings that pave the cobblestone road. Laundry lines hang from window to window, their garments fluttering like flags in the breeze. From one of the second-floor windows, the aroma of stewing fish intertwines pleasantly with the scent of brine.
We must be near the docks. My stomach lurches again.Merde, I’m starving.
Annie slows to a halt in front of a shop with Chinese lettering painted above the first-floor window, which is slightly fogged. An array of glass bottles and jars are visible just inside.
“Wait out here, okay?”
I nod, but a weathered yet sharp voice snaps from within, causing the both of us to jump.
“Bring him!”
Annie turns red and gives me a reassuring smile, the first she’s offered me since our meeting. She beckons me in and vanishes between two towering cupboards; I try my hardest to follow, fearful of upsetting any of the hundreds of ingredient bottles, or the mysterious source of the rasping voice.
We’re engulfed by the rich aromas of more anise, maybe something like fresh satsumas, and whatever else is ground up in these jars.
The array of cupboards opens up into a back room rainbowed in the same shade of brilliant red, silvers, bronzes, and gold dappled with green. Red is evidently significant here, but all it reminds me of is the woman hacking blood into her napkin.
“Amah, this is Jacques.” Annie sounds flustered. “Jacques, this is my grandmother, Joy. And this is her spice shop.”
Spice shopseems too inadequate a term for the array of bottles and sachets that surround me.
As I emerge from between the shelves, she’s hugging what appears to be a mound of shawls, but when she pulls back, there’s a tiny woman wrapped in fabric there.
Amah smiles warmly, but once her eyes fall upon me—probably my pallor—they widen. “What did you do?” The old woman’s accented voice is sharp.
I freeze, even if the question is for her granddaughter.
“You told me to bring him in.” Annie begins to fidget with her collar, loosening it. The power shift in the room is palpable.
