Slowly, she lifted her hands. For a moment they waited, floating, and then she let them settle gently. Neither moved, each feeling only the other’s hands, the rest of their bodies but pale outlines. He could see their reflections in the lacquered mahogany of the nameboard. Her fingers only reached halfway along his.

The piece began slowly, tentatively. The Fugue in F-sharp Minor from Book 2 of The Well-Tempered Clavier always reminded him of an opening of flowers, a meeting of lovers, a song of beginnings. He hadn’t played it on the night of the sawbwa’s visit; it is the thirty-eighth piece, and he had stopped at the twenty-fourth. So at first his hands moved slowly, uncertain, but with the soft weight of her fingers, he moved through each measure steadily, and within the piano, actions glided up with the touch of the keys, leaping and falling back from the jacks, leaving strings trembling, rows and rows of tiny intricate pieces of. metal and wood and sound. On the case, the candles trembled.

As they played, a strand of her hair broke loose from where it had been tucked beneath the flower. It tickled his lip. He didn’t pull back, but closed his eyes, and moved his face closer so that it traced itself over his cheek as he played, over his lips again, now over the lashes of his eyes.

The music rose faster, then dipped sweetly, softer, and then it ended.

Their hands rested together on the piano. She turned her head slightly, her eyes closed. She said his name, her voice composed only of breath.

He asked, “Is this why you came here tonight?”

There was silence and she answered, “No, Mr. Drake.” She whispered it now. “I have been here forever.”

And Edgar lowered his lips to her skin, cool and moist with perspiration. He let himself breathe in the scent of her hair, taste the sweet salt of her neck. Slowly, she moved her hands, and her fingers entwined themselves within his.

And for that moment, everything stopped. The warmth of her fingers, the smoothness of her skin on his calluses. The light of the candle dancing over the soft surface of her cheek, catching only the shadows of the flower. They stayed like this for seconds, or longer, but only the crickets kept time.

It was she who broke their embrace, softly untangling her hands from his, which still rested on the keyboard. She traced her fingers along his arm. I must leave. And he closed his eyes again, inhaled one last time and let her go.

21

He spent the night at the piano, drifting in and out of sleep. It was still dark when he awoke to the sound of the door creaking, footsteps. He opened his eyes, expecting to see the children, but found himself staring into the eyes of an old woman. “Doctor need you. Hurry,” she said, her breath rank with the smell of fermented fish.

“Sorry?” He sat up, still lost in sleep.

“Doctor Carroll need you. Hurry.”

He stood and straightened his shirt. Only then did he associate the Doctor’s call with last night, with Khin Myo.

The old woman led him from the room. It was still early dawn and cold, the sun was long from breaking over the mountain. At the door to the headquarters, she grinned a mouth full of betel-stained teeth and hobbled away down the path. Edgar found the Doctor inside, standing over maps spread out on his desk. “You sent for me,” he said.

The Doctor stared at the maps for a moment before looking up. “Yes, hello, Mr. Drake, please sit down.” He motioned to a chair.

Edgar sat and watched the Doctor flip earnestly through the maps, one hand tracing lines on the paper, the other raised and massaging the back of his neck. Suddenly he looked up and pulled the pince-nez from his nose. “Mr. Drake, my apologies for waking you so early.”

“It is all right, I—”

“This is rather urgent,” the Doctor interrupted. “I just returned several hours ago from Mongpan. We raced to get here.” His voice seemed different, distracted, formal, the timbre of confidence now gone. Only then did Edgar notice that he was still dressed in riding clothes, still splashed with mud. He wore a pistol in his belt. Edgar felt a sudden sense of guilt, This is not about Khin Myo.

“Mr. Drake, it is best that I approach this bluntly.”

“Of course, but—”

“Mae Lwin is going to be attacked.”

Edgar leaned forward, as if to hear him better. “I am sorry, I don’t understand. Attacked?”

“Perhaps tonight.”

There was silence. For a moment, Edgar thought it was a jest, or one of Carroll’s projects, that there was more, which the Doctor would explain. He looked again at the pistol, the muddy shirt, Carroll’s eyes, lined and exhausted. “You are serious,” he said as if to himself. “But I thought we signed a treaty. You told me—”

“The treaty still stands. It is not the Limbin Confederacy.”

“Who then?”

“Others. I have enemies. Perhaps shifting alliances, men I once thought were friends, but whose loyalty I now question.” He stared back down at the map. “I wish I could tell you more, but we must prepare…” He paused before looking up again. “I can tell you only this. A month before you arrived, we were attacked—you know this, you were detained in Mandalay. Several of the attackers were later captured, but they refused to reveal who had employed them, even under the pain of torture. Some say they were petty thieves, but I have never seen petty thieves armed so well. What’s more, some of the rifles they carried were British, which meant they had been stolen. Or the men were former allies turned traitors.”

“And now?”

“Two days ago, I traveled to Mongpan, to discuss building a road to Mae Lwin. Only hours after I had arrived, a Shan boy ran into the Prince’s quarters. He had been fishing on one of the small Salween tributaries where he saw a group of men camped in the forest, crept up on them, and listened to their conversations. He couldn’t understand everything, but heard the men talking of a plan to attack Mongpan and then Mae Lwin. Again, they carried British rifles, and this time the group was much larger. If the boy is correct, I am confused about why any dacoits would venture this far onto the Plateau to attack us. There are many possibilities, but I don’t have time to discuss them with you now. If they are in Mongpan already, they may be here as soon as tonight.”

Edgar waited for the Doctor to say more, but he was silent. “And now what will you do?” he ventured.

“From what was described to me, the group is too large for us to defend the site. I have called for reinforcements. I have sent riders out on horseback. Tribes loyal to me will send men, if they can get here soon enough. From Mongpan, from Monghang, from…” He turned again to the map, listing villages, but Edgar was not listening. He thought only of the image of riders descending on Mae Lwin from the hills. He saw the men riding swiftly through the passages of karst, across the Plateau, the banners flying, the ponies’ tails dyed red, of the armies gathering in camp, of the women seeking shelter, of Khin Myo. He thought now of the meeting of the Confederacy of Princes. Now the Doctor wore the same uniform, the same distant stare. Edgar began to speak. “And I—”

“I need your help, Mr. Drake.”

“How? I will do anything. I am not good with a rifle, but—”

“No, more important. Even with reinforcements, Mae Lwin may fall, and even if we are able to repel an attack, it will only be with much damage. It is only a small village.”

“But with more men—”

“Perhaps, or perhaps they will burn the camp. I must think about this. I cannot risk everything I have spent twelve years working for. The army will rebuild Mae Lwin, but I cannot expect more. I have already arranged for my medical equipment, my microscopes, my plant collections, to be moved and hidden. But then—”

“The Erard.”

“I don’t trust my men to carry it out alone. They don’t understand its fragility.”