Chapter 10

Tuesday, October 24, 1893

Peng tapped on Malik’s office doorframe and quietly announced, “Telegram, Master.” They were in Waypoint, at the law offices.

He said, “Come in, Yan. Go ahead and read it.”

She pulled a thin-bladed dagger from the folds of her skirt and slit the envelope. She extracted the message form and read it.

“It’s from Mister Castillo. He says that the court has put the Union Pacific into receivership, yesterday. He thinks it might actually improve their operations. He says they were spread too thin with too many ancillary businesses.”

Malik nodded. “I think he’s right about that. They were trying to control their markets through ownership of other companies. They were forgetting that they were primarily a railroad. As Aunt Rebekah Tsosie was wont to say, ‘You need to stick to your knitting.’”

“Stick to your knitting?”

“Oh, you know, not try to do too many things at once. If you’re knitting, you can’t be reading a book, or playing checkers, or shelling peas, else you’ll lose count, or drop a stitch, and mess up the pattern. If you’re knitting, then knit. If you’re running a railroad, then run the railroad.”

He chuckled. “And that reminds me of something Gabriela would accuse me of, when I had too many things going on at once. She’d say that I’d ‘leapt on my white charger and rushed off in all directions.’ She could make me laugh at myself.”

Peng allowed some skepticism to show on her face. “But has not the K and ASR done the same thing, with owning coal mines, and the cotton, wheat, rice, and truck farms, and the cotton mill?”

With a thin smile, he said, “I’ll allow as the coal mines might be of that class, but everything else was put in place to support our employees and others who are important to us, especially during this depression. We’re not trying to control our customers or take over or displace their businesses. In fact, except for the coal mines and the cotton mill, none of those activities were intended to turn a profit, though some have. Still, they were designed only to be self-supporting.”

He added, “On second thought, we don’t run the coal mines as a commercial business, either. We use the coal, ourselves, for the most part, though we had been trading some with the Pennsylvania. It’s the same as owning water rights for our watering stations, or a shop that builds our freight cars. We haven’t diversified as much as we’ve sheltered ourselves and our employees from the vagaries of the economic climate.”

Apparently warming to his subject, Malik expanded on the topic. “What’s more, while the big roads were rushing to expand into ever smaller and unprofitable markets, we went the opposite direction, reducing our size and building a cash reserve.”

“But is it not now true that the K and ASR is expanding again?”

Malik chuckled. “Well, yes, but at virtually no cost, and it gave the road entry into a very promising market. It’s true that Raul and I had some cash outlay, but for two bits on the dollar. And when he and I trade our Western Missouri stock for Kanzona stock, I’ll hold twenty-seven percent of the K and ASR shares and he’ll have another percent, too.”

Peng’s face slowly took on an unusual smugness.

Malik said, “What?”

She smiled and said, “It is good to hear you recite some of your triumphs rather than your usual self-criticism.”

He gave her an almost-annoyed look and shook his head. “I was beginning to wonder why I was explaining what I was sure you already knew,” he said, finally showing an appreciative smile.

Then he turned serious. “Have you ever considered that it might be your own self-disdain that urges your subservience to me?”

She looked down at her hands, held in her lap, the fingers loosely entwined. After a minute, she looked up at him, and said, “I cannot say, with any certainty. It is possible, but does not seem so to me.” She tilted her head a bit, to her right, and the soft smile on her lips was favored by her eyes. “I remember when I first realized my love for you.” The smile disappeared. “I was frightened, at first. Then I became angry at myself. And, finally, I became angry at you, as you came to learn,” she chuckled.

Serious, once more, she said, “When I confronted you with my jian (a Chinese sword), in the graveyard, it turned out that your words were much sharper than my blade. After you chastised me, it was as if I had tripped and fallen. I felt disoriented, confused as to how I had come to be in that position.

“Over the next few days I came to realize the truth in what you said -- and of my own foolishness.”

Malik gently shook his head, but she went on. “I felt a glittering joy at that realization, but then a shattering dread. Had I killed the love I so craved? I knew I wanted nothing more than to immerse myself in you, to bask in your warmth, to let your wisdom guide me. I had been on a search, but I knew not for what. Then, when it materialized before me, I was confounded, at first, and then overwhelmed. I realized, more than anything, I desired to fulfill your life, to make my life a part of yours, to subsume myself in you.” She paused, as if satisfied. “That is what I know for certain.”

Malik gave her a dark look from under his brow, and whispered, “Tonight, the nine-tailed cat will caress you. I want to see the silky sheen of your skin as you hang, naked, in the candlelight.”

Peng Yan shivered.

(Tuesday, October 24, 1893)

Saturday, December 23, 1893

Malik was in the front room, talking with Kansas Governor Lorenzo D. Lewelling, when he heard the telephone ringing in his home office. Beatrice was closer and, as she turned toward the hall, she signaled that she would attend to it. It was the Maliks’ annual Christmas open house and attendance had increased every year. This was the second year the governor had attended; Governor Humphrey had made an appearance the year before. However, unlike Humphrey, who arrived with only an aide, Lorenzo Lewelling had brought his wife, Ida. As she confessed to Beatrice, she had insisted they both attend, as she had heard such pleasant accounts of the Maliks’ parties.

Malik saw Beatrice return, and she appeared to be looking for someone. She disappeared into the dining room and Raul Castillo appeared a moment later, heading down the hall toward Malik’s office and the telephone.

Governor Lewelling, a former Republican who had switched to the Populist Party, was describing the problems between the Populist-controlled State Senate and the Republican-majority in the House of Representatives. When Castillo emerged from the hallway and stood nearby, Lewelling was the first to attend to him.

The Governor said, “Mister Castillo, I presume that telephone call was of some urgent business. Do you need some privacy with Mister Malik?”

Castillo was already shaking his head as he approached the two. “Not at all, Governor, as it is something in which you will likely also be interested.” He looked at Malik. “The Santa Fe has been placed in receivership.”

Nodding, Lewelling said, “Ah, it’s all for the best.” As the Governor well knew, the Santa Fe, was the dominant railroad in central Kansas. “They’ve been stretched thin trying for a connection to the west coast. Both the Union Pacific and the Southern Pacific have been squeezing them.”

Malik said, “You’ve the right of it, Governor. They’ve been trying so hard to be a transcontinental that they’ve been neglecting to be an intra-continental.”

Castillo chuckled. “Like Emil says, you need to stick to your knitting.”

The Governor looked perplexed for a moment, then his look opened to dawning comprehension, as he laughed appreciatively, commenting, “‘Stick to your knitting.’ Quite.”

(Saturday, December 23, 1893)

Wednesday, January 10, 1894

Peng had already left to get Aspen at the Endowment School when Malik heard the entrance door slam and a commotion in reception, followed immediately by rapid, heavy footsteps ascending the office stairs. Outside, across the street, he could hear the four short, shrill notes of Consuela Vargas’s whistle as she made an urgent summons of her after-school runners. He glanced out the window at her as she leaned into the small silver tube held to her lips, her repetition of the strident pattern an insistent call to muster at the courthouse steps. Consuela’s urgency and the rush of footsteps on the stairs brought Malik an immediate sense of alarm -- and dread.

Aspen had wanted to attend the Endowment School. It was no reflection on Wren’s teaching skill, Aspen had simply wanted to see what “regular school” was like. And, though she had celebrated her sixth birthday hardly more than a month before, she was already in the third grade, with children two years her senior. And that was a very affirmative reflection, on both Aspen’s ability and Wren’s teaching skills.

Either Beatrice or Peng, when Peng was in town, would meet Aspen after school, then they walked to the law office where they would pick up Malik, when he was in town, after which they would join Wren and the twins in the park for some active play, before all going home, together.

That afternoon proved to be a heartbreaking departure from that comforting routine.

Undersheriff Antonio Vazquez stormed into Malik’s office, panting. Malik barely had time to say “Tony?”

“Emil, it’s awful! They’ve killed Wren and taken the twins!”

For a few beats, Malik stared blankly at Vazquez, then, blinking once, he demanded, “What about Peng Yan and Aspen?”

Vazquez shook his head, not expecting that question. “Uh, I’ve not heard anything.”

“Was this in the park?”

Vazquez, still breathing hard, nodded. “Yeah. Missus Rankin telephoned us. Me an’ Tiny went right over, found Wren stabbed, a bunch a’ times. She was already dead, Emil. Miz Rankin came over, said she saw two men carry off the boys, in a farm wagon with a big, upright barrel in it. She didn’t see them attack Wren.”

Malik stood up, grabbing his gun belt and overcoat. He said, “We need to find Peng and make sure Aspen is safe, then check on Beatrice.”

As they descended the stairs, they could hear Aspen calling him from the reception office. “Daddy, Daddy, bad men took Tommy and Paul.”

Malik hurried into reception, and, seeing Peng there, immediately picked up Aspen. “We’ll get them back, sweetheart.” He hugged her tightly for a second, then set her down on Fang Delan’s lap. “You wait with Auntie Delan and Uncle Bai until Mama Beatrice gets here.” Then to Delan, “Please telephone Beatrice and have her come here and stay with you until you hear from me. Then telephone Tommy and ask him to saddle Peng’s and my horses and bring them to the park.”

He turned to Delan’s husband, Fang Bai, the head law clerk, who was standing in the door to his office. “You have the shotgun?”

Bai said, “Right here,” and tapped the bookshelf, against the wall.

Malik said, “Keep It on top the desk.” He turned back to Delan, “Best take your two and Aspen upstairs, tell Wil and Jonathan to keep their pistols handy.” The Fangs brought their two toddlers to the office, where they played on the floor, behind Delan’s desk. He said to Aspen, “You help Auntie Delan take care of her little ones, okay?”

“I will, Papa. Find the twins, Daddy!” She started to cry. “They killed Mama Wen.”

He crouched and embraced her.

Peng had gone upstairs but now returned, having traded her skirt for buckskin trousers and moccasins. She was strapping on a gun belt as she came through the door. She had Malik’s coat and shoulder holster slung over her arm.

Malik said to her, “We can get the rest once we see where they’ve headed.” They went out the door, followed by Vazquez.

They ran across the street and through courthouse square, and then past the opera house, thence into the park beyond it. In the northwest corner of the park, by the children’s swings and play structures, they could see the large frame of Deputy Timothy Wilson, known as Tiny, and several other people gathered there.

Running up, they found Dr. Kagan kneeling over Wren’s body, three large bloodstains marking the front of their dead wife’s blouse. Someone had placed a large, white handkerchief over her face.

Kagan looked up and said, “They likely took her by surprise and must have attacked her immediately.” She gestured toward Wren’s hands. “There are no defensive wounds on her hands. It was over in a few seconds.” Kagan stood and stepped close to Malik and Peng, placing her hands on both of their arms. “I’m so sorry for you. Everyone loved Wren.”

Malik squeezed her hand and then turned to an older woman standing by Tiny Wilson.

“Missus Rankin, can you tell us what you saw?”

“Surely, Emil.” She took a breath. “It started when I heard the boys a’screamin’, but it weren’t like when they’s playin’. These were afrighted screams, screams that cried for help. I looked out the window and saw two men, one carrying each boy. One of them boys almost wiggled away, and the man hit him in the head, hard.” She looked down, shaking her head. Then looked at Peng. “Poor little thing jes’ wilted, and after he jes’ flopped ‘round in the man’s arms, is all.

“They ran to a old farm wagon, over by the street, what had a big wood barrel stood up in it, like them barrels some a’ the dry farmers use, to get water from the hydrant ‘hind the courthouse. They dropped them boys into the barrel, put on the lid, and drove off, lookin’ like they was headed south, down Home Avenue, but I coul’n’t see for sure. Then I telephoned the sheriff.”

“Could you see their faces, ma’am?”

“Not very much. They was wearin’ hats, what with the brims hung down. I’d say both had scraggly beards, nothin’ fancy. Looked like white men, not Mexes.”

“What about their clothes? New? Old? Dirty? Clean?”

“Jes’ looked like ol’, dirty, work clothes, dungarees, could ‘a been bib overalls, but I couldn’t see for their coats, which looked like maybe they were worn-out blue denim, but could ‘a been faded black canvas.”

“Young? Old?”

“Hard to say. They didn’t run like men that were used t’ runnin’. But not like ol’ men, neither. Jes’ sort a’ flat-footed.”

Tommy Palmer rode up in the street, with the two Appaloosas, Malik’s dark Tsela and what had been Gabriela’s horse, Lichi’I, which Peng now rode. Tommy tied them to the ring on a black-painted hitching post, and he walked over to Malik. Palmer had a pistol in a cross-draw holster on the front of his left hip

Glancing toward Palmer, then back at the woman, Malik said, “Thanks, Missus Rankin, and thanks for contacting the sheriff right away.” He took her hand briefly and said. “Please excuse me.”

He walked toward Palmer, stopping him away from the others. He leaned close and asked, “Is everything okay at home?”

Palmer nodded quickly. “Mister Wu has a shotgun, and Zou Lei and Fei Weisheng both have pistols. Mister Zou and Miz Fei are with Gunnar and Robin, up in their playroom.”

“Okay, good. I need you and another two or three from your crew, who’ve trained with Peng, to stay with the family. Carry pistols and shotguns. Beatrice and Aspen will be at my office; you can pick them up there and see them home. Use the carriage. Can you handle that?”

“Of course. Here comes Consuela. She can get the others.”

Consuela Vargas hurried over. She said, “A couple of the boys saw the wagon. It went to the end of Home Avenue, then east on Dogwood to Wagon Road, then it looked like they turned off up the Canyon Trail, but, what with the trees and the distance, we can’t be sure. They turned west, though.”

“Okay, thanks Connie, and thanks to your crew. Tommy’s going to need some help, but he can explain it. Peng and I need to get going, before it gets dark.”

Malik walked back over to Vazquez and Tiny Wilson. “Has anyone else come forward with better information?”

“Not so far,” Tiny said.

Vazquez added, “We plan to ask at the houses around the park and along Home Avenue, but we’re just getting started.”

“Good then. Peng and I need to get on their trail. It’ll be dark before long.

Vazquez said, “You want some deputies?”

Malik said, “Not right now. If we’re not back iby tomorrow, you might want to follow us up the Canyon Trail.”

They mounted up and headed for the Lincoln Falls Loop, to pick up more weapons and trail gear. Malik wanted to put on the older articulated hook.

At the depot spur, they found Nate Vargas laying out their gear on the bed in their cabin.

Malik said, “Shotguns, my Winchester, Peng’s Mauser, and let’s change to the dark motley.” He motioned to the other appliance. “Nate, can you help me with these straps, please. I want to wear that articulated hook.”

Peng carried the long guns out to the horses. After she left, Malik said to Vargas, “Follow along. Don’t talk, unless you see something. I’ve got a bad feeling about how this will turn out. Just do what we say, especially if Peng says to do something.”

“Yes, sir, I will.” He took a breath. “I’m so sorry, sir. Miss Wren was very special.”

“I appreciate it, Nate. She was. But no more talk.”

Five minutes later, they rode out, Peng all but ignoring Vargas.

After the dam was built in Isabella Canyon, a new trail was cut over Sundown Ridge, north of the canyon, to replace the trail that had followed the canyon floor, which was now submerged, deep under the waters of the dam’s reservoir. Planning, surveying, and constructing the new trail was the four-year class project of the Endowment School’s eighteen ninety-one graduating high school class. It was a well-built hiking and riding trail, but was too narrow and steep for wheeled conveyances, which had not been accommodated on the narrow canyon trail, either.

So Malik’s posse, or maybe it was better termed Peng’s posse, was not surprised to find the wagon with the large barrel abandoned at the foot of the Sundown Ridge Trail cutoff, the horses and kidnappers, however, were gone.

What was surprising -- and horrifyingly so -- was their discovery of the body of four-year-old Tommy Malik, floating in the two feet of water in the large wooden cask.

Peng had been the first to arrive at the wagon and had immediately climbed into the bed and looked into the barrel. Malik had leapt down to follow her and had heard her gasp and saw that she had to catch her balance by grasping the barrel’s rim.

Knowing what it meant, he briefly squeezed is eyes shut and gritted his teeth. Then he looked past Peng’s shoulder and immediately reached down with his left arm, now wearing his original articulated hook, and caught a firm grip on his son’s jacket. Once he had the child above the surface of the water, he leaned in and gasped him with his right hand and brought him up and out of the drum, laying the small boy in his mother’s arms. Holding him to herself, Peng slid down, her back against the barrel, until she was sitting, bent over the small, cold body, muffled sounds of anguish barely heard.

Malik got down from the wagon and stepped over to the dismounted Vargas, who began, “Patron--” but Malik cut him off.

“Nate,” he said sotto vocé, “let me borrow a blanket from your bedroll. I want you to take Tommy’s body to Doctor Kagan, ask her if she can tell what killed him without cutting him up. Then have her turn him over to the undertaker. Tell him to embalm the body and keep him on ice until we get back. It may be a day or two, or more, so tell the deputies not to follow us. We may go out to the Tsosie ranch to tell them about Wren. I don’t want you or anyone else following us, either. Do you have all that?”

“Si, Patron. Doctor Kagan for cause of death without cutting. Undertaker for embalming and preservation. No deputies or others to follow. You may visit the Tsosies.”

“Good. Now get me that blanket.”

The moon, six days past full, did not rise until nearly ten. By then, Malik and Peng were already descending the well-marked trail, into the Toonilini Valley. In the distance, on the rising slope west of the dry bed of Toonilini Creek, they could see a flickering campfire, likely at the site of an old railroad construction camp.

They had not exchanged a word since leaving Nate Vargas and his woeful bundle, back at the head of the Ridge Trai.

Two hours later, they were standing, looking at the snoring kidnappers, amidst the remains of a temporary railroad construction camp along the Toonilini Spur, some seven miles northeast of the smelter and stamp mill. Malik stood between the sleeping men, shotgun in hand. Peng stood to the side, with young Paul sobbing and sniffling as he clung to his mother’s neck.

What finally roused one of the two men was Paul’s plaintive keening. “Mommy, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I couldn’t hold Tommy out of the water. The wagon was bouncing and I couldn’t hold him up. They made me leave him there. I’m sorry I let him drownded.”

“Sh-sh-sh-sh, my brave son,” Peng whispered in his ear. “There was nothing you could do. These men killed your brother, not you. You did everything a brother was supposed to do, everything, Your Papa and I are very sad about Tommy, but we are very proud of you. Sh-sh-sh-sh, my brave darling.”

One of the men rolled over, a near-empty liquor bottle falling from his grasp. “Huh? What?” he mumbled. Finally realizing there were two figures standing there in the moonlight, the man quickly reached over and shook his partner’s shoulder. “Jeff! Jeff! We gah, we gah com-comp’ny.” His slurred speech showed the effects of his inebriation.

Jeff groaned and pulled his blanket over his head. Malik stepped closer and kicked him in the ribs -- hard.

“Ohw! You sonuvabitch!” Jeff said, as he began rummaging for his pistol.

Malik poke him in the ear with the business end of the double barreled shotgun. “Forget your weapons. Just slowly get out of those blankets, both of you. Anybody does different, I’ll fill your belly with double-aught buck, then we’ll watch you die, slow and painful. Get up and get saddled. We’ve still some riding to do.”

(Wednesday, January 10, 1894)

Thursday, January 11, 1894

Late the next morning, Malik rode up the Flat Grass Valley toward the Tsosie spread, with Paul sleeping securely within the embrace of Malik’s locked-in-place prosthesis.

Riding around the last bend in the creek, he paused to wait some distance from the house, as was the polite custom when approaching a Navajo dwelling. In a few minutes, the twenty-five year old Thrush appeared. She paused at the door, then began walking toward Malik. He gave Tsela his head, and the horse walked slowly toward the young woman.

“Shadow?” Thrush asked, her voice betraying her misgivings.

Malik looked down at her and, speaking quietly so as not to wake his son, said, “I bring terrible news, Thrush. Your sister, Wren, has been killed. She was stabbed by kidnappers who took Tommy and Paul. Tommy was also killed. We caught the kidnappers and saved Paul, who is asleep, here. Peng is dealing with the two men who did this.”

At Malik’s first words, Thrush had gasped and her hand unconsciously reached for the high neckline of her traditional Navajo blouse. She said, “Oh my god, not again.”

Then, as he finished his account, the young half-colored, half-Indian woman glanced toward the house and back at Malik. “I can’t tell Pa this. He near gave up when Aspen was killed. He never mentions the dead, but he’s loved too many and he carries them around inside himself, Ma says, since Bosque Redondo.”

She took another quick look toward the house, where someone was watching from between the curtains. With an anguished look, she said, “Shadow, I know this is unforgivable, but I think it might be best if you didn’t come to the house. It is not your fault, but you have been the messenger of death too many times. Papa may begin to see you as a witch. He still believes in the skin-walkers, though he denies it. The traditions seem to take a stronger hold as he gets older.”

Not wholly surprised at this development, Malik said, “I understand, Thrush. I love your Pa, too, and it tears my heart to have cause, for a third time, to be a part of his grief. So you have relieved me of the burden of having to look into his eyes as I crush his heart once more. We’ll likely bury her on Green Ridge, near Gabriela and Anna. Probably Tommy will be buried there, too.”

At that, she gasped. “Oh, Shadow, I’m so sorry. I am not to be forgiven. I have ignored your grief in fostering my own. You have lost a son and a wife. You must be bereft. I am so insensitive. Please know that we will cry with you.” She looked toward the house again. “But now go, dear brother, and I will hope for the day that this will be set aside.”

By mid-afternoon, Malik had rendezvoused with Peng at Jackrabbit Spring. He found her wearing her buckskins, with the dark motley hanging on a tree branch, drying in the chill wind. Whatever bloodstains might remain after washing blended unnoticed into the irregular, dark pattern.

Paul was anxious to be in his mother’s arms, again, reaching for her even as Malik brought Tsela to a halt. He handed Paul down, then dismounted.

Hugging Paul to her, Peng said to Malik, “They claimed it was their own idea and seemed almost proud of it. To be strictly accurate, though, both of them were too inebriated to answer coherently.”

She paused to kiss her boy several times, then said to her master, “From what I could understand, when the Toonilini Spur was under construction, they had been hired by the railroad, but they were let go after only a few days, due to their drunkenness. However, they had learned that, even then, we were well-off. Then someone had told them where we lived.

“In the interim, they had been drifting from menial job to menial job, riding the rods, as you call it. Lately, even that type of labor became scarce. Then they heard somebody in a bar mention kidnapping and ransoms, and they came up with the notion to extort our family. I made certain that they understood it had been a very poor decision. In the end, they came to appreciate the full consequences of it.”

Then she shook her head. “But their explanation did not ring true. Simply the fact that we caught them so quickly suggests their incompetence.” She shook her head again. “Perhaps I should have waited until they were sober.” She looked ay him and added, “But I had difficulty holding back as long as I did.” She sighed. “I strangled them. Slowly.”

He nodded. “I would have skinned them, I mean it, that would have been my method. Strangling seems almost humane.”

They each sighed.

He asked, “Did you get their names?”

“I neglected to say?” She looked perplexed.

“Not to my notice.”

“Marty Brandeis and Jeff Milton.”

“The bodies?”

“Crow bait.”

Then she took a deep breath and looked at Paul, wriggling in her arms, then continued, “They wanted a ransom of one thousand dollars, but they had neglected to plan the delivery of their demand.” She lifted Paul so that she could whisper endearments into his ear. He understood the Mandarin she spoke to him, and answered in the same dialect, but on a different topic. Looking at Malik, she added, “They had no intention of returning either of them.”

She kissed Paul’s cheek and lowered him to the ground so he could relieve his bladder. The boy ran off behind a cottonwood bole.

Malik said to her, “I thought we could bring Tommy and Wren to be interred on Green Ridge, next to Gabriela and Anna.” He sighed. “I’ve been thinking we should build a small cabin up there. There’s a spring on the other side of the ridge, about a mile away, on the Tsosie range. I don’t think they’d mind us fetching water there, especially if we let them use the cabin.”

“Not the Ranch Home graveyard?”

He shrugged.

She asked, “How did Sargent take the news?”

Malik sighed and shook his head. “I didn’t see him.” He paused, looking off over the valley. In sorrowful explanation, he said, “Thrush met me in the yard. I told her what had happened and she thought it best I not bring the news of another Tsosie child’s death to Uncle Sargent, not in person.” He sighed heavily, again. “So I rode away. Paul slept through it.”

Peng walked over to her drying clothes and felt the fabric. She said, “When something devastating occurs, we look for someone to blame, as if there were always a rational cause for every adverse experience. Whereas, anyone who is the least bit alert would soon realize that life is primarily a string of negative incidents with only a requisite minimum of rewarding events sufficient to keep hope alive.”

She shook her head. “Hope,” she scoffed, “the virtue of empty promise.” Still shaking her head, Peng walked off, in pursuit of her only son.

(Thursday, January 11, 1894)

Friday, January 12, 1894

Malik and Dr. Kagan were both seated near the coal stove in her office, each with a mug of tea. Both were looking at the low fire through the stove’s open door.

“How is Yan doing?” Kagan asked.

“Ah, you know her. She has her own way of dealing with such things, partly philosophical, partly from her life experiences. That experience is the reason why she is the way she is.”