Winds of Nightsong. V. J. Banis

her long, bombazine skirt. “Flying machines and carriages without horses. Unsinkable ocean liners that sink, carrying fifteen hundred people to their graves. And that odious Sun Yat-sen destroying the Manchu dynasty—your dynasty, I might remind you. The world is crumbling around our ears. Better that April retreat to the time and place of her greatest happiness and kindly allow me the same privilege.”

      “This is 1912, Mother,” Leon said patiently. “A time for moving forward, a time for progress.”

      “Progress? Progressing to what? Machines are taking over the world.”

      “Everything has its price, Mother, even progress,” Leon said softly. “You can’t just spend the rest of your life thinking of what was. And from everything you’ve told me, your past wasn’t all that wonderful.”

      “True, true,” Lydia answered with a deep sigh. “But that is when I was most content. It’s what I know. I don’t want a future. It would be too strange.”

      “Of course you want a future. It isn’t right for you to drink yourself into an early grave. That’s what you’re doing, you realize?”

      “It’s my life.”

      “But what about us? What about your grandchildren and all the people who need you? What about April?”

      “Poor April,” she said, reflecting. “Forced to pose as my servant when we first came here because the Chinese were so hated and despised. You were fortunate, Leon. You inherited my features and could easily pass as an American, while poor April could never hide what she was—the half-breed daughter of a Manchu prince.”

      “Nor does she want to hide it even now. April still sees herself as heir to the Chinese throne. She speaks to me of nothing else but the day when we will return to Peking and make claim to our father’s royal rights.”

      “And have your heads cut off by that maniacal Dr. Sun.”

      “Sun Yat-sen is a republican, not a tyrant like my ancestors.”

      Lydia chuckled. “Don’t let April hear you say that or you will bring on another of her tantrums.”

      “I’m not proud of my father’s heritage, only of yours, Mother.”

      She patted his hand. “You were always my favorite son, Leon.”

      “Not Marcus?” he asked, toying with her.

      “Dear Marcus. I’m afraid he has too much of Peter MacNair’s blood in him. As you know, much as I adored Peter MacNair, he was an overly ambitious and adventurous man. Peter was wild when he was Marcus’s age, always taking what he wanted, doing what he wanted, never satisfied. Marcus is like that too.”

      “Marcus will turn out all right, Mother. He’ll marry Amelia and give you dozens of grandchildren to fuss over.”

      “Perhaps, but I doubt that very much. Oh, I believe Marcus loves Amelia, but he has this racing-machine thing gnawing at him. He will never settle for a quiet life of marriage. That kind of existence is too tame for Marcus. He wants the things his father wanted—excitement, constant change, danger.”

      When he noticed she was becoming uncomfortable with thoughts of her son by Peter MacNair, Leon changed the subject. “What about Adam?” he asked. “Do you think April will ever get her son back?”

      “Adam is Lord Clarendon now, or soon will be. No one in England knows of his true parents. And no one must ever know,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him. “Adam seems happy with his life as an English lord; but then why shouldn’t he? He never knew anything else. Yet, I think Adam might come back to us one day. When last we spoke, there was a strangeness in him that makes me believe he will never forget that he was born in China to a woman who is a true Manchu princess.”

      “Has he married that English girl to whom he was engaged?”

      “Pamela? No,” Lydia said, shaking her head. “In his last letter he said he was still unsure about marriage. He told Pamela the identity of his real mother and father, and she wants Adam to forget them. Poor little Adam, so grown up and yet so torn apart by his loyalties. The Clarendons gave him so much, and yet he now knows he is really not entitled to any of it.”

      “And Caroline? Is she still gadding about Europe trying to find happiness?”

      “Still in Venice with some Italian count.”

      “I’ve often wondered why she didn’t come back with you when you brought Peter home to be buried.”

      Lydia frowned. She could never reveal to anyone the reason for Caroline’s unhappiness, how miserable and distraught the girl had been after learning that the young man she so desperately loved was in fact her own long-lost brother. Caroline had fled to Italy to try and erase her guilt and shame, but Lydia doubted that was possible.

      “Caroline has to find herself,” Lydia said simply, dismissing the sordid matter. “And she will...in time.”

      Leon tightened the pressure of his hand on her shoulder. “I think you should go to bed, Mother. It’s past eleven. Shall I call Nellie?”

      “No,” Lydia said, rising unsteadily to her feet. “I can manage by myself. Don’t bother Nellie.”

      As he helped his mother to her bedroom, she staggered. “Madam, I do believe you are quite inebriated,” Leon chided.

      “I’m drunk,” Lydia admitted. “Inebriated is what proper Nob Hill dowagers become, and I have always been one to call a spade a spade. So I’m drunk, my dear boy, very, very drunk.”

      “You should be ashamed of yourself,” he said with a laugh.

      “Well, I’m not. It isn’t the first time, you know. Peter and I did so enjoy our champagne...and each other,” she added with a lewd wink.

      “You’re impossible. I always thought that by the time I grew up you’d be a sweet little white-haired lady who knitted constantly and made gingerbread cookies.”

      “I will never be anything but what I am: a tough old dame who enjoys a good belt every once in a while.”

      He helped her onto the side of her bed. “Your every once in a while is becoming a habit lately. You know that, of course.”

      “It’s my only comfort, Leon. Please don’t lecture me.”

      “It isn’t your only comfort. You’re letting Empress Cosmetics go down the drain and you don’t even seem to care.”

      “I don’t.” She scowled at him. “And if my cosmetics empire is going down the drain, as you say, then you are the one to blame, Leon. You are, after all, in control now. I’ve left it all for you to run.”

      “You know I can’t manage without your help, Mother. Oh, the company is doing all right, but not as well as it could. The people there need you at the top. They’re used to your ways, not mine; and the wholesalers and distributors want to deal with you, not me.”

      “When I’m dead they’ll have to deal with you, so they might as well get used to it now.”

      “You’re not dead yet, nor will you be for a long time unless you kill that liver of yours.”

      “I’m tired, Leon. Get out of here and let me go to sleep.”

      He kissed her cheek and bade her good night. “Sleep well, Mother. And tomorrow I want to tell you about a new Nightsong scent I’ve been developing in the lab.”

      “There will be no more Nightsong,” Lydia said adamantly.

      He only grinned. “We’ll talk about that tomorrow.” He blew her another kiss and quickly left the room before she could say anything more.

      Lydia lowered herself back against the pillows and put an arm across her eyes. She hoped, with all her heart, that this night would not be like all the others, filled with those unpleasant memories of her lost love, the