Yang woke up to a sharp kick to his stomach – the pain jolting him to consciousness, out of a dream about a dark-haired girl with strawberry lips of freedom.

“Yang,” his master growled. The way he pronounced it irked Yang. Ya-eng, his master always said. Sunlight trickled through the cracks in the stable walls, and Yang found it difficult to rub the sleep from his eyes without getting itchy hay on his face. “What is this?” his master, Lord Garrison Carlisle demanded. A thick newspaper dropped to the hay strewn floor with a thud!

Picking up the newspaper, Yang found it hard to read the unfamiliar letters. He’d never really learned English in written form – he couldn’t read it or write it very well. He couldn’t quite read or write in any language, if he were honest with himself1. Large black letters glared at him – whatever it read, it wasn’t good.

“Speak, boy!” the Lord Carlisle commanded, with the kick of his leather boot to Yang’s jaw.

Heaviness formed in Yang’s throat coupled with the pain of the blow. “I can’t read, sir,” he said, trying to ignore heat that ignited beneath the skin of cheeks.

Lord Carlisle squatted down, face level with Yang. His ruddy face – red as a new-born’s – and beady eyes bored into Yang. “Do you want to know what it says?” Carlisle’s tone with menacing. Yang briefly wondered if ‘no’ was an acceptable response. Carlisle didn’t wait for a reply, deciding to tell Yang anyway. “It says,” Carlisle spat, unfolding the pages: “‘The honourable Lord C hosted a vivacious ball last night – promising to be the crush of the season…had not one horrifying aspect come to light beneath his five-tiered chandelier. In the dark crevices of his stables, lives an Oriental slave, used and abused for insidious intentions even we dare not fathom.’ – A slave! They think you’re a slave – used for insidious intentions, what insidious intentions? Who did you speak to, boy? Who saw you? What did you do?”

Realisation flashed in Yang’s eyes and for the first time, Yang was grateful he had dark, fathomless brown eyes instead of the common English colours. It was harder to decipher emotion in dark eyes. Yet what Lord Carlisle missed in Yang’s eyes, he saw in the gulp of the boy’s throat. Carlisle’s hand closed around Yang’s dirt-coated throat. “You’ll talk, boy, if it’s the last thing you’ll ever do in your pathetic existence.”

Yang’s lungs began to scream. His throat felt as though it were bloating, and his heart thumped against the prison of his ribcage. He struggled for breath.

“’e’s here! The lord is ‘ere!” someone shouted in the distance. Yang couldn’t process it. His vision blurred, colours hazing into one another. “Gods, ‘e’s strangling the young ‘un! Get the runners!”

In an instant, the lord was pried off Yang. Yang gasped for air, relishing the breath. Dark spots marred his vision; he blinked them away. The head gardener and the steward had Lord Carlisle in a tight grip, their grubby hands scrubbing the taint of desperation into his fresh finery.

The servants of the house gathered in the stables, staring daggers into their lord. “Ye brought a slave into our midst? Into free England?” a small kitchens maid spat.

“You’ll pay for this,” said another.

“It’s always like this with them lords. Thinking they’re above the law – they’re better than us because of some useless title that lets them prance around in dandy colours late into the morning.”

Seeds of unrest were sowed, and the darkness in the servants’ eyes darkened with each protest. A helplessness appeared in the Lord Carlisle’s eyes, and Yang almost fell sorry for him. Almost. Before the servants could decide to take justice into their own hands, the Bow Street runners2 appeared.

A thin one with sandy hair and bright blue eyes cornered Yang into the kitchens and placed a steaming mug of chocolate before him. “The name’s Mr. Vermont. Why don’t you tell me your story?”

With Vermont’s hazy blue gaze staring into him, Yang didn’t feel he could say no. There was something about the ghost men’s eyes in general, all the bright colours, that frightened Yang. It was unnatural – strange. Yang squirmed, but he spoke:

“I was born in China, near the shorelines in Canton3. I grew up near the rice farms – I worked on the docks occasionally, that is how I learned English. I was captured when the East India Company withdrew4. The Lord was on board when the other dock workers and I were taken to the ship. He bought me from the captain, saying he would make the season in London with one of the Chinese savages as his ‘honoured’ guest. We weren’t soldiers. We didn’t know anything. They killed…they killed my friends. Lord Carlisle bought me back here. He enjoyed that I spoke English.”

As Yang spoke, Vermont’s features tightened. “Palmerston speaks in Parliament to continue operations in China. The people will not be sympathetic to your plight with the war. Were you paid for your…services?”

Yang felt dirty. Covered in grime of the world was one thing, but the way Vermont spoke…Yang tasted bile on his tongue. When Yang didn’t respond: “You’ll be compensated…that’s the most you’ll get out of him. Anything more will require you to press charges – do you want to?”

Yang was at a loss for words. Did he even have rights in the sunless ghost land? He twisted his fingers together into knots, trying to ignore the unfamiliar heat from the kitchen hearth. “I do not know English laws,” he said.

“Then you’ll take what we can do for you,” the runner stood up, and Yang’s heart leapt in fear. Vermont must have seen the spark of fear in Yang’s eyes because he spoke softer: “And you’ll leave. It’ll do you no good to stay.”

“But,” said Yang, in a small voice. “How would I get back to China?”

Vermont’s eyes hardened. “I don’t think you can.”

“I can’t stay here – I don’t know anything about England.”

“Start with this,” said Vermont. “You’re in London.”

With that, the runner strode out, and shouted orders to escort the lord back to their headquarters for questioning. Yang felt small, sitting in the kitchen of the lord’s manor, surrounded by warmth and the smell of bread. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how it had come to this. How this had happened so quickly – he hadn’t had time to come to terms with it. The last thing he could truly remember was her.

It all snapped into place – it was her. Who else could it be? He doubted those bemused Society misses who laughed at his foreign face cared much for humanity and the servants didn’t really mind him – until this morning. Something had changed, and it had all started with him meeting her.

No one noticed when Yang left. Yang almost didn’t realise he left. No one saw him or paid him mind. He remembered what Maya had said – two blocks east. But the buildings looked different in broad daylight, the swerves of the ceiling and the paint of the homes didn’t quite match the memory of the night before, when they were illuminated in pale moonlight. He almost got lost – almost. It was the butler that gave Maya’s house away. Yang doubted he would ever in his life forget the look of sheer disdain the butler had given him. Yang was walking aimlessly down the street, when a door had opened, and slightly ajar, he saw the butler’s shrunken face peer through the crack in the door to greet a gentleman caller.

The streets were empty, save for the wandering, brightly coloured phaeton. The occupants shot Yang odd looks when they passed, their gazes lingering on his torn, stinking clothing and muddy face. He paid them no mind.

He hurried up to the stairs and rapped at the doors. The act sent shivers of pain down his knuckles, but he eased them with the thought of having answers. Of knowing why the mysterious, beautiful girl from last night did what he suspected. The stern-faced butler opened the door with an annoyed expression set on his face. At the sight of Yang, his face contorted to contempt. “What do you want, gutter rat?” said the ugly butler. And he was – truly, he was the ugliest person Yang had ever seen, with an ugly tuft of thin dead grey hair on the top of his head, and ugly feline eyes – one green and one blue. His frame was stiff and skeletal, bony fingers locked over the knob of the door.

“I wish to see Lady Maya.”

“She’s not receiving,” the butler said and shut the door so hard, Yang felt the force reverberate through his being.

“She’ll want to see me!” he yelled at the shut door but it remained shut. He knocked on it again, but the butler did not return. Frustrated, Yang sank to the steps. What could he do? He had to see Maya, to ask her what had happened, what she did and what she expected him to do now? Tension built in his fingers and he fought the urge to attempt to rip the metal railing from the steps.

It hit Yang slowly, in unconscious waves. He thought, at first, about returning to Lord Carlisle’s but he wasn’t sure he could retrace his path, let alone if he were welcome. He supposed he could sneak around to the servants’ entrance to see if anyone had enough sympathy to spare him a roll of bread or – that was it! The servants’ entrance! Maya’s house had to have it. Yang resolved to find it. He ignored the exhaustion that tickled his muscles in the blazing noon’s sun, began to circle the house.

He found the door at the back, behind a misshapen shrub, a heavy wooden, archaic looking thing. He rapped at the wood so hard, he bruised his fingers. The door swung open with a great whoosh! and a tall, fat woman covered in flour stared down at him. “And who might ye be?” she asked in a booming voice. “We’ve no need for more boys – run along!”

“I’m not here for work,” he said. “I’m here to see Maya.”

The cook – he assumed, for she smelled for cakes and raw meat and ash – raised a thick eyebrow. “Ye’ve got thoughts above yer station,” she said with a hearty laugh. She moved to shut the door and Yang felt a desperation build within him. He couldn’t let her shut him out! There was no other way in and that awful butler would never let him through the front door.

“No – wait!” he cried, and when the cook paused, feeling sympathetic, he pummelled past her and into the hallway. The cook let out a shriek, but Yang was already down the hall. Up? She’d likely be up, wouldn’t she? He rushed up the first case of stairs he saw, pushing past a gold liveried footman who gaped in surprise. His thighs strained and he was out of breath, but he did not stop. At the top of the stairs, he ran out into a marble parlour. What was this? Where was he? And why was everything so shiny? He felt blinded.

“Maya!” he shouted and his voice echoed back.

“Get ‘em!” the cook shouted, pointing at him from the stairs with a ladle.