Chapter 15

One way or another, she’d finally had a hot bath.
The tavern’s bathhouse was bigger than she’d expected. Perfume had been splashed into the tub; the steam carried a heavy lavender scent.
Shelves along the wall held all kinds of toiletries—soap, hair oil, sponges, towels, face cloths, combs, cold cream, and cologne.
Bo Li scrubbed herself with a soaped sponge for over an hour before she stepped out.
For the first time since she’d crossed over, her pores actually felt open, her whole body three kilos lighter.
Towel‑drying her hair, she wondered how to talk Eric into bathing too. But when she went back to the room, he was gone.
She was used to his disappearing acts by now. She didn’t think much of it—she just hoped he wouldn’t drag anyone back in the middle of the night.
She’d finally seen this body’s face.
It looked just like her modern one—almost identical. Her father was French; she’d inherited his high nose, deep‑set eyes, pale skin, and a dusting of faint freckles across the bridge of her nose.
The only difference was the hair. In her own time she’d been dark‑haired. This body was red‑haired.
—To be precise, ginger.
In certain light, it gleamed with a garish, burning red.
Bo Li thought she understood now why this body had been dressed as a boy.
Redheads—especially red‑haired women—had always been targets of prejudice.
Chekhov had even written it down plainly in a story: “Red‑haired women are sly, false, wicked, and devious.”
The line was mostly satirical, but it proved the bias was real.
She still didn’t know why Polly’s mother had made her dress as a boy.
But she wanted to believe it had been for protection—not because she’d wished for a son.
The dresses she’d bought were all spread across the bed.
Bo Li picked up a printed one and slipped it on.
Her hair was still short, barely touching her ears, but the dress didn’t look out of place. If anything, it gave her a sharp, feral sort of grace.
When she tied the strap of the felt hat under her chin, she thought that if she walked out now, no one would connect her to “Mr. Clément” staying in this room.
In this era, women did occasionally wear trousers in public, but only as performers—on theater or circus stages. Never in respectable society.
Real ladies didn’t wear pants.
For them, trousers lived under skirts only—private, taboo.
Wearing them openly was like baring your thighs. Only the can‑can girls flashed their drawers onstage.
People loved “ladies in menswear” performances for that very reason.
The women onstage thought themselves properly dressed, gentlemanly and refined.
But in the eyes of the audience, they were already naked.
It was a shame Eric wasn’t here. She really wanted to test his reaction to her in a dress.
So far, he only knew she was a girl. He’d never seen her in women’s clothes.
Maybe that was why her kiss hadn’t done much to him—because she hadn’t been in a dress?
Bo Li kicked herself for reading the *Phantom* novel and then deleting it instead of keeping a copy.
If she still had it, she could sit here with a notebook, rereading and taking notes, even writing herself a strategy guide so she didn’t mix up some crucial detail one day and end up dead at Eric’s hands.
Then again—
Who said she needed the original to write a guide?
She had no idea how long she’d be here. Right now, she still remembered the details. But in a year? Two? Five? Ten?
Would they still be clear?
With that thought, she yanked open the desk drawer, found a blank notebook, and started to write with the fountain pen.
She wasn’t worried Eric would be able to read it—no matter how smart he was, no matter how many languages he spoke, there was no way he could read simplified Chinese.
The script’s roots were complicated. The shapes existed already, but the simplified set she knew was still a century of reforms away.
Unless he found another Chinese person and had them translate character by character, his chance of decoding it alone was zero.
Bo Li first wrote down a summary of the original plot, then noted where it diverged from the musical and the horror film. At the end, she warned herself:
If he wants to kill you, the best way to defuse it is with kissing, hugging, and any kind of physical contact.
She thought for a moment, then added:
1. It’s late October 1888. You still haven’t seen his face. No matter what he looks like, do not be afraid of it. Don’t show shock or disgust. Otherwise, something *very* bad will happen.
2. Sympathize with what he’s been through as much as you can.
But he’s extremely dangerous and hardly talks. You need to learn to circle around things—sympathize with people whose stories are similar to his.
3. This isn’t the original novel—and it’s not the musical either.
You have no way of knowing all the risks. He’s more dangerous and more wary than you can imagine. Even now, when you’re already careful, careful, and then careful again, you’ve still almost died in his hands more than once.
…
When she finished, Bo Li read it through once, decided there was nothing to add, and stuffed the notebook into her backpack.
The clock on the wall read nine p.m. Eric still hadn’t returned.
Her heart lurched.
Was he not coming back at all?
She still didn’t know what had just happened.
He’d slammed her to the floor without warning, fingers tight on her throat. The eyeholes of the mask had moved closer and closer, his gaze cold as if he meant to flay her alive.
After she kissed his neck, he’d vanished—just as abruptly.
His every move was impossible to explain by any “normal” logic.
Bo Li felt even more strongly that writing down ways to deal with him had been the right call.
Given enough time, she might truly forget how to handle him.
She set the first-aid kit by her pillow, prepared for the possibility that Eric would drag someone back in the middle of the night. But the whole night passed—and he still didn’t return.
She didn’t know whether that was good news or bad.
Was her nightmare over?
Was she finally done with daily survival mode?
When Eric was around, her nerves were always pulled taut, terrified he would suddenly explode into violence.
Now that he was gone, her heart rose into her throat instead.
Maybe because this was Eric’s world.
Here, he was the undisputed predator, surrounded by fragile, ignorant, oblivious herbivores.
For herbivores, losing track of the predator is not a good thing.
Two more days passed like that. Eric still didn’t appear.
All Bo Li could do was comfort herself: at least she no longer had to worry about being jolted awake by footsteps in the dark.
No longer had to worry about him grabbing her throat, using a dagger to intimidate her.
She was completely safe.
—Temporarily. Completely safe, for now.
In these three days, she hadn’t done nothing. She went out and found out where Tricky Terry’s “banquet” would be held.
Right here in this hotel.
It was called a banquet, but it was really more like a paranormal exhibition.
Tricky Terry had rented the hotel’s fifth floor to display his “spiritual” exhibits—mediums, “freaks,” and all kinds of strange specimens and photographs.
Just like what she’d seen in the manager’s wooden crate.
Only larger. More items. More variety.
Bo Li desperately needed something new to distract herself. After thinking it over, she decided to go see the exhibition.
It was right upstairs.
She didn’t wear men’s clothes; she didn’t want Tricky Terry recognizing her and pestering her about Eric’s whereabouts.
She changed into a dress and wore a ladies’ hat with a black veil.
Thank God the wig industry was already mature—if a gust blew her hat off, it wouldn’t expose her messy short hair.
The exhibition began at three p.m.
Before two-thirty, Tricky Terry was already at the entrance greeting guests, dressed in a suit with a beaming smile. “Guests for the exhibition, this way… We’ve opened early. Here’s the brochure—exhibits are on the fifth floor. The dinner will begin at five-thirty in the rooftop garden…”
Bo Li took a brochure and flipped it open in a corner.
You will see at “Tricky Terry’s Oddities Exhibition”:
Famous medium — possessing powerful ability to communicate with spirits;
“Freaks” — to show you the most shocking, tragic fates;
Curiosities and specimens — rare strange beasts from across the world;
Exorcism tools — made according to ancient texts, suitable for many cleansing rituals;
Spirit photographs — real captured ghost images, may cause harm to your body and mind; please view with staff present…
If you wish to purchase any of the above, please contact our staff.
In addition, for VIP guests with special needs, we also provide services such as séances, exorcisms, and ghost-image development. For details, please contact Mr. Tricky Terry.
…
Before crossing over, Bo Li had never believed ghosts existed.
But after witnessing Eric’s inhuman behavior with her own eyes, she suddenly wasn’t sure anymore.
Staring at the brochure’s listing for the medium, a thought popped into her head—
Could this medium know how she could go home?
Following the location marked in the brochure, Bo Li went to find him.
To her surprise, the “famous medium” was a man.
Young. Handsome. Dressed in a black suit, hands folded on his knees. When she approached, he smiled and rose.
“Miss,” he said warmly, “don’t speak yet… let me guess. You’ve been especially troubled lately, haven’t you?”
Bo Li felt disappointed.
This wasn’t the kind of “insight” she came here for.
“Do you say that to everyone?”
“Of course not.” He smiled and shook his head. “I only heard your spirit’s voice. It told me you’ve been very troubled lately. Shh…”
He looked at her and made a sudden gesture for silence. “Don’t speak. Let me guess—you don’t belong here, do you?”
Bo Li’s heart tightened hard. She forced herself to look casual. “Why would you say that?”
“Your spirit told me,” he said. “Let’s walk and talk. I forgot to introduce myself—my name is Lawrence Boyd.”
“Mr. Boyd.” Bo Li nodded at him.
“Spirits are extremely sensitive,” Boyd said. “Only gentle, careful people can talk to them. That’s why most in this profession are women—but not all. I’m an example.”