Chapter 16

Bo Li had never imagined that one day she’d pin her hopes on ghosts and gods.
But she did start seeing Boyd frequently, trying to coax more information about mediums out of him.
Fair was fair: Boyd was someone worth knowing. Gentle and polite, humorous and charming, with long, pale fingers and a faint wash of cologne.
Even if he weren’t a medium, she would have been willing to be his friend.
Boyd told her that mediums were all extremely cautious and didn’t receive guests lightly.
“You must understand,” Boyd said, “even now, some places still keep the tradition of burning witches. Every medium—especially female mediums…is a precious asset of the spirit world in the human realm. We must protect them.”
“But don’t worry,” he added gently. “When the time is right, I will introduce you to them. And your friend will find his way home.”
Bo Li didn’t know if she was simply clutching at straws.
She knew perfectly well that much of what Boyd said was less “listening to her spirit complain” and more salesmanship.
For example: most people who sought out mediums were desperate.
If you were desperate, you were naturally troubled.
And besides, there were fingerprints on her neck—marks Eric had left.
With bruising like that, of course she’d be afraid. That was why Boyd could speak so confidently: “Your spirit is very afraid.”
What she truly cared about was the sentence: *Let me guess—you don’t belong here.*
But her accent, her tone, her gestures, her clothes, even the way she walked—none of it matched the ladies around her.
It was normal that he would conclude she “didn’t belong.”
After turning it over again and again, Bo Li decided: better to believe it than not.
That day, she had lunch with Boyd and then went to the theater with him.
Thinking of the movie’s plot, she didn’t really want to go near a theater.
Boyd mistook her hesitation for a dislike of opera and explained with a smile. “It’s a small theater. No opera here. People come to watch magic, acrobatics, and to hear popular singers.”
Bo Li thought about it and agreed.
In the end, she might have to return to what she knew best. Learning the current style of performance at a theater wouldn’t be a bad thing.
Boyd was a regular. He led her straight to a deep red private box.
He took a pair of opera glasses from inside his coat and handed them to her. “Use this. You’ll see more clearly.”
The opera glasses carried his body heat. It made her uncomfortable.
She couldn’t tell if it was imagination, but as she took them, his thumb lightly stroked across the back of her gloved hand.
Bo Li frowned.
Maybe because everyone’s breath was trapped together, the theater felt suffocatingly hot.
In less than ten minutes, she was sweating. Sticky sweat slid down her neck, crawling like insects.
Maybe because they were in a box, she kept feeling warm air brush the back of her neck—like someone breathing behind her.
Just then, Boyd said, “That singer is insane. Cutting her hair as short as a man’s.”
Bo Li only wanted fresh air and barely registered what he’d said. “Hm?”
“Hair has spirit,” Boyd said in a low voice. “When I treat my female clients, I always urge them to protect their hair. A woman’s hair is part of her spirit… Cutting it is like cutting off your spirit. It attracts ghosts.”
Bo Li finally realized he was talking nonsense. “How could hair be part of the spirit? Then men’s spirits would all be the disabled kind.”
Boyd didn’t answer.
After a long moment, he stood, walked behind her, and placed his hands on her shoulders.
Bo Li felt even more uncomfortable and struggled a little. “You—”
“Don’t move,” he bent down and whispered into her ear. “I won’t hurt you. I just didn’t expect that after all this time, you still don’t believe I can see spirits… Let me prove it to you.”
He reached out and lightly stroked the side of her neck. “Feel it? Your spirit is moving with my fingers… It’s afraid—afraid you’ll be choked again by someone, leaving those terrifying bruises. But it’s okay. I’ll heal it. My blood is magnetic. As long as you share a room with me and we’re honest with each other, everything will heal—”
Bo Li’s mouth twitched. She stood up abruptly.
…How humiliating.
As a modern person, she’d actually kept company with a con artist for this long.
She’d guessed right. Boyd’s “insight” was all script—his goal was to seduce her.
Who knew how many ladies he’d tricked with this routine? Inexperienced women might genuinely feel their skin prickle under his touch and mistake it for a “spirit moving beneath the skin.”
Boyd looked at her, surprised. “What is it, Miss Clément?”
Bo Li wanted to explode.
But over the past few days, she and Boyd had been seen coming and going together. Boyd already knew she lived in this hotel—he’d even seen the room number on her key.
She’d been far too careless—just because Boyd looked like a respectable gentleman, she’d assumed he was a good man.
If this were the modern world, she would have kicked him.
But this was nineteenth‑century America. New Orleans.
Policing was thin. Investigation methods were limited.
And Boyd had connections with Tricky Terry—Dawes had sold Emily to Tricky, and Tricky would “euthanize” her and sell her to “scientists.”
When Bo Li had first run into Tricky, she’d just escaped the circus and thought everything was over. She’d completely forgotten that Tricky was just as dangerous as Dawes.
Cold sweat seeped into Bo Li’s palms. A chill crawled up from her feet.
Boyd and Tricky were cut from the same cloth. Boyd might do something just as extreme.
She was at a disadvantage now. She had to stay calm and keep him steady.
Everything else could wait until she got out of here.
Bo Li swallowed and took a step back. Forcing her voice to stay even, she said, “It’s too stuffy in here. I can’t breathe very well. Let’s watch a performance together another time.”
Boyd lifted a brow. He knew she was afraid of what he’d done.
But he’d seen this side of female clients countless times and didn’t take it seriously.
A good hunter understood: you only tighten the net when the prey lets its guard down.
Bo Li was very pretty. Her palms were a little rough, but her speech and mannerisms were nothing like a poor girl’s.
He didn’t mind waiting a little longer.
“It’s all right,” Boyd said gently, tipping the brim of his hat with two fingers. “Whenever you want your spirit healed, contact me. I’ll be waiting.”
Bo Li didn’t answer. She removed her coat and hurried out.
Boyd sat back down in the velvet seat, crossed his legs, and took a sip of gin.
He lifted the opera glasses again and watched the performance with full attention, never noticing that the door, once closed, silently opened to a narrow crack.
Back at the hotel, Bo Li had the staff heat fresh water, then went upstairs, peeled off the wig, and stripped out of the heavy dress.
Women’s clothes were too dangerous. From now on, she’d wear men’s clothes again.
And they were too hot.
That theater was small; the box was even smaller.
Two people sitting together felt like three people breathing.
…No.
A sudden shiver ran through her.
What if there really *had* been a third person?
The only one who could do that was Eric.
But Eric hadn’t shown up in a long time, and he had no reason to appear in that box.
Just then, a knock sounded at the door. A bellhop told her the bathwater was ready.
Bo Li thought for a moment, found a pair of scissors, and snipped off a small lock of the wig. She planned to place it in the gap beneath the door afterward.
That way, she’d know if anyone had entered her room.
After setting it up, she specifically told the bellhop not to enter her room and not to send anyone to clean it, and then she went to bathe.
When she came back, she crouched and examined the hair by the door.
No change.
Was she overthinking it?
That night she didn’t sleep well. If the “third person” in the box had been Eric, it was very possible he’d break into her room in the middle of the night.
She shoved the scissors under her pillow.
And held the handle in her fist all night.
The next morning, she checked the hair at the door immediately.
Still no change.
After the Boyd incident, she didn’t dare relax. She kept placing hair by the door.
Afraid she might remember wrong, she even took out her spare phone—powered it on, switched it to low‑power mode, and took a photo.
Days passed. On the fourth day, the hair finally changed.
Only slightly.
Whoever it was had clearly noticed the hair she’d tucked there. They’d disturbed it—and then tried to restore it from memory.
They didn’t know she had a phone. Her photo captured every strand in perfect detail.
Bo Li didn’t know who had been sneaking into her room—Eric, or Tricky’s people.
After thinking for a moment, she realized the question was pointless.
Either one could threaten her life.
Who was it, really? What difference did it make?
And yet, a voice inside her whispered—*it makes a difference.*
Boyd couldn’t fill the emptiness in her mind after crossing over.
Eric could. He made her heart race, her breathing tighten, her adrenaline surge—made her sensitive and alert.
He made her hear her own violent heartbeat, made her feel alive—truly alive.
Boyd made her wary too, but it was a different feeling entirely.
Why?
She didn’t know.
And she didn’t know what to do now.
Pretend she’d noticed nothing—or leave immediately?
If she left, would it provoke the intruder into doing something worse?
On the fifth day, the hair at the door was gone. Whoever it was seemed to realize she’d noticed and stopped trying to put it back.
The discovery made Bo Li’s skin crawl.
She went straight to the docks and asked captains who were sailing soon whether they could take her along.
Her actions seemed to anger whoever had been breaking in. On the sixth day, the gramophone in her room was opened and a worn record placed on it.
A scratchy song flowed out—
It was the very song she and Boyd had heard at the theater.
Bo Li’s scalp prickled. Her chest tightened; her heart hammered as if it would explode.
Fighting down panic, she turned to open the door—only to find it locked from the outside.
Whoever it was no longer wanted to play at scaring her.
They were making their move.