Erik had not spoken a word, yet his gaze lingered back and forth upon her face.
He did not know what he was thinking, only that his eyes fell upon her lips again and again—each time sliding away after a few seconds, only to uncontrollably return to them.
What made her scalp tingle was that, though his expression remained calm, the trajectory of his gaze was almost indecent.
Bo Li’s heart pounded wildly; she nearly blurted out, “Are you trying to kiss me?”
But it was obvious—if she spoke those words aloud, he would immediately turn and leave.
Then, once more, the initiative would fall back into his hands—whether to meet her, whether to speak to her, all decided by him.
Though he had said not a single word, Bo Li could still feel that he disliked her going out dressed in men’s clothing.
Unlike other men, however, he did not forbid her from doing so on the grounds of morality, nor did he tell her it was improper according to propriety.
Yet, those men who looked too closely at her legs, or who put an arm around her shoulders, always seemed to meet with misfortune one by one—sudden afflictions of the eyes, or falling flat upon the ground.
Until now, Bo Li had never thought in another direction, truly believing it was because of heavy smog or uneven roads.
He had occupied the dominant position for far too long, long since accustomed to controlling her every movement.
Just as not long ago, when he did not wish her to speak with Mitt, he fixed her with a cold, terrifying stare.
As though by doing so, he could control her every action, like manipulating the strings of a puppet.
Bo Li was not repelled by his desire to control.
Whenever he sought to control her, he revealed a stronger aggressiveness than usual; his eyes, his actions, became more invasive than at any other time.
This sensation of always being on the verge of crossing the line was even more exhilarating than life-and-death itself.
What she did dislike, however, was his silence—expecting her to fulfill his desires without a word.
On what grounds?
Did he not have a mouth to speak with?
If he wanted something, could he not say it directly?
Bo Li cleared her throat. “Today’s performance was a great success. Do you have nothing you wish to say to me?”
He glanced once more at her lips. “…Congratulations.”
“Is that all?”
“What else do you want me to say?”
His tone was cold and rough, but Bo Li did not grow angry. She simply continued, “Then, do you think I should go dine with Mr. Mitt?”
“That is your affair.” He paused, his eyes still turned elsewhere. “If you prefer dining with one who is all show and no substance, what can I say?”
In the past, Bo Li would certainly have tried to keep the conversation going, guiding him to speak his true thoughts.
But now, she suddenly had no wish to do so.
With him looking at her with such eyes, it ought to be he who took the initiative to speak to her.
Thus, Bo Li stepped back, her voice light as she said, “Very well, then I shall go. I had thought to invite you back to the villa for the celebration banquet, but since you have never once dined there… forget it.”
Erik turned his head to look at her, his throat shifting faintly as though he wished to say something, yet no words emerged.
Bo Li’s expression was perfectly harmless. “Good night, farewell.”
With that, she turned and left.
Even as she stepped out of the tavern, she could still feel his gaze trailing after her like a shadow.
Yet he never called out to her—not once.
His attitude was so obscure that Bo Li could not help but doubt herself, wondering whether she had misread everything.
What if he had only been looking at her lips, without the slightest intention of kissing her?
Bo Li rode back to the villa in the carriage with Madam Freeman.
Marbelle and the others had been waiting for her, not touching the dinner laid before them.
Casting Erik from her mind at once, Bo Li sat down and joined them in the meal.
Under the glow of the chandelier, the roast goose, ham, and seared beef steak looked richly fragrant and flavorful, while on a small brazier, skewers of beef and mutton sizzled enticingly.
Remembering the bland, skin-on potatoes of the circus days, it felt as though a lifetime had passed.
Though Marbelle and the others were wonderful, the one she truly wished to share her joy with was Erik.
He was like a fierce stallion, not easily tamed—capable of tremendous speed, yet just as likely to throw her and break her neck, or to crash into other riders, bringing about irreparable and terrifying consequences.
And yet, in the end, he was her greatest aid in reaching the finish line.
Without him, this celebration banquet felt somewhat dull.
Still, the others knew nothing of Erik’s existence—for when he instructed them, he never showed himself. They, however, ate with delight.
After eating until she was seventy percent full, Bo Li withdrew from the table.
She deliberately brought a bottle of champagne and two glasses back to her bedroom.
If Erik appeared before her, she would not mind sharing a drink with him.
She was in good spirits today, so she rummaged in her mountaineering pack for her spare phone, powered it on, and rewarded herself by taking two photographs. — A pity it was not a Nokia; otherwise she could have played a little Snake.
On the screen, she had short hair and wore a tea-green dress. Apart from the slightly classical décor around her, it hardly looked different from modern times—after all, many villas abroad were old houses passed down for generations.
But looking closely, there were indeed many differences.
The greatest difference was that the light in the nineteenth century was far too dim.
Modern times were always ablaze with brightness.
Before Bo Li could indulge in a moment of melancholy, she noticed something on the photograph.
She enlarged it.
In the darkness stood a tall, thin figure, nearly fused with the shadows.
Bo Li: “…………”
It had been a long time since she had been frightened, but this sight made her heart lurch violently twice—no less startling than a ghastly white face suddenly leaping out in a horror game.
…Forget it, he truly did count as a ghost.
His English name was even Phantom.
Bo Li thought with a trace of malice: should she tell him that many people on Chinese websites called him Fantong?
She pretended not to see him, calmly set down her phone, pulled the cork from the champagne, and poured two glasses.
Then, raising her glass, she looked straight toward Erik’s direction and smiled. “A drink?”
He gazed at her, for the first time showing a trace of bewilderment in his eyes.
Bo Li felt content.
At last there was something he did not understand.
Erik accepted the champagne glass, glanced at her phone, and yet, as always, asked nothing, said nothing.
He was restraining his curiosity.
Bo Li was not surprised.
He was always like this.
Though they had been together for so long, he had never once asked about her origins, nor why she would have the idea of opening a haunted house.
Bo Li was not the sort to pass off modern songs as her own work. Had he asked, she would have told him that it was not her creation, merely a common amusement in her homeland.
But he had never asked.
He had not even asked why she was a beat slower in reacting to the surname Claremont.
All his responses seemed to say—I do not care about you, I am not concerned, I have no interest.
And yet, his gaze lingered ceaselessly upon her lips.
As though enticing her forward, toward crossing that invisible boundary.
But the moment she advanced, he would retreat, even vanish without a trace.
Only when she stepped back would he draw near.
For once, Bo Li felt a restless thrill.
She wanted to make him curious.
She wanted to make him speak.
She wanted him to press her close.
From this moment on, what she faced no longer seemed like a horror game, but rather a game of delicate balance.
Thus, after speaking those words, she suppressed the urge to continue, waiting to see how long he could endure before he finally opened his mouth.
Who would have thought—he did not endure at all. After taking a sip of champagne, he simply left.
Without even a farewell.
Bo Li: “……”
She drew in a deep breath and took another sip of wine, the urge to make him lower his head and speak first growing ever stronger.
Not until she had drunk two glasses of champagne did she at last feel the faint onset of sleepiness. She changed into her nightclothes, lightly washed herself, and climbed into bed.
The entire night, she slept uneasily, with the constant sense that someone was standing beside her, staring at her.
The gaze was so intense it felt as though it might snap her bones in two.
At some point, as though struck by some thought, he reached out and clasped her chin, his thumb prying open her lips and teeth, pressing inward.
Bo Li caught Erik’s scent. He had perhaps forgotten that he had recently begun wearing cologne, making the fragrance all too easily recognizable.
It was a light yet biting scent of cypress, burning her sense of smell and shaking her nerves.
He seemed to wish to touch the tip of her tongue with his finger.
Several times, he nearly brushed it, only to quickly let go.
Had Bo Li’s eyes not been shut, her body pinned down as if by sleep paralysis, she might almost have thought that she had forced him to come to her bedside at midnight, to do such strange things.
In the end, his thumb never did touch the tip of her tongue, but instead wiped away the saliva that had spilled from her lips.
Afraid she might choke on it, he even adjusted her sleeping posture.
Yet, the thought that Erik had stared at her drooling for so long depressed her mood.
The next morning, Bo Li did not so much as glance at the dress he had laid out for her, but changed into men’s attire and went downstairs.
Madam Freeman had already prepared breakfast: two slices of bread sandwiching a fried egg and roast beef, with a layer of melted cheese between.
Bo Li ate with satisfaction.
After breakfast, Thorn told her that someone from the Mitt household had delivered a letter.
Bo Li opened it.
The paper was drenched in perfume, the cloying scent of lavender almost nauseating.
In a tone verging on humility, Mitt invited her to meet him that evening at six o’clock in the garden restaurant.
Bo Li said, “Go tell Mitt’s servant that I will come.”
Thorn looked a little surprised, but never questioned her commands; he turned and left.
After a night’s fermentation, the news of Mitt, Wright, and Davis’s failed courage test had spread throughout the city.
People—especially those of high society—regarded Bo Li with both curiosity and resentment.
Though it was true Mitt and the others had only themselves to blame, they were, after all, gentlemen of rank, while Bo Li was merely a woman in trade. And what could be more intolerable than a merchant’s daughter slapping nobles across the face?
Thus, the noble families of New Orleans all felt as though Bo Li had given them a stinging slap, yet they could not censure her—for the matter could hardly be laid at her feet. Everyone had seen with their own eyes: it was Mitt and his companions who had provoked her first.
The common citizens, however, did not think the nobles had lost face. In any case, those men still lived in their splendid villas, still dined in luxury; nothing in this affair would alter their status.
But it was indeed highly amusing, and many townsfolk made it their morning entertainment.
Amid the flood of rumors and reports, the fame of Bo Li’s circus only grew.
Everyone awaited its opening—eager either to test their own courage or to laugh at the folly of others.
At half past five in the evening, Bo Li set out for Mitt’s dinner invitation.
She wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and a white suit. Inside the villa, the two men—Thorn and Theodore—did not dare let their eyes fall upon her legs.
Bo Li, however, sat naturally in the light carriage, crossing one leg over the other, leafing through the magazine in her hand.
All along the way, she felt many curious gazes.
Although she had triumphed over those three gentlemen, few greeted her; all tacitly regarded her as a notorious woman. Only when she lowered her head to read did they dare steal a quick glance at her.
Bo Li paid no heed to those looks.
Her thoughts were elsewhere.
At this very time, in New York, the famous “War of Currents” should be underway—the protagonists being Edison and Tesla, debating “Which is safer, direct current or alternating current?”
In the end, Tesla’s alternating current would prevail.
Yet mobile phones used 5V direct current.
The problem was, in this era, whether direct or alternating, the generators’ voltages were alarmingly high, designed for large industrial machines, far beyond what a mobile phone could endure.
She would have to find suitable rectifiers and transformers in order to charge her phone.
She wondered whether Tesla already had some renown, and whether she could commission him to build a generator.
From her impression, the reason Tesla was less famous than Edison was that he had no interest in commerce, intent only on burying himself in invention.
Edison, on the other hand, was more the consummate businessman, possessing extraordinary commercial instinct, far better at promoting his company’s products.
For instance, Edison had gone so far as to publicize the electric chair, sparing no effort to brand alternating current as the “execution current,” all in order to win the “War of Currents.”
As a businessman, Edison would surely have no interest in her custom order.
But Tesla was a scientist; perhaps he would carefully read a letter she sent.
The carriage halted before the garden restaurant.
Mitt had long been waiting at the door.
Clad in a finely tailored black suit, his hair slicked with pomade, his face under the crystal chandeliers looked exceedingly handsome.
To speak fairly, Mitt’s features were indeed striking, like an actor from an old film: deep-set eyes, a high straight nose, and well-defined contours.
Yet for some reason, Bo Li felt he had no masculine allure.
Could it be that intelligence—or lack thereof—could affect a man’s outward impression?
She had yet to see Erik’s face, but every time she looked toward him, she felt a powerful pull of attraction.
That intellectual magnetism was something “handsome” could never encompass.
During the meal, Mitt prattled on endlessly about how wealthy his family was, how high their status, how broad their connections.
Bo Li casually asked, “Then, do you know Nikola Tesla?”
“Who is this?” One sentence from Mitt left her speechless.
“…Then do you know Mr. Edison?”
“Of course I know,” Mitt said in surprise. “I never thought you would know of Mr. Edison as well. I assumed women all believed electricity to be some sort of magic. I have no personal connection with Mr. Edison, but I did purchase shares in his electric company.”
Bo Li immediately praised his foresight, urging him to buy more of Edison’s stock—the more the better—and no matter what rumors he might hear in the future, never to sell.
Mitt, thinking she was interested in Edison, proceeded to bombard her with a flood of information about electricity—perhaps something that would sound wise to a nineteenth-century audience, but to her, it was less profound than a middle school physics lesson.
Bo Li began to reflect: for the sake of Erik, was it truly worth dining with Mitt?
Whether this meal would draw any reaction from Erik was still an unknown.
What was certain was that she had suffered real mental injury first.