While dining, Bo Li listened to Mitt boast, until he began claiming that electricity was invented by Edison. She then gently reminded him:
“Mr. Mitt, electricity was not invented. Nor did Edison invent the generator; the first hand-cranked generator was built by Michael Faraday.”
The air froze.
Mitt’s words came to an abrupt halt. His face flushed violently, as though urgently weighing whether what she said was true.
Bo Li quickly finished the food remaining on her plate.
Mitt thought of a line to salvage his dignity: “I admit you are correct, but Edison did invent the light bulb. It is not unreasonable that people think he invented electricity as well…”
Bo Li restrained herself, but could not hold back: “In truth, the light bulb was not invented by Edison either. But indeed, it was his team’s improvement of the light bulb that enabled electric lighting to become widespread. Thank you very much for the dinner; I enjoyed this meal.”
Mitt’s face shifted from red to green, as though he had been slapped in public.
He suspected that Bo Li was deliberately trying to catch his attention. Otherwise, why would a woman know so much about electrical knowledge?
Even he himself knew very little.
Thinking that, in order to entice him, Bo Li had secretly pored over numerous obscure electrical journals, the stifling knot in Mitt’s chest dissolved, and he smiled faintly: “Then tomorrow night, may we dine together again?”
Bo Li sank into thought.
Throughout the evening, she had not once felt Erik’s gaze.
He seemed not to care that she was dining with Mitt.
Fortunately, dining with Mitt was not merely for testing Erik, but also served to keep Mitt occupied, leaving him no energy to concern himself with the newspaper’s printing progress.
Otherwise, she would have suffered a great loss.
After considering, Bo Li said: “Of course.”
But like a fishing line cast into a deep pool, there was still no ripple around her.
Bo Li felt somewhat perplexed.
Could it be that she had misread it that day, that his intense gaze upon her lips had not been because he wished to kiss her?
Then why, in the middle of the night, had he come to her bedside, stroked her lips with his thumb, even pressing into her mouth?
Bo Li glanced about, trying to spot Erik’s figure.
It was a resplendent dining hall, furnished with silver tableware engraved with the mark of “Tiffany”; the porcelain was of the Hungarian “Herend” brand, its undersides painted with vivid, lively robins.
Around them were only two or three other tables, all wealthy folk of New Orleans. Though curious about the rumors surrounding Bo Li, few spared her a glance, and none discussed her.
Erik was not there.
Was he truly absent, or was the bait she cast not enticing enough?
Bo Li somewhat understood now why people enjoyed fishing.
This time, her line came up empty, and indeed it stirred within her the impulse to cast it again.
Mitt looked at Bo Li, then suddenly asked in a low voice: “Miss Claremont, I have an impertinent request… might you, for our next meeting, come wearing a dress?”
Bo Li tilted her head slightly: “Why do you want me to wear a dress?”
Mitt glanced at the back of her hand, then at her lips, and said with hidden meaning: “Because I have yet to perform a hand-kiss for you.”
As his words fell, Bo Li finally felt that long-lost sensation of being watched.
She still did not know where Erik was.
But she could feel his gaze nailed upon her, sharp as thorns piercing her back.
Bo Li’s spirit stirred; all her weariness vanished at once.
From Mitt’s perspective, upon hearing the words “hand-kiss,” Bo Li’s face turned red.
It seemed she had long been anticipating this kiss.
Mitt leaned a little closer to her, saying: “Or perhaps, would you prefer that I personally choose a gown for you? That is not impossible either—whatever style you like, I can have it delivered to your residence.”
The sensation of being watched grew ever more chilling.
He made no attempt to conceal his presence; his gaze was as cold as if he wished to kill her.
Bo Li knew the reason.
—She had not worn the dresses he had prepared for several days now.
Yesterday’s green gown had not been prepared by him either, but had been custom-made at her request.
The green dyes of the present all contained traces of arsenic, thus earning the name “poison dress.”
When ladies wore such green gowns, at first nothing seemed amiss, but over time their skin would break out in sores and ulcerations.
Yet that shade of green was so strikingly beautiful that, though knowing it was poisonous, people still flocked to wear it.
At first, Bo Li had worn the green gown merely for novelty’s sake.
Compared with other colors, green was more eye-catching, stirring broader conversation and discussion.
Of course, she was not so foolish as to wear it directly against her skin. She had instructed someone to stitch in a thick lining, hemmed the skirts with light gauze, and wore silk gloves reaching to her elbows before daring to put it on.
Her relationship with Erik was much like the green gown—dangerous, poisonous.
Yet irresistibly captivating.
But this morning, when she rose, the green gown had already vanished. Likely Erik had destroyed it.
What had he been thinking at that moment?
Feeling the weight of his gaze, imagining his mood, Bo Li’s palms grew damp with sweat, her fingers quivering lightly from excitement.
“Anything will do,” she said, “so long as it is sent by the right person, the style does not matter to me.”
This was indeed true.
The dresses Erik sent her did not always align with her tastes.
Some were too plain, too austere, as though she were draped merely in a length of white satin.
But she had never spoken a word of complaint.
Erik, however, had clearly misunderstood her meaning.
The gaze grew ever more intense, as though gnawing at her skin, as if it would bore two holes into her back.
For several seconds, she even felt a weight press upon her shoulder, as though struck in warning by something.
Bo Li whipped around abruptly.
There was only a waiter pushing a dining cart past her from behind.
Her shoulder must have been accidentally struck by the cart.
Mitt immediately rose, leaning forward with concern: “What is it, did he injure you?”
As he spoke, he was about to call for that waiter.
The instant Mitt leaned close, Bo Li shivered, gooseflesh spreading from head to toe.
Erik seemed truly enraged.
A terrifying sense of crisis surged from behind, numbing her heart and beading her hand with cold sweat.
Too much provocation ceased to be amusing.
Bo Li wisely chose to end matters, drawing back from Mitt’s hand: “No, Mr. Mitt. That will be all for today. I am tired and wish to return.”
Mitt assumed she had been upset by the waiter’s clumsiness and insisted on seeking justice for her.
Bo Li could not be bothered to stop him. She only watched as Mitt rose in indignation, striding directly to the waiter and pompously demanding he apologize to her.
The waiter was indeed not Erik. Realizing he had accidentally bumped into Bo Li, he looked stricken with guilt and said, “I am sorry, so sorry… just now I kept thinking I heard someone speaking by my ear, and I lost focus for a moment. Madam, I did not hurt you, did I?”
Bo Li waved her hand: “It is nothing, do not trouble yourself over it.”
She emphasized several times that she was unhurt before finally freeing herself from Mitt, boarding a carriage, and leaving the garden restaurant.
Mitt lingered over Bo Li’s expression, already fantasizing about what kind of gown to buy her—her complexion was pale, almost like slight anemia, the blue veins beneath her skin faintly visible. She would suit a deep green gown perfectly.
Indeed, green was poisonous. But he did not intend to spend a lifetime with Bo Li; so long as his momentary lust could be satisfied, it was enough.
Mitt drank a glass of wine, carrying his fantasies of Bo Li as he mounted his carriage.
All along the way, so long as he imagined Bo Li in a green gown, collapsing into his arms, his whole body burned with feverish heat.
It was only after an hour had passed that Mitt realized the view outside the carriage window did not resemble the road home.
He called out the coachman’s name, knocking impatiently on the door: “Charles, have you gone senile? Where are you taking me?”
No response.
Mitt pushed open the window, craning his neck toward the driver’s seat—only to find the coachman had vanished at some unknown time, leaving only the two horses trotting onward of their own accord.
The sky was dimming, the fog thickening, the air growing ever damper. The streetlamps, rather than banishing the dark, only deepened its gloom.
Mitt shivered, seized by the inexplicable feeling that he was being driven toward death’s road.
He was not a man to sit and await doom. The wine’s haze cleared halfway at once; he pushed open the small front door, intending to climb to the driver’s seat.
Yet just then, someone snapped their fingers by his ear.
Mitt froze, and immediately felt a dreadful force seize control of his limbs, forcing him to collapse helplessly back onto the carriage seat.
In the darkness, a black-gloved hand reached out, clamping around his cervical vertebrae like an iron band.
The bones in Mitt’s throat immediately emitted an unbearable cracking sound.
The strength of the other’s grip was terrifying, as if they could twist his neck to an unimaginable angle at any moment.
Most horrifying of all, Mitt could make no sound, not even a cry of terror. He could only watch helplessly as the figure emerged from the shadows, looking down on him from above.
The carriage was dimly lit.
Mitt couldn’t make out the person’s features, only their hollow, icy golden eyes, like two burning flames of gold, utterly chilling.
He felt he had seen those eyes somewhere before, but he couldn’t recall at all.
Then, the other looked at him and spoke slowly: “What are your intentions toward Polly Claremont.”
Mitt found the question somewhat baffling.
This person had jumped onto the carriage, not to rob him of wealth or the vehicle, but merely to ask about his intentions toward Polly Claremont?
What filled Mitt with dread was that he actually found himself confessing his innermost thoughts truthfully: “I want to possess her.”
The other was silent for a moment. “Why.”
“She’s beautiful. Any man would think the same upon seeing her. I want to have her, then discard her. That way, people won’t care about me failing the courage test anymore.”
“Does she know your intentions.”
“No,” Mitt drew a sharp breath, wanting to clamp his mouth shut, but he couldn’t stop himself from continuing, “I’ve disguised myself well. I’m young, handsome, and from a good family. She’s clearly taken with me, even asked me to buy her a dress.”
The other paused. “Buy a dress?”
“Yes, a green dress,” Mitt said. “Green suits her complexion. Most importantly, green dye contains arsenic. She is too beautiful, too clever, and too hard to control. Even if I discard her, she could likely use her wits to turn public opinion around. But if her skin is poisoned by arsenic and begins to fester, it’s completely different. By then, everyone will remember her as an ugly whore, and no one will remember that I failed the courage test.”
“Mr. Mitt,” the other’s voice held a note of mockery, “you truly are the most consistent person I have ever met.”
Suddenly, Mitt regained control of his throat and hurriedly said, “…You heard it! The worst thing in my heart is just harming a woman! I don’t know what you want, but it must be for money… I can give you a lot of money, as much as you want, I can give it to you, just let me go!”
The other, however, remained unmoved, merely staring down at Mitt:
“Right now, you feel very hot.”
Mitt didn’t understand what this meant. Yet, in the very next moment, he suddenly felt a piercing heat spreading from his limbs and torso, as if the blood from head to toe was boiling with fever.
At the same time, the other continued speaking into his ear: “The heat cannot penetrate your skin; it can only surge through your blood vessels, like millions of ants crawling beneath your skin.”
The person’s voice was low and cold, each word carrying an undeniable force of control.
Mitt immediately felt a fatal itch and began to scratch uncontrollably.
“Tell me,” the other said, “what is your next intention.”
Mitt murmured: “I want to tear open my skin… let the blood flow out…”
The other permitted this action.
Mitt immediately began clawing at his face—his nails scraping, then grinding, then digging—a searing, intense pain shot through his face. He screamed, he wailed, but he could not stop. He could only watch in horror as his nails filled with a pulp-like mixture of skin, and blood gushed forth, soaking all ten of his fingers.
The other watched him coldly the entire time, seeming to supervise him, to monitor as he tore away his hypocritical facade, inch by inch.
Dizzy and reeling from the severe pain, Mitt gasped for breath, his eyes rimmed red, his mind already beginning to blur.
Only one thought remained in his head:
—My face is ruined. I am finished.