The Silent Girl

the scabbard and holds it out to me. “Madam Fang,” he says. “Thank you for allowing me to see Zheng Yi.”
    “Then you are finished with her?” I ask.
    “There’s no need for us to take it after all.”
    Detective Rizzoli protests, “Dr. Cherry, the crime lab needs to examine it.”
    “Trust me, this is not the weapon you’re looking for.”
    Rizzoli turns to Detective Frost. “Is it the same sword you saw?”
    Frost looks confused. His gaze flicks up and down, between my face and the sheathed sword that I am holding. His face deepens to scarlet as he realizes he may have made a mistake.
    “Well, is it?” she asks again.
    Frost shakes his head. “I’m not sure. I mean, I only saw the sword for a moment.”
    “Detective Frost,” I say coldly, “the next time you visit, I hope you’ll be courteous enough to tell me what it is you really want from me.”
    My barb finds its mark, and he flinches as though stung.
    Detective Rizzoli sighs. “Mrs. Fang, regardless of what Dr. Cherrysays, we still need to take the sword for further study.” She holds out her hands, waiting for me to surrender the prize.
    After a pause, I place it in her hands. “I expect it returned to me undamaged.”
    As the visitors leave, I see Detective Frost cast a regretful look back, but I wear my disdain like a shield, deflecting any apology. His shoulders are drooping as he walks out the door.
    “Sifu?”
Bella says softly, stepping into my office.
    In the next room, the students continue sparring and kicking, grunting and sweating. She closes the door so they cannot see the look of satisfaction that passes between us.
    Move, countermove. The chess game continues, and the police are still one step behind us.

J ANE WAITED UNTIL THEY WERE HALFWAY DOWN THE BLOCK, WHERE their cars were parked, before she confronted Dr. Cherry. “How can you be so sure this isn’t the weapon?”
    “Take it to the crime lab. Let them examine it if you don’t believe me,” he said.
    “We’re looking for an ancient Chinese sword, and she just
happens
to have one.”
    “That sword you took from her isn’t the one you’re looking for. Yes, the blade’s edge has nicks and scars from use, but the etchings and blood grooves are too distinct. Also, the handle appears to be original to that weapon. A wooden handle crafted in the Ming dynasty wouldn’t have survived all these centuries in such good condition.”
    “So this sword isn’t old?”
    “It’s certainly well made, and it has the proper heft and balance of a Ming dynasty saber. But that sword is just a very good reproduction. At most, it’s maybe fifty, seventy-five years old.”
    “Why didn’t you say any of this while we were there?”
    “Because it’s clear that
she
believes it’s real.
She
believes it was passed down from her ancestors. I didn’t have the heart to disillusion her, not when it means so much to her.” He looked toward the
paifang
gate. It was now late afternoon, and dinnertime visitors were descending on Chinatown, roaming its narrow streets, staring at menus in windows. Dr. Cherry surveyed the crowd with a look of sadness. “At the museum where I work,” he said, “I’m often asked to evaluate family heirlooms. People bring in all sorts of junk from their attics. Vases and paintings and musical instruments. Things that come with all sorts of mythology attached to them. Almost always, my verdict is disappointing for them because what they bring aren’t treasures, but worthless reproductions. It forces people to question everything they were ever told as children. It destroys their personal mythologies, and I hate having to do it. People want to believe they’re exceptional. They want to believe their family has a unique story to tell, and for proof they point to Grandma’s antique ring, or Grandpa’s old fiddle. Why force them to hear the brutal truth, which is that most of us are utterly ordinary? And the hand-me-down relics we cherish are almost always fakes.”
    “Mrs. Fang believes she’s descended from warrior women,” said Frost. “Do you think that’s just another family fantasy?”
    “I think it’s something that her parents told her. And they gave her that sword to prove it.”
    “So it’s not true. About General Washi.”
    “Anything’s possible, Detective Frost. You could be descended from King Arthur or William the Conqueror. If that’s important to you, if it helps you get through your day-to-day life, then go on