RPAGF Chapter 7 The Feast at Hongmen in the Warehouse
Chapter 7 The Feast at Hongmen in the Warehouse
When Boyle pushed open the heavy wooden warehouse door, the expected stench of blood or sweat did not appear.
Instead, a light and lingering fragrance filled his nostrils, calming his racing heart somewhat.
Boyle was confident in his nose; the smell was the same as the "Oriental Awakening Powder" he had smelled in the bakery before, but it was more lingering and profound.
He held his breath and, with the two burly bodyguards he had acquired with money and a promise of debt forgiveness, stepped into this territory belonging to the "distinguished guests from the East" for the first time.
The warehouse was excessively empty.
The ground was swept clean, and not a single fish scale or haystack, which is common at docks, could be seen.
Boyle had no doubt that if this floor were moved outside the warehouse, it could even reflect the pale moonlight of Boston Harbor.
In the very center of the warehouse, under the dim glow of an oil lamp, stood a low, dark wooden square table, with two round cushions woven from dried straw beside it.
On the table was a set of black ceramic vessels I had never seen before, with a simple and rustic design, gleaming with a warm luster in the flickering firelight.
Boyle's two temporary bodyguards, Jeb and Silas, gripped their short sticks, momentarily unsure where to direct their fierce expressions.
There are no gamblers, no thugs, and no mountains of smuggled goods here.
Only one woman, dressed in a dark blue dress, stood with her back to them, her graceful figure undiminished, simply standing beside the strange set of utensils.
It's Fiona.
She changed into clean clothes, and her striking flaxen blonde hair was carefully combed and tied into a neat bun at the back of her head.
The mud on her face had been washed off, and the profile of her face was stunningly beautiful under the light.
Fiona was looking down, intently fiddling with the black ceramic utensils on the low table.
She picked up a small iron kettle, poured boiling water into a ceramic bowl, then used wooden tongs to pick up a small cup, scalded it in the hot water, and then poured the water out.
Every movement was slow and graceful, as if they were not preparing drinks, but performing some ancient and sacred ritual.
Is this still the same Irish maid who stole a few pieces of bread from Boyle and fled in a panic?
The two burly men were stunned by the bizarre scene. They looked at each other, and their grip on the sticks loosened slightly.
The only "enemy" in the entire warehouse seemed to be the Eastern man sitting on the main seat cushion, his back to the door, calmly poking at the ashes in the incense burner with a thin copper stick.
The figure didn't look particularly robust; in fact, he appeared rather thin, and he was dressed in the coarse cloth clothes commonly worn by locals.
But just by sitting there, he exuded an indescribable sense of authority over the dilapidated warehouse.
Boyle swallowed nervously, touching the dagger hidden in his sleeve, but the cold touch did little to embolden him.
Just as he was hesitating whether to advance or retreat, the Easterner who had his back to him spoke.
He didn't turn around; his voice wasn't loud, but it clearly reached everyone's ears.
"Lig do chair fanacht ag an doras, a Uasail Boyle. Ní fhreastalaíonn mo thae ach ar『theaghlach』 agus ar『aíonna』."
The tone is strange, and the pronunciation is short and abrupt.
Boyle was stunned. He couldn't understand it, but it felt somewhat familiar, as if it were Fiona's language.
But Fiona, who was standing next to him, trembled slightly the moment she heard those words.
She stopped what she was doing, turned around, her face expressionless, and repeated the sentence in perfect English.
"Have your friend wait at the door, Mr. Boyle. My tea is only for 'family' and 'guests'."
Boyle's face turned deathly pale instantly.
I don't understand Gaelic, but I understand the wealth of information contained in this sentence.
This man from the East can actually speak Gaelic, an Irish language.
He not only knew that Fiona was Irish, but he also gave instructions in her native language.
This was a blatant declaration, proclaiming his absolute control over Fiona and hinting at the intelligence channels he possessed that a baker like Boyle could never have imagined.
Cold sweat broke out again from his fat forehead.
He waved his hand and said in a dry voice to the two burly men behind him, "You...you stay outside and guard the area. Don't come in without my order."
The two bodyguards, feeling as if they had been granted a pardon, immediately left the warehouse that had made them so uncomfortable, only daring to peek nervously through the crack in the door.
Only three people remained in the warehouse.
Fiona stepped forward, gestured "please" to Boyle, and pointed to the futon opposite the low table.
Boyle walked stiffly over, lifted the hem of his expensive wool coat, and tried to sit cross-legged like the other man, but his obese body and stiff joints made it impossible for him to do so.
Finally, he could only kneel humiliatingly on the rough straw mat like a penitent.
This posture caused his obese body great pain; his knees felt like they were being poked by pebbles, and he couldn't straighten his back.
He huddled there, looking like a plump quail that had been plucked, which immediately diminished his imposing presence.
This is precisely Livy's strategy.
A person's desires only truly rise when his knees bend.
Only then did Li Wei slowly turn around.
He was neither the ferocious monster Boyle had imagined, nor did he possess that cunning and sinister nature.
He had a very young East Asian face with gentle, even delicate features, and was dressed in a plain gray linen outfit.
But his calmness and serenity made him look less like he was sitting in a dilapidated warehouse and more like he was in the grand mansion of a legendary Easterner, looking down on a retainer who had come to pay homage.
Fiona respectfully presented the first cup of tea, which she had just brewed, to Li Wei with both hands.
The tea liquor in the black ceramic cup has a bright reddish-brown color, and a rich aroma wafts out.
Then she poured a second glass and placed it in front of Boyle.
Boyle looked down at the cup of tea.
The aroma was tempting, but he dared not drink it.
Who knows if this strangely colored Eastern liquid contains a deadly poison that could rip one's guts out? After all, Eastern alchemists are also synonymous with the eerie and sinister.
Li Wei picked up his teacup, but did not drink it.
He simply watched Boyle silently, observing the fear and struggle on his face.
Suddenly, Li Wei did something that Boyle would never forget.
He reached out and swapped the cup of tea in front of him with the cup in front of Boyle.
Then, under Boyle's watchful gaze, Levi raised the cup of tea that originally belonged to Boyle to his lips and drank it all in one gulp.
This action, devoid of any worldly fervor, was sharper than any sword, completely shattering Boyle's already crumbling mental defenses.
He realized that the other party would never stoop to using poisoning as a means of attack.
This confidence, this attitude of being in control of everything, says it all.
The warehouse was so quiet that only the sound of waves crashing on the dock outside and the soft crackling of the oil lamp wick burning could be heard.
Li Wei put down his teacup and finally spoke his first words.
His English had a slightly peculiar Eastern accent, but his pronunciation was clear and his tone was flat.
"Mr. Boyle, your bread is always a little undercooked."