Read Under a Painted Sky Online

Authors: Stacey Lee

Under a Painted Sky


Published by the Penguin Group

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Copyright © 2015 by Stacey Lee.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Lee, Stacey (Stacey Heather).

Under a painted sky / Stacey Lee.

pages cm

Summary: “In 1845, Sammy, a Chinese American girl, and Annamae, an African American slave girl, disguise themselves as boys and travel on the Oregon Trail to California from Missouri”—Provided by publisher.

[1. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 2. Runaways—Fiction. 3. Sex role—Fiction. 4. Chinese Americans—Fiction. 5. African Americans—Fiction. 6. Slavery—Fiction. 7. Oregon National Historic Trail—Fiction. 8. West (U.S.)—History—1848–1860—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.L514858Und 2015 [Fic]—dc23 2014015976

ISBN 978-0-698-17365-1


This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.



Title Page



Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43


About the Author

For my number one fangirl, Avalon


misses, but I doubt Ty Yorkshire thought it would strike with a scrubbing brush. Now his face wears the mask of surprise that sometimes accompanies death: his eyes bulge, carp-like, and his mouth curves around a profanity.

Does killing a man who tried to rape me count as murder? For me, it probably does. The law in Missouri in this year of our Lord 1849 does not sympathize with a Chinaman's daughter.

I shake out my hand but can't let go of the scrubbing brush. Not until I see the blood speckling my arm. Gasping, I drop the brush. It clatters on the cold, wet tile beside the dead man's head. An owl cries outside, and a clock chimes nine times.

My mind wheels back to twelve hours ago, before the world turned on its head
 . . .

• • •

Nine o'clock this morning:
I strapped on the Lady Tin-Yin's violin case and glared at my father, who was holding a conch shell to his ear. I thought it was pretty when I bought it from the curiosity shop back in New York. But ever since he began listening to it every morning and every evening, just to hear the ocean, I've wanted to smash it.

He put the shell down on the cutting table, then unfolded a bolt of calico. Our store, the Whistle, was already open but no one was clamoring for dry goods just yet.

The floor creaked as I swept by the sacks of coffee stamped with the word
and headed straight for the candy. Father was cutting the fabric in the measured way he did everything.
Snip. Snip.

Noisily, I stuffed a tin of peppermints into my case for the children's lessons, then proceeded to the door. Unlike Father, I kept my promises. If a student played his scales correctly, I rewarded him with a peppermint. Never would I snatch the sweet out of his mouth and replace it with, say, cod-liver oil. Never.


My feet slowed at my name.

“Don't forget your shawl.”

I considered leaving without it so I wouldn't ruin my exit. But then people would stare even more than they usually did. I returned to our cramped living quarters in the back of the store and snatched the woolen bundle from a basket. Underneath my shawl, Father had hidden a plate of
don tot
for me to find, covered by a thin layer of parchment. I lifted off the parchment. Five custard tarts like miniature sunflowers shone up at me. He must have woken extra early to make them because he knew I'd still be mad.

I took the plate and the shawl and returned to the front of the shop. “You said we'd move back to New York, not two thousand miles the other way.” New York had culture. With luck, I might even make a living as a musician there.

His scissors paused. When he finally looked up at me, I raised my gaze by a fraction. His neatly combed hair had more white than I remembered.

“I said one day,” he returned evenly. “One day.” Then his tone lightened. “They say the Pacific Ocean's so calm, you could mistake it for the sky. We'd see so many new animals. Dolphins, whales longer than a city block, maybe even a mermaid.” His eyes twinkled.

“I'm not a child anymore.” Only two months from sixteen.

“Just so.” He frowned and returned to his cutting. Then he cleared his throat. “I have great plans for us. Mr. Trask and I—”

Mr. Trask again. I set the plate down on the cutting table, and one of the fragile custards broke. Father lifted an eyebrow.

“Only men who want to pound rocks go to California,” I snapped. “It's rocks and nothing.”

“California's not the moon.”

“It is to me.” Though I knew I shouldn't claim the last word, I couldn't help it. I was born in the Year of the Snake after all, 1833. Father looked at me with sad but forgiving eyes. My anger slipped a fraction. With a sigh, I carefully scooped the broken tart off the plate and left the shop.

• • •

Five o'clock:
Keeping my chin tucked in, I hurried down the road, kicking up dust around my skirts. The smell of smoke was especially robust tonight. Maybe the smokehouse had burned the meats again. The boys who worked there were not particularly gifted, plus they were mean. I already knew they would overcharge us for the salt pork we'd need for the trek west, and Father would have no choice but to pay.

I marched past uneven blocks of mismatched buildings, longing for the orderly streets of New York City. There were actual sidewalks there, and the air always smelled like sea brine and hot bread, unlike St. Joe, which reeked of garbage and smoke and—

I lifted my head. The sky had thickened to a hazy gray, textured with particles
 . . .
like ash? Something sour rose in my throat.

It was not the smokehouse meat that was burning.

I ran, my violin bouncing against my back.

Oh please, God, no.

I flew past empty streets and turned onto Main, where suddenly there were too many people, some standing like cattle, others clutching squirming children to them. Noise assaulted me from all sides, people yelling, animals braying, and my own ragged breath.

The Whistle was a charred heap, an ugly inkblot against the dusky sky. The heat made the air look wavy, but the bitter reek in my nose told me the scene was no mirage. Ashes fluttered like black snowflakes all around.

“Father!” I pounded toward the remains, scanning the area for his distinctive figure. His dark hair and small build. The worn jacket with the patches on the elbows that he wouldn't replace because he was saving for my future. Maybe he had shed it, for surely he was hauling water along with the rest of the men.

Smoke filled my lungs, and burned my eyes as I rubbed my grimy fingers into them.

“Out of the way!” yelled a man carrying buckets. Water sloshed onto my skirt.

I trotted beside him as he carried the buckets to another man who threw them onto the smoldering ruins. “My father—”

The man barely glanced at me. “He's gone.”

I uttered a hoarse cry.

“Lucky you weren't there yourself or you'd have been trapped, too. Now move!” He trod on my foot as he shoved by, but I hardly felt it.

My God, I didn't—I should have
 . . .

“How?” I asked no one in particular. Was it an accident? Father was the most careful person I knew. He always doused the stove after we used it, and strictly enforced our
signage. No, if it was an accident, it couldn't have been Father's.

Whoever was responsible, may he pay for it in a thousand ways, go blind in both eyes, deaf in both ears. Better yet, may he perish in hell.

I choked back a sob and tried to make sense of the fuming mess in front of me. There was nothing but jagged piles of charred fragments. I could make out a heap of ash in the spot where we kept our wooden safe. Though Mother's bracelet was no longer inside, it had held other irreplaceable treasures. A photo of Mother. Father's immigration papers.

A wall of heat stopped me from going closer than fifteen feet from our front door, or where it used to be. My eyes burned as I strained to find my father, still not quite believing the horror was real. But as the heat began to cook my skin, I knew as sure as the Kingdom hadn't come that he was gone. My father burned alive.

I shuddered and then my chest began to rack so hard I could scarcely draw a breath. Smoke engulfed me, thick and unyielding, but the awful truth rooted me to the spot: after I'd given my last lesson of the day, I'd dawdled along the banks of the dirty Missouri, throwing stones instead of coming home directly. I should have been with him.

Oh, Father, I'm sorry I argued with you. I'm sorry I left with my nose in the air. Were you remembering that when the smoke robbed you of your last breath? You always said,
Have patience in one moment of anger, and you will avoid one hundred days of sorrow.
My temper has cost me a lifetime of sorrow. And now, I will never be able to ask your forgiveness, or see your kind face again.

Another man carrying buckets barreled toward me. “Move back, girl, you're in the way!”

I stumbled toward an elm tree, and there I stood, even after the glowing hot spots had ceased to burn, and buckets were no longer emptied.

Still the black snow fell, bits of my life flaking down on me.

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