“The Pekingese Exodus”

Chapter 1. A Vigil of Five Guardians

The villa stood in exquisite silence, an eastern sanctuary untouched by the chaos that had consumed the Summer Palace grounds. As I followed Lord Bertram Hay and Surgeon-Major Pettigrew across the threshold, our boots seemed to echo obscenely against the polished namnu wood floors.

I felt like an intruder—no, worse—a desecrator.

For two days, we had participated in what our superiors called "the restoration of British honor," but which consisted primarily of systematic plunder. The air in the villa seemed frozen in time with its scent of sandalwood and jasmine, a fragrant rebuke to our sweat-soaked uniforms and the acrid smell of gunpowder that clung to us like guilt.

"Remarkable that this place hasn't been touched," Hay murmured, his voice unnaturally loud in the hush. His eyes, keener than most for beauty, swept over the qiangjin wall panels with their inlaid gold and lacquer scenes of mountains and rivers. Even in the diffuse morning light filtering through the paper windows, the artistry was breathtaking.

I nodded, unable to speak. There was something sacred about the silence, something that demanded reverence. We moved deeper into the villa, past tables laden with scholar's stones and delicate porcelain. Not a single item appeared disturbed or out of place. In any other circumstance, these treasures would have already been cataloged, packed, and shipped by the regiment's designated "prize agents." The fact that they remained untouched felt like a small miracle.

Pettigrew pushed open a set of carved doors, revealing what appeared to be a receiving room. And there she was.

The Dowager Princess sat in a curved rosewood chair, her hands folded peacefully in her lap, her eyes closed as if in meditation or sleep. But the stillness of her form—the absolute absence of breath or movement—told us immediately what we were witnessing. She had been dead for at least a day, perhaps two.

"Good God," breathed Hay, his gaze not on the unlooted Famille Rose vases that would have made a king's ransom, but on the scene itself. "It's a vigil."

Around the Princess's chair, five small dogs were arranged in postures of profound stillness. At her ankle, pressed against the embroidered silk of her robe, sat a dog of pure white, its coat so long and flowing it seemed to merge with the Princess's garments. At her feet lay another, its black and white markings stark against the colored carpet. The others—one golden, one brindle, and one tiny apricot-colored creature—were positioned close by, as if standing guard.

"They haven't left her," I whispered, a lump forming in my throat.

Pettigrew moved forward with a doctor's professional detachment, though I noticed even his hands trembled slightly as he knelt to examine the Princess. He nodded toward the white dog, whose face bore the tracks of dried tears.

"Look at the epiphora staining on this one's face. Signs of dehydration too. They've been here without food or water since she passed."

The white dog—the one at the Princess's ankle—turned its head toward me. Our eyes met, and I felt a jolt of recognition that defied all reason. In those dark, liquid eyes, I saw not the wild fear of a stray or the dull incomprehension of a pet, but something altogether more profound: the calm, bewildered dignity of a deposed monarch. This was a creature who had witnessed the fall of its world and still maintained its grace.

The smallest dog, the apricot-colored one, broke the stillness first. It rose from its position and approached me, its tiny paws making no sound on the carpet. There was no fear in its movement, only a tentative curiosity. It stopped at my boot, looked up at me with a face that seemed perpetually surprised, and then, to my astonishment, sat directly on my foot as if claiming me.

"They've been given things," Hay observed, pointing to objects scattered near each dog.

I looked more closely. Near the white dog lay a miniature jade seal, its surface carved with characters I couldn't read. The golden dog had what appeared to be oilpaper tied with a ribbon, while the brindle one had a small silk pouch that Pettigrew carefully opened.

"Dried ginseng root," he identified, bringing it to his nose. "Medicinal grade, very fine quality."

Hay's eyes widened with understanding. "These aren't just possessions—they're gifts. She knew what was coming. She prepared them."

The white dog continued to stare at me, and in that moment, I felt a shocking, paternal surge of responsibility that I had never experienced before. This wasn't just an animal; it was the keeper of something precious that was being lost in the fires of conquest.

"The Emperor's dogs," Hay whispered reverently. "The Pekingese. They're sacred to the imperial family—living symbols of Buddhist guardian lions. No commoner was permitted to own one. Death was the punishment."

"And now the palace is ransacked, the court fled, and they're alone," I said, my voice rough with an emotion I couldn't name.

The black and white dog at the Princess's feet emitted a low growl that died in its throat, more confusion than threat. It seemed to sense our uncertainty, our trespass, but lacked the strength or will to properly challenge us.

"What do we do?" Pettigrew asked, his practical nature asserting itself. "Call for a loot officer to catalog them?"

"No," I stated firmly, surprising even myself with the conviction in my voice. "This is not salvage. This is a rescue."

Hay looked at me, a question in his eyes.

"We cannot leave them to the swarm of marauding infantry who will surely find this place by noon," I continued, kneeling down to the level of the dogs. The apricot one immediately licked my hand, while the white one maintained its regal stare. "Look at them, Bertie. They're not trinkets or curios. They're living beings who have lost everything."

A strange understanding passed between the three of us, men who had been complicit in the destruction of a civilization but who now found themselves moved by its dying embers. We had helped topple this world; perhaps now we could save a small piece of it.