Lian had spoken to Shao just once since West Gate Hospital. The day after her mother came home, there was a quiet knock on the apartment door, Shao and Sparrow. Lian put a finger to her lips. Her mother was sleeping.
“We came to drop off your mother’s belongings,” Sparrow said. She held a small wicker suitcase. “I went to the Southern Baptist Mission refugee camp. The ladies said to tell your mother they’re praying for a quick recovery.”
“We’ll go now,” Shao said. “We won’t bother you.”
“No, no,” Lian said quickly. “Let’s have some tea. Tell me about your mother, Shao.”
“I’ll make the tea,” Sparrow said. “And Old Zhao sent some pastries.”
Shao opened the French doors, letting in light and noise. He was casually and beautifully dressed, a cardigan of fine wool that matched the blue pinstripe of his Oxford shirt. He’d had a haircut and there was no longer any evidence of the windburn that had roughened his face. Lian resisted the impulse to touch his cheek.
“How is your mother—” she began.
But he interrupted her, speaking quickly, almost as if reciting. His father had sent for Dr. Mao, who diagnosed his mother’s various ailments as symptoms of cancer. The doctor had given them the news with kindness and tact. Then his father had called their longtime physician, Dr. Wu, to the house and asked whether his wife’s symptoms could be those of cancer. After another examination Dr. Wu admitted the possibility, then tried to blame his negligence on Mrs. Liu’s long history of nervous complaints.
Dr. Mao was now their family doctor, but Shao still held his father responsible for taking so long to consult a different doctor.
“He’s always been dismissive of my mother’s health,” Shao said. He leaned against the wrought-iron railing and lit a cigarette. Lian didn’t remember him smoking before. “My father thought she was going through one of her moods and said as much to Dr. Wu, who was happy to do as little as possible. So neither of them took her seriously.”
Lian almost reached over to take his hand. She wanted to take his hand but knew she should keep her distance. She gripped the balcony railing instead. “So what does Dr. Mao prescribe?” she said.
“According to him, it’s too late,” Shao said. He savagely stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and threw it over the balcony. “He says it would’ve been too late even six months ago. My mother won’t see the end of summer. His work now is to keep her comfortable.”
“I’m so sorry,” Lian said. She’d spent months worrying about her own mother but even in her most overwrought moments there had only been uncertainty, and therefore, hope. Shao had none.
“It’s all right in a way,” Shao said, “at least according to Mother. She says it’s a relief not having to wonder anymore if she’s been going mad with imagined ailments.”
Sparrow brought out a tray with tea and pastries and set it down.
“There’s some happier news,” Shao said. “My father is giving Sparrow a dowry and Second Aunt is doing the matchmaking. She lives for this sort of thing, my second aunt.”
Sparrow poured the tea, seemingly unperturbed and oblivious to Lian’s gaping open mouth. After they left, Lian went to the bedroom to check on her mother. But for the first time in days, it wasn’t her mother’s health that preoccupied her.
Sparrow, married.
LIAN COULD TELL her mother was still afraid. How long would it take for all those years of mistrust to let go? Even in the flat, with just the two of them, her mother still clung to old habits. She looked out of windows from behind the drapes and paused the conversation if she heard voices coming up the staircase. If only her mother could enjoy their reunion, which for Lian was like a dream after so many months of worry. A dream where she and her mother lived in a beautiful flat. Where they spent hours each night talking until her mother laughingly and reluctantly told her it was time for bed, as though she were a little girl again. Where they slept in the same room, Lian on a layer of quilts on the floor, her mother on the bed with a pillow propped under her plaster-casted leg.
Lian woke to the fragrance of steaming rice and the sounds of crockery being set out. She dressed and hurried out to help but breakfast was already waiting on the table. Congee the way Lian remembered it, with salted duck egg crumbled on top of the soupy mix, a small dish of sliced cucumber and radishes pickled in soy and vinegar for sharing. Her mother moved around on crutches but always made their meals. It was a pleasure to be cooking for two again, she’d insisted.
Dr. Mao had urged her to eat as much as she could. Her body and bones were mending and she needed food. In the few weeks they’d been together, her mother’s cheeks had plumped up and the shadows under her eyes were all but gone. Her face was more lined, her hair streaked with gray, but her hands moved gracefully as she poured hot tea for Lian. She listened with her head slightly tilted to one side. Lian’s father used to say she reminded him of a blossom on its stem. Lian’s mother did this because she was hard of hearing in one ear. But unless you knew this, it appeared merely a charming trait, one that suited her mother’s name. Beihua, Northern Flower.
At the hospital, Lian had spent every waking moment at her mother’s bedside, telling her everything that had happened since the bombing at the Nanking railway station. About the evacuation from Nanking, the long days of walking, the cold and hunger, always alert to the sound of airplanes. About the Library of Legends. About Mr. Shen, the first of them to fall. Mr. Lee’s threats and Wang Jenmei’s murder. About Meirong’s arrest and execution. How Wendian had gotten Mr. Lee arrested. The escape from Shangtan, and the journey east with Shao and Sparrow.
Then she had told her mother about her fright when she’d seen Mr. Lee at the hospital in Changsha. And the completely unexpected news that her father’s name had been cleared. That his file now showed he’d been an innocent victim.
“We don’t need to be afraid anymore, Mother,” Lian said, holding her mother’s hand. “We can use our real names. You can be Jin Beihua again.”
“All those years of hiding, the false identities.” Her mother began to cry. “And all that time, they knew where we were, who we were. I was so foolish. I ruined your childhood.”
“Don’t worry about that, everything’s worked out,” Lian said. “What matters is that the authorities have cleared Father’s name. Do you think his cousin knew, the one who got us the false papers? Why didn’t he tell us everything was all right?”
“He died a few years after we moved to Peking,” her mother said, wiping her eyes. “I saw the obituary.”
Her mother’s journey to Shanghai had been somewhat less eventful than Lian’s. She’d attached herself to some foreigners, missionary families glad to have help with children and the elderly, having left their own servants behind in Peking. Beihua had entered the International Settlement as part of their group, posing as a member of the household, a humble Chinese servant.
And now her mother was restless, worried again.
“Lian, we need to make some changes,” she said, looking around the beautiful room. “We can’t go on taking advantage of the Liu family’s generosity. Even though you helped bring their son home while he was so sick, it’s not a debt of gratitude that goes on forever.”
It wasn’t just the flat either. Whenever Sparrow came by, she brought food sent by Old Zhao, the Lius’ cook. When Lian’s mother had to return to the hospital for a follow-up visit, Shao sent a car and driver to take them.
When her mother had fled Peking, she had taken a large sum of money with her, almost all her savings. But the journey had depleted those funds. Transportation was expensive and so were the bribes that allowed her to get on trains and trucks as she followed the missionary families to safety. She’d added what was left to Lian’s small cache and it was clear they would soon run out of money. The pantry was emptying at an alarming speed. Rice, flour, soy sauce, even salt.
“I must get back to the Southern Baptist Mission,” her mother said, struggling onto her crutches. “It pays a pittance but it’s better than nothing. Work is nearly impossible to find in Shanghai. Even if it’s only a cot at the Mission office, we’ll need somewhere to live when we lose this flat.”
When, not if. Rents in Shanghai were increasingly exorbitant. Even the Liu family would take notice soon and want to make the most of the opportunity.
“But not yet, Mother,” she said. “You’re still on crutches. You can’t walk to the Mission every day.”
“I don’t need crutches to type,” her mother said, sitting down again. Her hands clenched tightly around a teacup. “I can take a rickshaw. It’s worth the expense just to hold my place there. You could come with me. You can bring me documents from the filing cabinets, run errands so I don’t have to get up and walk. You should meet the Mission staff. You’ll make a good impression. Who knows, they might give you a job too. I must get back, let them know I’m ready to work again.”
Lian had to calm her down. She put her hand over her mother’s. “You still need to rest. Let me go to the Mission office and tell the staff you’re coming back. I’ll ask them to hold your job for you.”
Slowly, her mother’s fingers eased their grip and let go of the cup. Lian felt her shoulders tense, recognizing that once again, she needed to look after the two of them.
“Remember, we invited Shao and Sparrow tonight for dumplings,” Lian said. “And Dr. Mao. Do you need anything from the market while I’m out?”
THE SOUTHERN BAPTIST Mission refugee camp was only a forty-minute walk from the apartment. Lian felt relief for this time on her own, to think on her own. She and her mother had been apart for only two years, yet so much had befallen them during that time. They had been living as normally as they could, creating a home in rooms that were not theirs, in a city that was trying to do the same amid misery, chaos, and political unrest. They made plans. Plans that depended on a quick end to the war, others that assumed the war would go on for years. Plans for what to do when they had to leave the luxurious flat.
Her mother still had a few gold coins hidden away, sewn into the lining of her wicker suitcase. But those were for emergencies. And even if they used the gold, it wouldn’t last long once they had to pay rent. Even a single room cost a fortune these days. They might have to share with strangers. Their best and cheapest option was to share the cot at the Mission office, if they were allowed. Lian hoped her mother’s attempted suicide hadn’t frightened off the missionaries.
It was clear to Lian that she needed to find a job, to start earning something, whether or not her mother went back to work at the Mission. But every refugee in Shanghai was hoping to find work, even those lucky enough to have family connections. The only connection she had was Shao. She didn’t want to ask him, didn’t want to owe him more. But there was also Sparrow.
She hadn’t told her mother about the Willow Star except as a legend. A topic for the term paper she still wanted to write. Nor did she mention her feelings for Shao since there was no point. Even if her mother had advice to offer, what good would it do? Lian could dream all she wanted but Shao would never love anyone but the Star.
No, he couldn’t even love the Star. The Star had forfeited that when she bargained it away, because she’d wanted her Prince to live comfortably in every one of his reincarnations.
How could she resent Sparrow, who had loved and endured without reward for centuries? It was far better to marvel at the presence of an immortal in her life. An immortal she could call friend. An immortal who seemed to be going along with the notion of a marriage arranged by Shao’s second aunt.
WHEN THE MISSIONARIES and workers learned who Lian was, they gathered around her, clucking sympathetically and asking about her mother’s recovery. They didn’t utter a word of condemnation about her mother trying to take her own life.
“This war has pushed people to the limits of physical and emotional endurance,” a woman said, shaking her head. “Your mother had suffered so much, seen so much suffering. And then she thought she’d lost the one person she loved. If only she had trusted in the Lord.”
“Miss Mason is the one who hired your mother,” another said. “You need to speak with her. She’s busy doing her rounds. Can you wait for about an hour?”
“Of course,” Lian said. “But please, let me do something in the meantime to help.”
They put her to work cleaning the office and small porch outside. A trio of girls who sat huddled on the porch steps edged away as she swept, then drifted back once she’d finished sweeping the steps, moving like flotsam carried by the tide’s ebb and swell. Lian recognized their furtive determination. They were staking out their place.
A plump foreign woman entered as Lian finished wiping down the furniture. She had wisps of gray-blond hair falling out from the roll pinned to the top of her head, a style outmoded for at least twenty years. Her blue eyes crinkled in a smile upon seeing Lian.
“I heard the news,” she said, opening her arms to pull Lian into a talcum-powder-scented embrace. Her Chinese was excellent. “You’re Lian. And your mother is on the mend. We’ve been so worried.”
Lian tried not to look startled. Were all foreigners this effusive?
“Thank you for your concern, Miss Mason,” Lian said. “My mother is hoping to come back to her typing job soon. And I’d like to do something to help also. As a volunteer, of course. I did learn some first aid, simple wound care, bathing invalids.”
“How I’ve missed your mother,” Miss Mason said. “She’s fast and accurate, and she could decipher the worst handwriting. I’d be happy for her to come back anytime, but only if she feels strong enough.”
“She’ll be on crutches for a long while yet,” Lian said, “but she doesn’t need crutches to type. And I can run her errands around the camp if need be.”
“Perfect, perfect,” the foreign woman said, clasping her hands to her heart. “I can’t ask for more. I think we could use you, Lian. As a letter writer. Many of the refugees are illiterate. They need to get in touch with their families.”
“I can start right now, if you like,” Lian said. “Perhaps just for a few hours?” She wanted to make a good impression on this woman.
At the end of a few hours, Lian returned to the office with a shoebox full of letters she had written. Miss Mason was typing, her fingers pecking determinedly on the keys. She paused to hand Lian a small box of stamps and a tin can for coins. Lian dropped in the coins she had collected. She had written letters only for those who had money for postage. The Mission simply couldn’t afford to give them stamps as well as stationery.
“Although there are emergency situations where we do,” Miss Mason quickly added when explaining.
Lian began pasting stamps on envelopes, conversations with the people who had dictated their letters coming back to her as she handled each one. The young man now responsible for his sister’s children as well as his own. A haggard face, haunted eyes. A baby under one arm, hungry toddlers beating on his back. We are in Shanghai. Tell our parents Second Sister died. The middle-aged woman, her elderly in-laws seated listlessly on the ground behind her. Her husband too injured to move. A pleading letter to siblings. We are in Shanghai. Send money. The young mother with two children, her face impassive, impossible to read. Forbidding Lian to ask. We are in Shanghai. Is it safe to come home?
“Sometimes I feel as though the world is ending,” Lian said. “How much more tragedy can these people survive?”
“It can be overwhelming.” Miss Mason looked up. “No, it is overwhelming, no denying that. Thank goodness we got through the cholera epidemic.”
“Miss Mason,” Lian said, “does anyone outside China know how bad conditions are?”
“Oh yes, yes,” she replied. “All our churches get regular bulletins. Your mother types up those reports.” She studied Lian for a moment. “But what you want to know is whether other nations will help.”
Lian nodded. “Yes. Or are we on our own?”
“I don’t know, my dear,” Miss Mason said. “I don’t know enough about politics. I can’t even say how much my own church is able to help. I only know that with something as big as this war, the best I can do is make a difference for a few people. Or even just one person, Lian. If each of us could make a difference to just one person.”
“You’ve made a difference to my mother,” she said. “Thank you for taking her in. Giving her work.”
Miss Mason made a dismissive noise, inserted another sheet of paper into the typewriter.
“Miss Mason, there’s something I need to tell you,” Lian said. “My mother and I may need to live here soon. We can both sleep in this office as she used to. If it’s all right with you.”
“Oh. Oh dear.” Miss Mason blinked. “I’m so sorry, but those girls on the front porch sleep here now at night. When we heard your mother was living with you, we thought she didn’t need a bed anymore. And there are so many others in need.”