After school most days, Jian met Romy and Li at the school gate and walked them to Dr Ho’s shop. They’d push through the door, making the bell jangle like crazy, while Dr Ho would cover his ears and pretend they’d made him forget whatever he was measuring on the giant brass scales. Romy thought she could stay in this tiny corridor of a shop forever, opening and closing the mysterious spice drawers labelled with gold calligraphy, intoxicated by the scent of steaming ginger, an abrasive camphor liniment or her favourite liquorice root.

She sat at the large oak table, scrambling to finish the algebra and French homework for both girls, while Li braided her hair and practised her vocal scales.

Jian would pick his way through glass jars, plucking out creamy flakes of mu li—oyster shells—and describing how they could be used to help dizziness or headaches, or sketching the rough leathery lines of ginseng root—ren shen—onto a dark scroll. Romy would close her eyes as Li waved sweet brown gardenia buds, handfuls of star anise or shards of tree peony bark under her nose and try to guess each spice.

‘You’re so much better at this than me,’ Li conceded.

Romy said nothing, but she committed every smell to memory and placed her books next to Jian. She was starting to read the Chinese characters and learn calligraphy—but not fast enough. Instead, Jian would take the time to show her how the tea from mulberry leaf could be used to remove heat from the lungs and clear a cold, but you could also use duckweed or the bitter ground seeds of burdock. Sometimes, if there were no customers, she would tiptoe out to the shop to watch Dr Ho carefully prepare the parcel of dried herbs and spices she delivered to Amah, who would blend them up and boil them for Mutti.

Colour was returning to her mother’s lips and cheeks, and she was suffering fewer migraines. Romy was certain Dr Ho’s treatments were partly responsible.

France and Britain had declared war on the Führer and his expanding Third Reich a fortnight ago, so Mutti spent her afternoons glued to the radio, hoping for news of Vienna and southern Germany, praying for Daniel. Instead of retreating to her room at the news of war, Mutti had asked Papa to enquire whether there would be a job at the hospital for her. She wanted to go back to nursing. Stay busy.

Mutti was ready to fill her lungs and breathe fully again—just like Dr Ho had predicted. Romy was intrigued by his decoctions and the needles he used. She wanted to know about these heady scents, the sweet and bitter spices that could not only heal the body but also strengthen the mind.

Li would feign interest in Dr Ho’s lessons for a few minutes before collapsing back in her chair and singing Ella Fitzgerald songs to herself.

Sometimes Dr Ho would make them a pot of rosehip tea and fill the study with sweet steam. When Dr Ho was busy in his treatment room, Jian would push his homework, quill and scrolls aside, and sneak his camera out of his satchel. He’d arrange three abalone shells so their silver ridges glistened with all the hues of the rainbow. Yesterday, he’d grabbed knuckles of fresh ginger and white starry clouds of angelica flowers, and arranged them in the square of light falling through the high window onto the table, when Dr Ho walked in.

The doctor’s smile faded when he noticed Jian’s camera.

‘Jian, what have I told you?’ He sighed. ‘Only when your homework is done. Then your classifications. Yang. Yin. Up. Down.’ Dr Ho’s hands moved up and down as he spoke.

Li jumped up from the table, winding an unfinished braid around her middle finger, head slightly tilted. She smiled at her father and said, ‘It’s my fault. I noticed these beautiful flowers on your counter and thought perhaps they might look like silver clouds in a photo. I insisted, Aba.’

Romy glanced at Jian, whose neck was reddening as he studied his hands, spread flat on the table.

‘Very well,’ said Dr Ho, giving Li’s left dimple an affectionate poke. ‘But no more interruptions. I need Jian to learn these herbal tinctures. Your grandfather’s notes. My notes. Soon Jian will have his own notes to add to our scrolls,’ he added with pride. ‘Today you have to transcribe my recipes for Mrs Bernfeld. Romy can give them to Amah.’

Jian blinked, long eyelashes quivering.

‘But what if he doesn’t want to be a doctor like you?’ said Li, squaring her shoulders. ‘What if he wants to be a pianist, or…or a photographer?’

‘Li, that’s enough,’ said Jian softly as he passed the stems of angelica to Romy. ‘You take these. Give them to your mother.’

‘Thank you. She does love the fresh flowers your family send each week.’ Romy took in the musk from the blossoms. ‘You’re all so kind.’

Two red apples appeared in Jian’s cheeks.

‘It is our pleasure.’ Dr Ho smiled. ‘Now remember, Jian: The father who does not teach his son his duties is equally guilty with the son who neglects them.’

Dr Ho winked at Jian, grinned at the girls and went back into his shop. Before he closed the door, he poked his head back through.

‘Oh, and Romy?’

‘Yes, Dr Ho?’

‘Let Li do her own homework.’

‘I don’t—’

‘I know how close you are. But she has to learn to stand on her own two feet.’

‘But Aba—’ Li protested.

‘Back to work. Finish your homework, otherwise no dumplings and sticky mango.’

All three groaned as they flipped open their textbooks.

Romy glanced over at Jian and whispered, ‘If you teach me the recipes and how to blend them, I can help you with your notes. It might give you time for—’ She waved her hand at the camera in case Dr Ho was listening on the other side of the door.

Li paused in her algebra and studied her brother’s face before turning to Romy. She opened her mouth to say something, but thought better of it as she turned back to her textbook with a dramatic sigh. The corners of her lips twitched as she tried not to smile.

Romy reached over and grabbed a blank piece of parchment from Jian’s pile and dipped the nib of her fountain pen in the ink as she asked, ‘Where do I start?’