Outrun the Moon(18)

Elodie slides in beside me. She doesn’t bother to say hello, so I don’t, either.

William starts the car again. “How was your dinner, Miss Du Lac?”

“Mediocre.” She arranges her gloved hands over a beaded purse. “My pheasant came with an artichoke that looked like a squashed toad on my plate. I wanted to complain, but Maman said that was the way it was and I had to accept it.” She smirks at me, and I realize she is not talking about the artichoke. “Rather dismal way to live life, don’t you think?”

William doesn’t reply, eyes focused on the road.

I cough. “For the artichoke?”

Her rosebud lips crush together, then pop open with a tsch! “My papa tells me I am to pretend you are an heiress from China. I am not fond of make-believe.”

“Then I suggest we interact as infrequently as possible.”

She frowns, reminding me of Tom’s old bulldog, Chop, who never seemed happy, even in front of the meatiest bone. “Suits me fine.”

She gathers the silk folds of her coat around her, hoods her eyes, and stares straight ahead. A clammy sort of anxiety settles on me. She could make my life very difficult, even if she keeps my secret.

For the rest of the trip, we sit in thorny silence, made even thornier by a parade down Market Street, which slows traffic to a walking pace. San Franciscans love to parade—even the Chinese, though we generally reserve our processions for funerals.

When we finally arrive at the school, the house lights are lit, casting golden halos over the brick facade. Elodie hardly waits for William to stop the car before she alights from the cabin. The door nearly swings shut on me, but William grabs it.

“Thank you,” I say.

William winks. “I’ve been catching doors for forty years.”

Mrs. Tingle waits for us on the stoop. I confirm that my skirts are straight, then follow Elodie into the mansion. She flounces up a winding staircase, but I stop at the foyer, feeling like an intruder.

“Please wait here,” says Mrs. Tingle, bustling away.

Ma would disapprove of a door-facing stairway. The door is the mouth through which energy flows into the house, and a staircase opposite causes energy to rush upstairs, leaving the first floor empty. Keeping flowers on the ground level helps encourage energy to linger, but the only vase I see—a heavy white and blue one that looks, ironically, Chinese—sits empty.

The cut carpet features a peacock, its head turned toward the name of the school, while an enormous Tiffany chandelier, as big as the one Jack and I saw at the Palace Hotel, hangs over the staircase. More peacocks are pieced into the glass. It’s an interesting choice of mascot. For the Chinese, a peacock symbolizes compassion and healing as the favored animal of the goddess Goon Yam, who refused immortality to stay on earth and aid humanity.

“Such noisy, irksome birds.” A woman who looks to be in her fifties appears at the foot of the staircase.

A hump between her shoulders combined with her bustle gives her the posture of a smoking pipe, all held tightly in a dress of gunmetal gray. Her pupils are like pencil dots on sky-blue paper, with pouches below them that Ma would say result from “unshed tears.” Her dark hair, shot through with silver, is pulled into a bun. Something about her severe appearance makes me conscious of my every imperfection, from my crooked teeth to the blisters on my too-long toes.

“I’ve never seen one in real life, ma’am.” To sound more like a Chinese native, I sprinkle my speech with a light Chinese accent, which simply involves rounding out certain syllables. I mimic how Ba speaks English. Belatedly, I remember that if I’m a wealthy heiress, I probably would keep a whole flock of peacocks in my summer palace, or wherever it is I live.

“You are fortunate. They squawk as loud as someone being murdered. Messy, too. We used to keep a pair on the grounds, but after a month of that vexation, I had our cook roast them for dinner.” Her mouth is an even line, the kind that doesn’t need to open much to say a lot.

“If they are so irritating, why do they represent the school?” I ask meekly.

Her face becomes cunning. “Because they are proud in bearing and the envy of all other birds.”

I spend the next moment wondering what to say, but she breaks the silence. “I am Headmistress Crouch. I must admit, your command of the English language is impressive. Even the local Chinese don’t speak half as well.” One threadbare eyebrow lifts a fraction, sending a bolt of fear into my heart.

“I was educated in an American school in China. Father hopes for me to help with the family business one day. We are tea merchants.” That seems the safest lie, as tea is China’s greatest export.

“What is the name of the school?”

“Gwok Jai Hok Haau American School.” I hope that one’s hard to remember.

“Why would an American school have a Chinese name?”

“It is how they do things in China.”

Headmistress Crouch rakes her eyes down my uniform, then up again. “Are you Catholic?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Which parish?” The questions fly like darts.

“The parish of Wong Hoh, the eternal flowing river of accountability.”

“That hardly sounds Christian.”

“I am sorry. Again, the Chinese do things a little differently.” I bow my head apologetically, wondering how long before that excuse wears thin.