Outrun the Moon(21)

“She looks like that girl in the circus,” chirps Minnie Mae. “Do you have a twin?”

“No, but I do have a brother.” I start to shiver in my damp clothes. “Could you tell me where to find Elodie’s room, please?” Two hallways span in either direction.

“Last room on the west wing,” says the tiny Minnie Mae, pointing. She looks around her, then whispers, “Her best friend isn’t happy about moving out.”

Ruby tugs her twin’s sleeve. “Don’t gossip.”

I lift my nose and affect a look of supreme indifference. “She can move back in as far as I’m concerned. I am no friend of Miss Du Lac’s.”

Ruby’s hazel eyes grow large at my boldness. “Headmistress Crouch wouldn’t like that.”

“Don’t worry about that ninny Elodie,” says the perky Texan, Katie. “My gran says mean people are that way because someone did them dirty. What you should be worryin’ over is the spooker we hear moaning in the attic.”

“Shhh! It’ll hear you!” Minnie Mae hisses.

I smile benignly. “Ghosts aren’t something to fear. We Chinese welcome visits from our ancestors.”

Ruby’s hanging blade carves in deeper. “Yes, but what about someone else’s ancestors?”

“Those are okay, too, as long as they’re not hungry,” I say with authority, though I don’t believe in hungry ghosts. I’m slipping into my role better than I thought.

The girls draw closer, even the reserved Harry, and I go on. “Hungry ghosts come back when their family fails to make satisfactory offerings for them. So when you see one, you better give it something good, or it might eat you, or your pets.”

The girls gasp, all except Harry.

Katie tugs at one of her braids. “Headmistress Crouch’s cat was found dead at the top of the attic stairs last year.”

They consider the implications in shocked silence.

A bell sounds, and we all jump.

“She’ll be doing her rounds in fifteen. Better be in bed, or khk—” Katie draws a bony finger across her freckled neck.

The twins hurry down the east corridor, followed by Katie and Harry, but Harry abruptly turns around. Fixing me with a look that contains a hundred different flavors, the strongest one smelling of fish, she asks, “If you are the son your father never had, then how do you have a brother?”

“I, er—” I can’t control the bloom rising to my cheeks. “My brother came along several long years after me,” I say stiffly.

Slowly, she turns back around, and I let out my breath. I will have to watch my step around that one.





8



WITH DREAD RISING LIKE DOUGH IN MY stomach, I follow the corridor to my new quarters.

White comforters and matching pillows outfit a pair of beds—beds Ma would never sleep in, as white sheets are normally used for funerals. I open the window a notch to let out the stale air, then peel off my dress. Elodie’s side of the room is adorned with several scarves, beaded bags, and even a gilt mirror on the wall. Maybe she consults it every morning to see if she’s the fairest of them all.

“It’s disgraceful!” I overhear her talking through the door. I doubt she’s referring to the skyrocketing prices of rock cod or the labor strikes at South Harbor.

Before she enters and witnesses the state of my underwear, I pull out the chest from under the bed and retrieve a white nightgown and house slippers. The cotton glosses over me, fine as silk.

How I wish my family were here to enjoy these fineries, too. Then it might feel right.

Remembering Headmistress Crouch’s mandate, I turn my dress inside out. If only Ba could get his customers to do that, it would save loads of time. I lay the dress in a wicker basket, which is not as finely woven as Tom’s balloon basket. Not everything here is better than Chinatown.

Just as I slip into the cool sheets, Elodie flounces in, nightgown billowing around her. Fixing me with a hard look, she charges to the window and closes it with a loud thud. She throws open her bedcovers, flings herself in, and turns her back to me. Moments later, she is breathing deeply.

Another sound joins her breathing, the creaking ceiling above us. Perhaps it’s simply the house stretching in the way houses do. Or maybe someone—or something—is up there after all.



The sun strokes a finger across my cheek. I slept poorly, not just on account of the creaking but because the bed felt too wide open, like I was sleeping on the Siberian peninsula. Plus, I’ve never spent a night apart from my family, and it turns out I miss them terribly, even in my sleep.

Elodie still slumbers, and it gives me a smug satisfaction to hear her snore like a freight train. Her nightgown is pulled to her waist, exposing legs so pale, the rivulets of her blue blood nearly glow. I dress, pocketing Jack’s penny from the little dish by my bed. On my way out, I open the window again, just to be contrary.

A fountain filled with goldfish lies in a courtyard just outside. Ba would scorn the luxury of keeping fish for decoration. From the fountain, the garden unfolds in a network of paved pathways anchored by olive trees and madrones.

I make my way to the chapel, which is half the size of St. Mary’s with a bell tower that does not yet contain the bell that my “father” will be contributing. I poke my finger into a bowl of holy water and cross myself, though I haven’t attended church since I started working at the cemetery. Sunday is the most popular day to be buried.