Outrun the Moon(24)

“Aha, here we are. Now, whose turn is it to host?” As Mr. Waterstone’s gaze sweeps the room, the girls find other places to look: the fireplace, the floor-to-ceiling windows, one another. I suddenly feel exposed, though I’ve poured tea lots of times. Mr. Mortimer often drank a cup with his clientele—not the dead ones, of course.

“Miss Wincher.”

My shoulders relax a notch.

He nods at Harry, who has gone still as a rabbit. “It is your turn.”

When Harry doesn’t speak, Katie elbows her, eliciting a grimace. Harry scrambles to her feet and bobs a curtsy. “Yes, sir.”

Elodie exchanges a smile with Wood Face. Those girls are up to no good. I can see it in the way Elodie flicks at her skirt like a cat batting its prey.

Harry dips her head at each of her “guests,” holding her spectacles to her face as if afraid they might come loose. “How lovely to see you, Miss Quinley, Miss Foster, Miss Du Lac.”

“Lovely to see you, too,” Katie chimes out in her loud voice, all her dimples making an appearance. The tomboy’s cheerful eagerness reminds me of Jack whenever Ma imparts her fortune-telling wisdom. Unlike me, he can listen to her for hours as she describes the ten heavenly stems, or the twelve earthly signs.

“Enchanté,” says Elodie, sounding bored. Wood Face murmurs a nicety as well.

“How do you take your tea?” Harry asks Katie.

Mr. Waterstone waves his hand dismissively. “Don’t forget to pass linens first.”

Turning redder by the second, Harry doles out embroidered linens.

“Three teaspoons of sugar for me,” Katie says brightly.

The instructor frowns—likely disapproving of the quantity—but he does not interfere.

With her tongue peeking out of her mouth, Harry carefully measures three teaspoons of sugar into her best friend’s cup. “Miss Foster, do you take sugar, too?”

“Finish the first before beginning the second,” Mr. Waterstone orders. “The hostess is not an assembly line.”

Who knew there were so many potential pitfalls in serving tea? At home, we have no pretend niceties. If we are thirsty, we fill the pot, throw in some leaves, and that’s that.

The lid of the teapot rattles as Harry pours. She passes a teacup and saucer to Katie, who accepts with a gracious, “Thank you ever so much, Miss Wincher.”

Harry moves on to Wood Face.

“I like my tea plain.” Wood Face reaches for her cup, but then Elodie gives a slight shake of her head, so subtle that I’m not sure I see it at first. The girl returns her hands to her lap. “Thank you, Miss Wincher, but that tea is too strong,” she says dramatically, eyes flicking to Elodie, as if seeking approval. She’s rewarded with a smile.

“Dilute it with the hot water pot, Miss Wincher,” Mr. Waterstone instructs Harry.

Mrs. Tingle begins to wheel her tray away, and Mr. Waterstone leaves to hold the door open.

Katie juts up her chin and whispers, “The tea looks fine to me.”

“If you like drinking bathwater,” hisses Elodie. “I’ve heard hillbillies do that.”

Katie jumps to her feet, hands curled into fists and spots of pink blooming on her cheeks. “At least I don’t eat snails.”

Mr. Waterstone glides back to us. “What is the problem, Miss Wincher?”

Harry grimaces. “Sorry, sir.”

“Tea is not taken standing, Miss Quinley.”

Katie drops back onto her seat, scowling.

Harry pours liquid from a second plainer teapot into Wood Face’s tea, but it dispenses too fast and overflows onto the saucer. The girl emits a loud sigh, passing Elodie another long-suffering glance.

“Use another cup, Miss Wincher,” says Mr. Waterstone in a tight voice.

Harry looks near to tears, and I wonder if she’ll remember to place her tongue against the roof of her mouth. When the tea has been dispensed and all of Harry’s guests have successfully been offered doll-sized treats, she nearly collapses back into her chair.

Mr. Waterstone gives a satisfactory nod. “Now, who shall be next?”

In my foursome, Ruby and Minnie Mae both shrink into the upholstery, and Francesca shifts uncomfortably.

With a glance toward me, Elodie sets down her cup and raises a hand. “Mr. Waterstone?”

A streak of cold runs down to my belly. Somehow I’ve become attuned to her pranks before they happen, like how certain birds can sense an approaching storm.

“Since it was the Chinese who gave us tea, I wonder if our visitor could show us her traditional customs. You do keep that formal Chinese tea set in the sideboard.”

My knuckles pop like firecrackers. She couldn’t know that I don’t know how to perform a formal tea ceremony. Such things are done for weddings, and given the rarity and private nature of weddings in Chinatown, I’ve only seen it done once. I briefly wonder if all the fours in this room are conspiring against me.

Mr. Waterstone rubs his well-manicured hands together. “That’s a wonderful idea. Miss Wong, please indulge us.”

“While I am honored—” I begin, casting about for an escape.

If I demure, people may suspect me of fraud—no doubt, her intent. After all, I’m supposed to be the daughter of a tea merchant. If I show them what they want, perhaps those doubts will be harder to raise. Never let it be said that Mercy Wong backed down from a challenge.