Outrun the Moon(25)

“It would be my pleasure.”

Soon, I’m staring down at a complicated tea set made of the porous purple clay that marks it as yi-hing in origin. It looks even older than the one Ah-Suk keeps on a high shelf and never uses. A slatted tray holds three tiny cups and matching “sniffer” cups, used only to smell the tea; a round teapot shaped like an elephant; a second one shaped like a fish; and a collection of wooden tools, whose purposes I can’t remember.

All the girls crowd around me.

Mr. Waterstone stands right next to my chair, bringing with him the smell of cloves. Francesca watches me closely with one eyebrow slightly higher than the other.

I make a show of smelling the tea. Ceylon. Weaker than what we throw in the pot at home, but passable. I fold my hands in my lap. “Welcome to the Nine Fruits Tea Ceremony!” I cry in my best Cantonese. At my outburst, Harry shrinks back, bumping Katie into Wood Face, who cries out. Cantonese sounds harsher than the language they’re used to. I switch back to English. “The first thing we must do is bless the tea.” I select one of the wooden implements, a twisty stick, and wave it around the tin. I continue in Cantonese to lend authenticity, “May you be in good health with this cup of tea, and may I not make a pigeon egg of myself.” I don’t bother to translate. I shovel some tea into one of the pots.

Katie leans over and peers inside. “Why do you put the tea in the fish rather than the elephant?”

“The mouth of the fish is wider than the elephant’s trunk for the pouring of larger quantities. The narrow trunk prevents accidents as experienced by Miss Wincher.” I even believe it myself.

Harry goes still again at the mention of her name.

“Fascinating.” Mr. Waterstone hangs over me. “Please continue.”

As the tea steeps, I pick up the brush, still wondering about its use. “We use this to brush away the spirits that linger like cobwebs everywhere tea is served.”

Elodie snorts loudly, but Wood Face scans the room nervously, maybe for spirits. I sweep the brush all around me. To add more drama, I chant a simple Chinese nursery rhyme about a panda bear. How I wish Tom was here to see this. I know he would laugh, in spite of his recent moodiness.

I end with a swipe of my brush in Wood Face’s direction. She dodges left, pushing Elodie off-balance.

“Heaven’s sakes, Letty,” Elodie huffs, collecting herself.

“Swearing, Miss Du Lac,” says Mr. Waterstone distractedly.

“This is a load of heathen hooey.” Elodie crosses her arms. “There are no ghosts in this room, or anywhere, and it is unchristian to suggest it.” Wood Face doesn’t look convinced.

Mr. Waterstone frowns but doesn’t contradict her, perhaps because to do so might be considered blasphemous in its own right.

Katie pulls her auburn pigtails and looks at me. “What were you saying?”

I pour a dollop of the tea into a cup. “I was giving thanks to the Heavenly Goddess of Purity, who set herself on fire to save the life of her sister.” That is also heathen hooey, but they accept it with drawn-in breaths, and I can’t help taking it further. “We believe the tea is the ashes of her remains, and by drinking her burned flesh, we purify ourselves.”

Gasps erupt from all around. I stand and present the first cup to Elodie.

She recoils, as if I was offering her poison. “Take it away!” she snarls.

Someone laughs. No doubt Fancy Boots will soon be scheming new ways to torture me, but at least I’ve put her off tea for a while. With a small smile, I bring the cup to my own lips but stop short at a movement from the doorway. Headmistress Crouch regards me with eyebrows raised, like twin lightning bolts. Without a word, she turns on her heel and disappears like smoke.





10



AFTER A SNACK, THE CHINESE HEIRESS re-enters the drawing room for embroidery with her plumage less plumped. Rattled from seeing the headmistress’s black expression, I prick myself at least a dozen times. I’m relieved when we’re dismissed to French, not just because there are no needles, but because half the class takes Latin, including Elodie, who already knows the language of the Frogs. That class alone will make St. Clare’s worth all my troubles. Where else would someone like me get French lessons?



At dinner, it’s back to sitting under the heavy gaze of Headmistress Crouch. Mindful of every movement, I pull out my chair without scratching the wood floor and arrange myself beside Francesca. She acknowledges me with a nod.

Father Goodwin, who sits at a teacher’s table with Headmistress Crouch, leads a heartfelt grace.

A maid sets a plate in front of me containing a clear slice of jelly with bits of meat trapped inside. “Aspic, miss.”

“Thank you.” The jelly resists the prongs of my fork. Why chop up all those bits of nice meat only to entomb them in a coffin? Francesca uses her knife to cut the aspic into portions and eats it, coffin and all.

I sigh in relief when a rich rabbit stew arrives, and I have to force myself to eat slowly. Chinese heiresses do not act like hungry tigers when food is set before them, especially with Headmistress Crouch watching, her jaw flexing in even chews. When a whole trout arrives, I copy Francesca in the use of a strange silver knife with an arced end. With tiny motions, she neatly peels away the fish skin, then flakes the meat. She holds the bite in her mouth with a look of pure bliss. I figured eating rich food must lose its appeal in the way all things do when done with regularity, but she does not seem the least bit jaded.