Outrun the Moon(26)

Before she opens the book in her lap, I ask, “What are you reading?”

“Shakespeare.”

She’s not much of a talker, but sometimes people just need the right subject. “What’s it about?”

“Henry the eighth and his wives.”

“How many did he have?”

“Six. One died, one survived, two divorced, and two beheaded.”

“Guess he wasn’t much of a marriage prospect.” She cocks an eyebrow, and I add, “Headmistress Crouch said one of the girls here is betrothed to a prince. If that’s what comes from hitching your wagon to royalty, I would rather be a spinster.”

Her nose crinkles charmingly. “You have a point.” Her smile disappears like a passing shadow. “But, back then, being married to royalty was the highest station a girl could hope for.”

Seems things haven’t changed much since then. “Have you got any prospects?”

Her face darkens. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“Forgive me. I find it an effective way to get to know someone.”

She rubs at the condensation on her glass. “I have already been ‘prospected’ out.” She says the word as if referring to the panning of minerals. “Marcus is handsome, wealthy, and has senatorial aspirations.”

“Sounds like a catch. Headmistress Crouch must consider you a success.”

The face she makes tells me otherwise. “I haven’t accepted yet.” She busies herself buttering a roll. “Have you come here for prospects?”

“No,” I say, thinking of Tom again. “In China, we use matchmakers. You just have to show up for the wedding.” The matchmaker always consults the fortune-teller on whether the pair’s birth dates are harmonious. Are Ling-Ling’s and Tom’s birth dates? I wonder. My insides congeal into aspic, but I pin an even expression on my face. “I have only come for an American education. I had no idea I would be learning such useful things as how to serve tea to ladies without coming to blows.”

Francesca grimaces. “Comportment is not always such a blood sport. And it won’t last forever. At the end of the quarter, we will switch to household economics. Mary Stanford’s father is coming to teach it.”

I follow Francesca’s gaze to a blond sitting at Elodie’s court—Mary Stanford, descendant of the famous railroad tycoon. Headmistress Crouch did not mention that a Stanford would be teaching, even after I expressed an interest in economics. She probably doesn’t expect me to survive here.

My annoyance saps the flavor from my fish. I will sell that chocolate, and show her that I have the staying power of a wine stain. Of course, first I must convince the Benevolent Association.

Father Goodwin stands, and with head bowed and slightly tilted, as if always on alert for a word from the Man Upstairs, he proceeds down the rows of tables murmuring encouragements. He cuts an oddly dashing figure, with his black cassock and slicked hair. I never knew clergy were allowed to be handsome. Maybe St. Mary’s would get more converts if they appointed more comely faces to the pulpit.

When the good father arrives at our table, a quiet spreads through the room, and my skin tingles. He nods at me. “Miss Wong. I am pleased the Lord led you to us. I hope you will be very happy here.”

“Thank you, Father,” I say cautiously, hoping I don’t have stew on my chin.

He extends a hand to Francesca. “The organ’s been fixed. Shall we?”

Only now do I notice that Francesca has turned as red as the pepper jam. “Yes, Father.” She places her napkin beside her plate. “Excuse me, Mercy.”

Only after they have left the dining room does the talk start again, though at a strangely reduced volume, with furtive looks toward the doorway.

“They sure spend a lot of time together.”

“—must be making beautiful music.”

It strikes me that I could be back in my tenement courtyard listening to the women gossip over the community soup. Same pot, different stirrers.



After two days, my embroidery begins to improve, and I learn enough Froggy to buy myself deluxe passage at the billetterie to Nice, France. I’ve never heard of Nice, but it’s obviously not where Elodie’s from.

At least she’s consistent in her meanness. If I open the window, she will close it. She’ll pretend to hold the door for me, then let it go in my face. I’ve started keeping Jack’s penny in my pocket because I bet she’d pinch it just to be spiteful. She hates me good and through and lets me know at every opportunity.

Just another pan of sand on the way to the nugget, I hear Ba say. Keep shaking.

With the exception of Francesca and Mr. Waterstone—whose curiosity over my customs tests the limits of my imagination—everyone else keeps their distance. But I hardly have time for confidences, anyway.

Today’s classes were shortened for an early ‘fasting’ dinner of soup and crackers, followed by Good Friday Mass. I head straight to the library after chapel while the others rehearse for the Spring Concert. The splendor of so many gilded books stretching out like scales of a giant dragon thrills me. The cemetery’s collection was a fraction of this size, and they were all worn, their lettering rubbed thin.

Before I put the final touches on my marketing plan for this evening’s meeting, I sniff the papery smells the way Ah-Suk sorts through his jars of herbs, wishing that reading a book was as easy as one inhalation. It would take years to finish all the books here, and I don’t have years.