Outrun the Moon(6)

After another moment’s hesitation, she scoops it up to deposit into her brass register. I gloat. We are not so different after all, you stale old pastry. You might have more lace around your collar, but deep in our basements, we both speak the language of cold hard cash.

Holding an abalone spoon high, as if afraid Jack will contaminate it, Madame Du Lac deposits two minuscule nuts onto his palm. The nuggets nearly drop, but he snatches his fist closed. He offers one to me, but I shake my head, forcing a smile. I want to take those peanuts and stick them up her nose.

For a moment, the only sound is the crunching in Jack’s mouth.

I clear my throat, trying to remember the words I prepared and the reason I stuffed my feet into these blasted cages of torture. “Madame, my name is Mercy Wong. I wondered if I might speak to your husband about a matter of personal importance.”

Her eyes ice over. “What matter could someone like you have with my husband?”

“St. Clare’s School for Girls. I am most interested in becoming a student, and as your husband is president of the board”—which I learned after requesting a brochure under a false name—“I was hoping to—”

“You?” She looks me up and down.

I wonder which part she objects to most: the slant of my eyes, the look of the only dress I own, or the cast of my “bilious” skin, as some have called it.

“St. Clare’s does not take riffraff. They have standards.” Her eyes flick to my calloused hands resting on the counter, and I snatch them away. The shopgirl, Elodie, returns to her chair but keeps an eye on me.

I remind myself to be unsinkable. “I can do the work. I graduated from the Oriental Public School with the highest marks.”

“Impossible,” Madame Du Lac pronounces in French. “It is time for you to leave.”

Jack looks to me for guidance.

I strain to keep my emotions in check and produce the small bundle from my pocket. “It’s a pity”—I untie the handkerchief, letting the corners drop open just enough to give her a peek at the chuen pooi bulb inside—“after bringing this all the way here.”

The woman’s crinkled lids peel back, and she draws in a breath. “Is that—?”

“Yes, it is. A nice chunk like this is hard to come by.” I owe Tom at least a year’s worth of haircuts for this.

Her carriage loosens like parchment unrolling. She glances uneasily toward the shopgirl, who has given up the pretense of writing. “Elodie, leave us, s’il te pla?t.”

Elodie peaks an eyebrow, then sets down her quill and exits through a back door.

Despite the gray streaking her mostly blond hair and the wrinkles around her mouth, Madame is still a daisy, with delicate cheekbones and the kind of slender neck that was made for a pearl choker. Most women who seek chuen pooi already possess more than their share of beauty, a gift that becomes a crutch to them in later years.

Used primarily for coughs, chuen pooi is also known to fade freckles and lighten the complexion. Madame Du Lac twice asked Tom’s father to sell her some, but he refused. It is against his principles to sell the expensive herb for vanity’s sake. According to Tom, Madame even faked a cough.

“How do I know that’s the real thing?” she says regally, her aquiline nose flaring.

“You don’t. Let’s go, Jack.” I pocket the chuen pooi and pull him to the door. It is an act, but one I take great pleasure in delivering. We have suffered too much insult not to milk this moment for all the cream.

Before I touch the door handle, Madame says, “Arrêtez.”

I exhale a pretend sigh and crook my ear in her direction without turning around.

“Perhaps there is room for a discussion.”

Not good enough by a mile. I clasp the brass knob. Her shoes clack toward us.

She favors one side when she walks, the way people do when they are nursing an injury. “Surely you can’t expect my husband to admit you just like that.”

“No. All I ask is for a meeting to introduce myself.”

As I peer down at her, she crosses her arms and bristles. “He will be at the school Monday at noon. I shall tell him to expect you.”

I begin to leave, but she clears her throat loudly. “The herb, please. You will understand if I do not trust you.”

Smiling, I pluck the bulb from my handkerchief and drop it into her waiting hand.

She colors when she sees the full glory of its suggestive shape. “But how do I make a preparation?”

“I will give instructions to your husband on Monday. You will understand if I do not trust you.”

Creases form around her mouth. She casts a dark look at Jack, as if he must be to blame. For that, I needle her further. “And my brother really wanted this one.” I cross to the plate with the domino bonbon and lift off the glass lid. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Madame Du Lac’s bony chest pigeons, probably filling her lungs for a good spouting off. But then she nods, lips pursed tight.

I’m about to pick out the nicest one with my bare fingers when Jack says, “N-n-no, thank you.” He tugs at his collar. “They’re not as good as Li’l Betties.”

Madame turns as red as a strawberry. I do not laugh, though the effort gives me a stitch in the side. Replacing the lid, I chirp, “Good day, Madame.”