Once the meal was over, most of the men disappeared, except for the younger of the two brothers, who began clearing the dishes. Gean Choo stood. “Uncle, should I help clean up?”

“No,” Po Lam said before he could answer. She took out a pocket watch, flipped open its lid, and examined it. “The mem should be up soon.”

Gean Choo couldn’t imagine lying abed until this late in the day. She glanced out the window. It was growing darker outside, probably close to seven by now.

A series of bells were mounted on the board above the stove in the kitchen, labelled with various rooms—bed, study, drawing, sitting. Wires connecting the bells ran alongside the boundary of the ceiling, leading towards the covered walkway. As they were talking, one of the bells rang. Seok Eng glanced at the board. “The bedroom. She must be awake already.”

“Good. Gean Choo, bring the mem’s dinner with you,” Po Lam said.

Seok Eng handed her a tray with a single plate on it—noodle soup swimming in a clear broth, along with delicate slices of fatty pork offset by blanched greens and a sprinkle of aromatic coriander. Squares of opaque mauve jelly were stacked to one side, half-submerged in the broth.

“What’s this part?” Gean Choo asked, tilting her head towards the jellied stuff.

“Blood tofu. It’s very nutritious,” Seok Eng said.

“Come along.” Po Lam was already standing by the door.

Gean Choo followed her out, setting the tray down for a moment to put her shoes on. Po Lam kept a quick pace, forcing Gean Choo to hurry, eyes downcast as she focussed on keeping the tray steady to stop the soup from sloshing over the sides of the bowl. There were electric lights all along the walkway, insects swarming around them.

“It’s good she rang,” Po Lam said. “Some days she doesn’t get up until late. Never try to wake her if she’s still abed. Do you understand?”

“I understand. Are there children?”

“No.”

“Oh.” How sad to be left here all alone. Mrs. Edevane probably didn’t even have any other family close by for comfort.

“The shutters on the first floor must always be opened after sunset and closed before sunrise. The mem has priceless antiques, sensitive to sunlight.”

“It’s bad for mould,” Gean Choo said. And it would make the room excessively hot. Wasn’t the mem already sick?

“It’s not for discussion. And never touch the shutters in the mem’s bedroom. If she wants them open, she’ll do it herself.”

“I see.”

“You’ll have one day’s leave per month. We’ll go over the calendar tomorrow. No guests on the property—men or women.”

As if beaus would be chasing her out along the east coast. “That won’t be a problem.”

“Good.”