“There’s green tea and a sweet cake in the kitchen,” he said. In the morning light she noticed the first crinkling of crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes, like hesitant sketch marks before the tackling of a painting. She averted her gaze. This was not to be.

Harry Wu’s melodious chirping filled the air. Whistling in response, Nola went about washing up, sipping tea and biting into the sticky cake, which tasted like unflavored, uncooked dough. She set a pot of water on the burner to boil Lulu's empty bottles. Following her request last night, Daniel had bought fresh milk, powdered rice and a soft banana. Only in the States, Ming-Ji had told Nola, could she get formula, disposable bottles and ready-to-eat baby meals. For now, Nola found an unexpected pleasure in preparing Lulu's food herself.

Back in the bedroom, she dressed in her jeans and sweater and peeked out the window. This was her neighborhood for as long as she was in hiding. Boxes, ladders, washing basins and furniture were stacked high on the balconies across the street. Laundry lines filled every free space. After the night’s rain, puddles of reddish clay, like Darjeeling tea, blocked most of the narrow street. A teenage girl supported an old woman wobbling on tiny, four-inch feet.

Lulu was still sleeping. Nola walked to the living room, feeling a lift of spirits from exercising her power. Daniel was sitting on the couch, his eyes on a Chinese newspaper.

“’Morning again,” she said.

He folded the paper, not bothering with the crease lines. She had expected him to be meticulous about everything, and liked this casualness about him.

“Wade called me this morning,” he said.

She suppressed a flare of anger at the mention of his name. If a loving husband believed his wife had a lover, shouldn’t he be jealous? “Your wearing the go-between sandals is not a good idea,” she told Daniel. “Take them off. I don’t want Wade speaking to you when he can’t speak to me.”

“Okay.”

“Tell me what’s happening otherwise,” she said. “Are they all frantic?”

“Your inside circle is withholding confirmation of your absence, but the media is on to it.” He laughed softly. “Wade is upset that you might not show up for the concert—as are other people on the Chinese side.”

“Such as?”

“The Minister of Culture, for one. He’ll be held responsible.”

A slight pang of guilt dissipated as quickly as it came. There was nothing she could do about the Chinese’s convoluted ways. “Are you sure you weren’t followed?”

He nodded. “We’re fine for now.”

We. He approved of her decision. In a way, she wished he didn’t, so he could point out the foolishness of her decision and she could argue and defend it. “I need to call Barbara Walters or Larry King,” she said, “Can you get me their phone numbers?”