“Good night,” Rachel and Nick said in unison, as they watched Gaoliang disappear into the house.

• • •

Rachel found herself woken up by a shrill chirping outside the window. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting gauzy shadows onto the soft lilac blue walls. Rolling out of the four-poster bed, she walked toward the window and discovered a bird’s nest tucked in the eave of the gabled roof. Three hungry little chicks arched their tiny beaks skyward, eager to be fed breakfast by their mother, who fluttered around the nest protectively. She ran to get her iPhone, and leaning daringly out the dormer window, she tried to capture a good shot of the mama bird, which had a distinctive black head, gray body, and a smart dash of blue along her wings. Rachel took a few snaps, and as she put her camera phone down, she was startled by the sight of a lady in a pale yellow mandarin-collared dress standing in the middle of the garden staring up intently at her. It had to be Carlton’s mother.

Caught off guard, Rachel blurted out, “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” the lady replied a little tersely. Then she said in a more relaxed tone, “You found the magpies.”

“Yes. I took some pictures,” Rachel said, immediately feeling a little foolish for stating the obvious.

“Coffee?” the woman said.

“Thank you. I’ll be right down,” Rachel replied. She tiptoed around the room for a few minutes, trying not to disturb Nick as she brushed her teeth, pulled her hair into a ponytail, and fretted about what she should wear. Oh, this was ridiculous—the lady had already seen her in her oversize Knicks jersey and Nick’s old boxers. A thought occurred to her: Was that lady even Carlton’s mother? She threw on a simple embroidered white cotton summer dress and walked gingerly down the graceful curving staircase. Why was she suddenly so nervous? She knew that the Baos had talked till the early hours—there were muffled voices echoing every now and then down the hallway from their guest room.

Where was she supposed to meet the lady? As she peeked around the stately reception rooms on the ground floor, which were filled with an elegant mix of French and Chinese antiques, she wondered what Carlton’s mother was going to say to her now, after all that had happened. Carlton’s words in Paris suddenly echoed in her mind: My mother would rather die than let you set foot in her house!

A maid passing along a corridor with a silver coffee carafe stopped when she saw Rachel poking around. “This way, ma’am,” she said, leading her through a set of French doors onto a wide flagstone terrace, where the lady from the garden sat at a dark rosewood bistro table. Rachel walked toward her slowly, her throat suddenly going dry.

The lady watched the girl come out onto the terrace. So this is my husband’s daughter. The girl who almost died because of Carlton. And as the girl came into focus, a revelation: My God, she looks just like him. She’s his sister. And just like that, all the fears she had bottled up so deeply, all the thoughts that had been tearing her up inside instantly became meaningless.