He carefully lifts one leg, then the other. Locking them together, he takes small steps with his hands. But then he sways, and his legs fall apart. He manages to right them.

“When’s the last time you practiced?”

“It’s the ship,” he grunts. “It’s like walking on jelly.” Veering, he nearly kicks me in the chin.

“You’re like a hog on ice.”

He snuffles, then falls on his Queen Mum. “So maybe I haven’t practiced as faithfully as you. There wasn’t a point.”

“Family traditions don’t need a point. They’re traditions.”

“Wake-up drills aren’t traditions. They’re more like . . . chores.” He rolls out his tricky wrist. Sweat laces his forehead and parses his hair into wet tufts.

“All the more reason to do them. No wonder you’re a mess. Rusty as an old rake.”

How will he get up to speed by tomorrow? We can’t be out of balance. If he can’t ramp up, I’ll have to slow down, and then we’ll look like common street performers.

Hauling him up, I push him into a lunge. I won’t let this unseat us, not after coming this far. “Ready for the three count?”

“Aye.”

I grip his shoulders for support, then step onto his calf. “Yut-yee-som,” I count in Cantonese, then leap onto his shoulders, holding myself in a crouch. If I stood up all the way, my head would hit the ceiling. “Mind the drift, you goat!” The slightest wrong move can have great consequences for the person being carried.

“I am minding the drift. You’ve gained weight.”

“That’s rude. You’ve lost muscle.”

“Don’t insult the bloke holding your ankles. You and Bo aren’t up to anything, right, Sis?”

“Of course not.” My protest comes out too forcefully.

“Good.”

“And what would be so wrong about it if we were up to something?”

“There’s a reason you don’t put a puppy in a cockfight.”

“Who’s the puppy?”

“It’s not you.”

I pinch his shoulder with my toe.

He jerks, and we both sway. “All right, all right! Bo’s my best mate, but it wouldn’t be a good match, Val. He’s a fireman. He’ll never be able to provide for you.”

Just like Ba couldn’t provide for Mum. Charlotte wanders into my mind. “Can a fireman provide for someone who probably stuffs her mattress with money?”

He snorts softly. “I would never even consider it. Her father owns a bank.”

“There’s a shocker.” Despite my sarcasm, his words press two fingers into the soft clay of my heart. Who’s the girl for Jamie? He’ll never find her buried in the boiler rooms. There were few Chinese in England, and there may be fewer still in America.