His dimple seems to grow brighter at my surprise. I’ve only known Wink a few days. Perhaps I’m the first female influence on his young life, and never having had a mum, he somehow took to me. Something stirs deep within me. The bones of my spine align, and my feet take a more solid stance. As if I don’t have enough compelling me to go to America already, two new reasons hitch themselves to my kite like tails.

The dimple dims. “But do not ask them unless you are sure you want the responsibility.”

I nod. I have lived by the bright candle of hope. I know how it felt to have it snuffed out when Ba’s winning streak turned sour. Caring for two charges is no small task. Stealing taffies and slippers is one thing, but in lean times, will I be able to find food for their bellies and a warm place to sleep? What happens when they begin to question me? They might resent me for being stern with them. After all, Jamie thought I was overbearing. Was that, at least in part, the reason he left?

The Titanic rocks as if exhaling a great sigh, and the shushing from the ocean is a strange kind of music.

“Would you ever go to America?” My boldness paints flames on my cheeks.

He holds himself still, and I wish I could suck back the words. Then his dark eyes laugh. “You want to adopt me, too?”

“No,” I snap.

He stretches his back, his amused expression dipped in regret. “Even if I wanted to, I cannot go to America. I owe it to An.”

“What do you mean?”

“Fong celebrates his sixtieth birthday next year.” Mentioning the name of his enemy tightens his mouth. The Chinese believe sixty years marks the first full cycle of life. “I want to be there to remind him he has blood on his hands. Bad luck will follow him even into the next cycle.”

Ba never made it to his sixtieth birthday. And neither did Mum. “If your brother cared for you as much as you did him, I’d wager he’d not want you to waste your time as a bad omen. Fong may not be a basket of water lilies, but he’s not the one who killed your brother.” It occurs to me that Jamie does the same thing, carrying around his anger toward Ba, even though Ba didn’t kill our mum. They’re both looking behind, when what’s important is ahead.

Bo’s scowl returns, and it’s like watching a peony bud die on the vine. A coolness settles over my skin, and all my exhilaration seeps away, leaving only disappointment.

The knock on my door comes just as I’m pulling Mrs. Sloane’s warmest socks over my feet.

“It’s April.”