“She’s left me,” his brother said. Grief and bewilderment seeped into his features. “By now she’ll be gone from our house in Wen-chou.” His voice choked slightly. Shao had never seen his brother show so much emotion. He’d always been the most reserved of the three. The most self-sufficient.

“How did Mrs. Deng seem to you?” he said.

“Very pleasant, very calm,” Shao said, “although I did wonder why she wasn’t in Shanghai with you, since you’ve been here such a long time.”

“I met her only a short while ago, you know.” His brother blinked and looked at the paper in his hand, smoothed it out carefully. “At some restaurant. It’s so hard to remember now. I thought she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. She never asked me for anything. But she liked it when I did anything nice for her. Clothes, jewelry, the flat.”

He’d been so happy when she agreed to live in Wen-chou with him. There, he could pretend they were married. It was like living in a dream.

“And now she’s gone,” he said, looking down at the paper in his hand. “Back to her family, she says. But I know nothing about her family or where she’s from. I never thought to ask. Why didn’t I ask?”

Tienming pulled out his wallet and looked at a small photograph before handing it to Shao. The face that looked out from the photograph was pretty, but not exceptionally so. It was a poor likeness of Mrs. Deng. It barely hinted at her heart-stopping beauty.

An image flashed through Shao’s memory. Mrs. Deng and Sparrow sitting together, bright as moonlight, their faces so similar, so lovely. A fever dream. He dismissed it from his thoughts.

“In fact,” Tienming said, “I didn’t really know her at all, did I?”

But at that moment the nurse rapped on the open door and beckoned to Shao. His mother was asking for him.

HIS MOTHER HAD made an effort to dress up for him. Her nightdress was different, one with ruffles around the neckline that hid the gauntness of her throat. Her skin was dry and papery, but her face lit up when she saw her son. This time, when Shao took her hand, she squeezed back.

“You look thin,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I will tell Old Zhao to make that pork belly dish you like so much.”

“How do you feel today?” he said. Her hand was as light as a sheet of paper, her hair brittle, no longer lustrous.

“I’m happy you’re home,” she said, “but that’s not what you meant, is it?” She struggled to sit up. “It’s frustrating, Third Son. No one believes me when I say something’s wrong. But never mind that. I got your first letter from Changsha but nothing since. Tell me everything.”