“We came to drop off your mother’s belongings,” Sparrow said. She held a small wicker suitcase. “I went to the Southern Baptist Mission refugee camp. The ladies said to tell your mother they’re praying for a quick recovery.”

“We’ll go now,” Shao said. “We won’t bother you.”

“No, no,” Lian said quickly. “Let’s have some tea. Tell me about your mother, Shao.”

“I’ll make the tea,” Sparrow said. “And Old Zhao sent some pastries.”

Shao opened the French doors, letting in light and noise. He was casually and beautifully dressed, a cardigan of fine wool that matched the blue pinstripe of his Oxford shirt. He’d had a haircut and there was no longer any evidence of the windburn that had roughened his face. Lian resisted the impulse to touch his cheek.

“How is your mother—” she began.

But he interrupted her, speaking quickly, almost as if reciting. His father had sent for Dr. Mao, who diagnosed his mother’s various ailments as symptoms of cancer. The doctor had given them the news with kindness and tact. Then his father had called their longtime physician, Dr. Wu, to the house and asked whether his wife’s symptoms could be those of cancer. After another examination Dr. Wu admitted the possibility, then tried to blame his negligence on Mrs. Liu’s long history of nervous complaints.

Dr. Mao was now their family doctor, but Shao still held his father responsible for taking so long to consult a different doctor.

“He’s always been dismissive of my mother’s health,” Shao said. He leaned against the wrought-iron railing and lit a cigarette. Lian didn’t remember him smoking before. “My father thought she was going through one of her moods and said as much to Dr. Wu, who was happy to do as little as possible. So neither of them took her seriously.”

Lian almost reached over to take his hand. She wanted to take his hand but knew she should keep her distance. She gripped the balcony railing instead. “So what does Dr. Mao prescribe?” she said.

“According to him, it’s too late,” Shao said. He savagely stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and threw it over the balcony. “He says it would’ve been too late even six months ago. My mother won’t see the end of summer. His work now is to keep her comfortable.”

“I’m so sorry,” Lian said. She’d spent months worrying about her own mother but even in her most overwrought moments there had only been uncertainty, and therefore, hope. Shao had none.

“It’s all right in a way,” Shao said, “at least according to Mother. She says it’s a relief not having to wonder anymore if she’s been going mad with imagined ailments.”

Sparrow brought out a tray with tea and pastries and set it down.