“You’re in Professor Song’s class, aren’t you?” he said. “Which book of Legends do you carry?”

“Tales of Celestial Deities,” she said. “But I haven’t selected a story yet for the term paper.”

“Ah. That volume contains one of my favorite stories,” he said. “‘The Willow Star and the Prince.’ Please stay here, Miss Hu. I’m finished.” He gestured at the lines of poetry, elegantly written even though in chalk.

The professor closed the door softly behind him and Lian slumped with the relief of being alone. She sat on the ground. All she wanted now was to escape from Minghua 123, vanish into the mass of nameless and homeless. She wanted to find her mother, for the two of them to run away. They would become invisible as foxes in hiding. She had to warn her mother. If only she knew whether her mother had reached Shanghai.

Chapter 11

After her father died, Lian’s mother got rid of their servants. The cook, the housekeeper, even her amah. Her mother told Lian she didn’t need to go to school for the rest of the month.

“We’re in mourning,” she said. “Your teachers will understand.”

There had been visitors, but none stayed long. One of them, the elderly man in the blue scholar’s gown, had handed her mother a large brown envelope. Afterward, her mother seemed excited, almost exuberant. She went out on errands several times that week, leaving Lian alone in the house with strict instructions not to answer the door.

And then the announcement. “Little One, we’re going to stay with friends of the family in Hangchow. We leave in a few days.”

The day before they were supposed to leave, her mother took her visiting, farewell courtesies. She had never been to their homes before but Lian vaguely remembered some of the women, guests at her parents’ parties.

“We’re taking a long holiday,” her mother said to each lady. “To Hangchow, where we have family friends.”

Lian had never heard her mother mention anything about Hangchow before. But she said nothing, just ate the sweet biscuits they put in front of her and sat politely until each visit was over. There was something forced about it all, a brittleness to her mother’s conversation, an avid gleam in the eyes of their hostesses.

Except at the last house, where the woman greeted her mother with genuine warmth. A woman taller than most, her complexion and features Eurasian. Many of Lian’s classmates were Eurasian. This was not unusual in Harbin, a city with a large European population, mostly Russians who’d come to build the railways and then stayed. A servant took Lian to the kitchen, where a tabby cat and her kittens dozed contentedly in a box beside the stove. When the servant came to get her again, Lian stood up reluctantly, wishing she had cats of her own.