Shao laughed, which made the little boy laugh too. The child jiggled up and down. “That means he wants me to go faster,” Shao said. “See you at the hospital.”

Meirong grinned at Lian, looking for a moment like her mischievous self again. Lian shook her head at the insinuation and stuck her tongue out. She had vowed to stay aloof but while she did her best to keep her distance, she couldn’t stop caring about her friend. She was responsible for Jenmei’s death. And, therefore, Meirong’s sorrow.

As for Shao, she wanted very much to know if he mourned Jenmei. What had Jenmei meant to him? Lian alternated between wanting to avoid his company and studying him surreptitiously for signs that might reveal his feelings.

From up the street, the little boy squealed with delight as Shao broke into a trot.

Chapter 18

The principal of Lu’an Middle School told Professor Kang about a nearby temple whose walls were decorated with a pair of calligraphy scrolls attributed to the Ming Dynasty artist Wen Zhengming. Whether or not the scrolls were really Wen Zhengming’s work, the professor enjoyed chasing down such literary relics, so he made an outing of it. The laborer Old Fan, who had somehow attached himself to Professor Kang, insisted on going along. It was his duty to protect the professor, the stocky servant said.

The scrolls turned out to be a disappointment, the calligraphy as mediocre as the lines of verse. But the walk had been pleasant, the temple no more than an hour down the road from Lu’an.

“Either they were forgeries,” Professor Kang said to Old Fan, “or Wen Zhengming was having a bad day.”

But Old Fan’s head was cocked, listening for the now-familiar sound rolling in from the eastern horizon. From the direction of Lu’an, air-raid sirens began their wail. Old Fan took the professor by the elbow, guided him quickly to the side of the road, then helped him down the embankment into the fields. A few scattered groups of people, farmers on their way back from the market in Lu’an, also slipped down the verge with practiced agility. The roar of airplane engines came closer and the two men settled into a ditch. The ground at the bottom of the trench was cold and hard, which Professor Kang deemed better than muddy and wet.

At first he thought they were the only ones in the ditch. Then he saw a small, motionless figure some twenty feet away. It looked like a child, a girl. The professor frowned. He began crawling along the trench but Old Fan tugged at his ankle.

“Please, Professor,” he said. “Keep still until the planes have gone away.”