“What I don’t know,” Cheung said, “is where that idiot Tak-Wing has gone to live. Not that I care.”

“Don’t worry about him. He’s fine.” In the presence of Cheung’s resentment, Tak-Tam felt his own bubble up. “My brother is always fine.”

“How dare Old Mah humiliate me like this!” Cheung demanded. “Is it not enough for that bastard progeny of the invading English to have murdered my father with his filthy pills? A supposed cure for opium that is actually a distilled and concentrated version of it? Now he’s taken my oldest son and forced me to sell my house. And he’s had a party to celebrate at the very place where I work, behind my back! I should go to his princely palace up there in the Mid-Levels among those bastard usurper English and slit my throat on his green and pleasant lawn!” His eyebrows moved furiously up and down as he raged.

Cheung’s agitation would have been comical if it weren’t so sad. Tak-Tam felt guilty for his own part in the adventure. “Old Mah had nothing to do with it, Father. The young cricketers were so excited about King Edward and Mrs Simpson. Tak-Wing, Emily, and I all got caught up in their foolish fantasy.”

“What about that bastard Colville?”

“He’s going to Australia tomorrow.”

“Did he have any part in it?”

“Well …”

“I suppose you all had a great laugh at my expense.”

“I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t think.”

“What times these are,” said Old Cheung. “In my day, children never behaved so disrespectfully to their parents. They’d have been shamed for all eternity if they did.”

Yim-Fong came out with a pot of tea and some fruit. She had been listening as she mopped. “Well,” she said, “on the positive side, Ting-Yan is free.”

Tak-Tam sipped from the cup of tea she handed him. Ting-Yan. From his position standing beside his brother earlier that day, he had seen Ting-Yan at the back of the congregation. He had heard her croaking, otherworldly voice as though she were right beside him, and had been horrified by what she said.