“We have nothing to lose,” I said and set off after the dog. It was soaking wet, and rainwater poured off its back to its swinging belly and down to the ground, but still it wagged its tail and panted. We followed it down a narrow lane.

“This is stupid,” said Father.

“Let’s go back, Missy. We’ll try tomorrow when the rain has stopped.”

“Do you care about Emily or not?” I demanded. The dog turned a corner ahead of us. I ran after it. I could hear Amah behind me. Father’s feet hesitated, but then he scuffled reluctantly after us, grumbling under his breath.

Ahead of us, I could see light coming through the crack below a door.

“That must be it.” There was no sign of the yellow dog, but we had already forgotten about her.

Cheung answered the door. His mother stood beside him, an ancient lady in an old-style Hakka hat, the kind with the wide brim and black fringe. She wore the traditional blue suit too, with old-style knot buttons high on the shoulders. In her left hand she held a long pipe from which she puffed sweet-smelling tobacco smoke. Mingled with the scent came a floral whiff of our own Dream Horse anti-opium pills, which are popular among the Hakka. I had never met Grandmother Cheung Wan-See before, though Father had during the court case that Cheung and the cricket club toffs had launched against him a decade ago landing him in Victoria Gaol. He nodded a grudging hello.

Inside, Cheung’s wife, Yim-Fong, and his sister, Hok-Yee, were preparing tea and laying out snacks.

“We meet again under fresh circumstances, Mr Mah,” Cheung said. “Please come in.”

Father entered.

“Here’s Miss Violet and her amah, Granny Yip,” said his wife. “Since we are family now, you can call me Auntie Yim-Fong.”

“Auntie Yim-Fong, Uncle Cheung,” I said, politely.

Amah followed me. She was the same generation as Cheung and Yim-Fong, though slightly older. But to be polite, she addressed them as Older Brother and Older Sister.

“Are they here?” asked Father.

“Evidently not,” said Cheung, “as you can see.”

My father did his best not to shoot him the evil eye.

“I’m disappointed too,” said Cheung. “I really thought they would be here.”

Father’s gloves came off then. “What more do you want from me, Old Cheung? You got my money, you got my beautiful daughter, you got the modern wedding you wanted, what more do you think this old horse has to give?”

“I didn’t arrange that wedding,” Cheung said. “You did.”

“I certainly did not,” said Father, in English.

“Are you trying to kill me?” Cheung continued. “You took my eldest son and forced me to sell my house. And you staged that dreadful wedding at my place of work.”

Outside, the rain descended in sheets.

“I’d never do such a thing,” said Mah. “I have much better taste than that.”