“How dare that bastard Cheung arrange a colonial-style wedding for those two spoiled brats behind my back? Colluding with those toffy sahibs at the Hong Kong Cricket Club. Does he think he’s better than me because of his connection to those jerks? He’s connected to them only because he’s their servant, for the love of God. A highly placed servant, but a servant nonetheless.”

“Steward is a good job,” I said. “Old Cheung worked his way up from nothing. We’re not all fortunate enough to have been given a head start by a wealthy father.”

Old Mah sucked his teeth. “You and Emily are the descendants of a respectable old Hong Kong family. Unlike Old Cheung and his dirty son, you are not riff-raff from the countryside.” The papers on his desk rustled louder, as if in agreement.

“Arguably, Old Cheung and his sons are also descendants of an important Hong Kong family. Wong Nai Chung Village was here on the island before the British came. Before Hong Kong was even Hong Kong.”

“Don’t be insolent, Violet. You have colluded with your sister against me.”

“Father,” I said, “I may be insolent, but you’re an old grump. Didn’t you and Mother raise us to be modern Chinese women? We must make our own choices and speak our own minds. That’s what you said yourself. Don’t be a hypocrite.”

He didn’t respond because he knew it was true. He was silent for a long time, his brow deeply furrowed. The papers on his desk rattled in the furious breeze. I thought he wanted me to leave, and so I got up to go.

“Violet.”

“Yes, Ba?” The familiar Chinese word for “father” slipped from my mouth before I could think.

He cleared his throat. “Tell Emily I want to—”

It came out all squeaky, and I wasn’t sure what he said. “Tell Emily?”

“Tell her … Tell Emily …”

“Yes?”

He turned off the fan, and at last those clattering papers quietened down. “I want to have … a Chinese wedding for her. A traditional Chinese wedding.”

“But you’re against this marriage.”

With the fan off, he instantly began to sweat. “Stop arguing with me! If I’m not to be a hypocrite as you say, then I must accept Emily’s choice. But I won’t have those bloody British pushing their traditions on her.”

“What about being modern?”

“I am modern, Violet. But nonetheless, some Chinese traditions must be observed.” Water beaded on his forehead.

I could read between the lines. For him, it was a dig at Old Cheung. My father—great-grandson of the old opium taipan Henry Witt-Weatherall—was determined to have the last word.

“Old Cheung had nothing to do with it, you know.”

“Pish. Of course he did.”

“Father, don’t be ridiculous. It was all the young cricketers’ doing.”