Songs Of Willow Frost: A Novel Part 10

Colin found his smile, then looked at his menu. "Well, what's for dinner?"

BEING CHINESE, LIU Song thought she had eaten her share of exotic food-compared to the Western palate, at least. She'd grown up on black pickled eggs, on spicy marinated chicken feet, salty dried cuttlefish, and an a.s.sortment of dried fungus. But what the waiters at the Stacy Mansion offered on domed silver platters was a continual surprise-one gastronomical dare after another. They dined on green turtle steaks, eel, frog legs, and Liu Song even tried the escargot, which tasted rich, b.u.t.tery, and delicious until Colin told her what it actually was. She was certain that she must have turned as green as the dish, which was covered in garlic and fresh parsley. She held her napkin to her mouth, trying not to think of the fat banana slugs that left sticky trails of mucus along the alley near her apartment. She felt so ill she hardly touched the thick slice of ginger cream pie that was served for dessert.

Though it was probably just nerves, the thought of performing in such a formal, decadent place, for such seemingly important people, made her palms sweat. She tried not to think of her barren alleyway apartment, where she'd sleep that night beneath a secondhand blanket she'd purchased from a thrift store. A sad, worried, neglected part of her heart feared that this was all just some cruel parlor game-bring in the poor Chinese girl, expose her to such finery, and then laugh over snifters of brandy and gla.s.ses of tawny port as she wilted in the spotlight.

"You'll be fine," Colin said. He must have seen her chewing her lip. "You are your mother's daughter. It's your job to set the room on fire."

She felt invigorated at the mention of her mother. She envisioned herself in her mother's gown, with the Widow's mask. Then she felt b.u.t.terflies in her stomach as she heard a parlor bell ringing down the hall and the m.u.f.fled sounds of conversation began to settle down. She heard Mr. Stacy speaking to his guests, who were clapping and laughing with excitement.

The waiter returned with a gla.s.s of sparkling mineral water. "It's that time," he said.

Liu Song rose to her feet, ran her tongue across the front of her teeth, checked her appearance with Colin, who nodded graciously. She sipped the water and was led down a hallway to the back of the mansion, where the servants' stairs were located. She went up one flight, pa.s.sed the colored help, who smoked hand-rolled cigarettes and stared at her. Then she came around to make a solo entrance, descending the mansion's ornate formal staircase. There must have been fifty pairs of eyes staring up at her-members, guests, escorts, and a.s.sorted relations, all of them sparkling in their formal attire, beaming with the oblivious confidence that comes only from old, gilded wealth. She saw Colin in the back of the room, smiling and waving encouragingly.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Mr. Stacy announced, "all the way from the mystical, magical Orient, Miss Liu Song Eng."

She curtsied and waved, though she was quietly blanching at not only her uncle's surname but also her mistaken homeland. She'd never taken the steams.h.i.+p journey to the Orient, or even been out of the country. She'd barely traveled the West Coast. She noticed Colin, who shrugged and raised his eyebrows as she remembered her father talking of the illusory presence of the stage. Where the unreal becomes real. She smiled, even as the women in the crowd whispered to one another and pointed in her direction.

She drew a deep breath while the audience quieted. Mr. Stacy winked at her, cigar in hand, then walked past an old pump organ and unveiled the grand pianola to the delight of the audience. Liu Song could smell fresh wood soap and see her reflection along the top of the keyless reproducing piano. And Mr. Stacy didn't even need someone to work the pedals. He merely pushed a b.u.t.ton and the bellows inflated, moving the cylinder inside as the pianola began playing "A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody." Liu Song started singing softly but quickly elevated to the top of her range, growing more confident with each chorus. She followed that with "A Good Man Is Hard to Find," staring at Colin as she crooned, "My heart is sad and I'm all alone ..."

The crowd marveled at her voice and her young age. They begged for one more song, and after a cylinder change, she favored them with a sad, soulful rendition of "Till We Meet Again." She wailed the high notes of each bar as though squeezing every remaining drop of sorrow out of her ruined heart-from the loss of her father through the loss of her mother, and even her innocence. She stared longingly at Colin, so close but so impossibly far away. He was within her reach but seemed forever beyond her grasp.

Afterward she collected praise and compliments, which she modestly received, doubting the authenticity of such kind words-too much wine, she thought. They probably had a hogshead hidden somewhere about. Then she remembered Prohibition and found some small validation. Even Mr. Stacy's wife made a point to shake her hand and invited her back to perform anytime-a rhetorical gesture; she didn't really mean it. Then again, she didn't not mean it either. The whole thing left Liu Song happy but confused, accepted but still so alone-the much-adored center of attention while onstage, but a soloist in life.

She rested her voice as she and Colin rode back to King Street Station beneath a cloudy, starless sky. She was unsure of what to make of the whole evening. Did he really want to be with her? Or was this a debt to her father, some strange, forced social obligation? She wanted to ask but was afraid of the answer.

He shared his umbrella as he walked her back to her apartment, past the old Hip Sing Tong building and the new Eastern Hotel. He stopped where the alley met the street. She heard a tomcat wailing in the distance, and a s.h.i.+p's foghorn echoed from somewhere out on the murky blue-green waters of Puget Sound. He lowered the umbrella so they could see each other beneath the flickering streetlights. The rain had let up, dampening their cheeks, their hair, and their eyelashes with a fine mist.

"You are a natural," he said. "I have to study. I have to work at it, but you-it's who you really are. You're like a sunflower. You come alive when you step into that spotlight." He looked at her as though waiting for a reaction. "Did you see the looks on their faces? I think they saw you as a novelty at first-an amuse-bouche, but by the end of the night, every man wanted you-and every woman wanted to be you."

She looked up into the drizzly night sky, embarra.s.sed that she didn't understand his French but equally charmed by his words. "I didn't really notice all that."

He shook water from his umbrella. "Well, I noticed. Believe me ..."

She watched as he loosened his tie and stepped aside while a black couple walked by followed by a group of drunken old Chinese men heading back from some gambling den.

"Now I'm frightfully embarra.s.sed to ask you this, especially after the way you wowed everyone tonight." He tipped his hat back with the point of his b.u.mbershoot. "Well, I'm a member of Seattle's Chinese Opera Company, and I love the work there, but I've been trying to find bigger roles, in front of a wider audience. And as luck would have it, I landed a part in a musical at the Empress Theatre. It would mean the world to me if you came and returned the favor-watched me for good luck." He looked at her sheepishly and then handed her a card with his phone number and address. "Maybe you can give me a few pointers afterward."

"I can do that," she teased. "I can watch."

"Liu Song." As he spoke his breath turned to vapor. "I know we didn't meet under the most auspicious of circ.u.mstances. And ... I don't want to overstep my boundaries in any way. It's ... just that ..."

That you want to kiss me? She tried to project her thoughts directly into the center of his brain-or his heart, whichever got the message first. Her face felt flushed, and her stomach tightened. It was more than just the cool air that made her hands cold and clammy. She looked up at him hoping, expectant. She felt his hand gently on her arm as he removed his hat with the other hand, leaning in. She could smell his nervousness and feel the welcoming warmth of his skin. Her ears were ringing.

Then he stopped. "Are you all right?"

She felt faint and stepped back. She muttered an apology as she turned, embarra.s.sed. She walked down the alley toward her apartment in such a hurry she nearly broke a heel. She didn't look back as she unlocked the door and slammed it shut behind her, kicking off her shoes. She didn't bother to turn on the lights. She removed her coat and dropped it on the floor en route to the kitchen, where she froze, her muscles tightening violently as she vomited into the sink-the eel, the turtle, the one bite of ginger cream pie. She smelled it all come back up, and she retched again until she was left gagging up nothing but water and stomach acid. She opened the faucet and then melted onto the floor, resting her forehead on the cool piping beneath the sink. She sat in the dark, wiping her chin, staring at the thinly curtained windows, wondering what Colin must be thinking, wondering what in the world had just happened.

A Chinese Honeymoon.

(1921).

"Pregnant?" Mr. b.u.t.terfield asked. "Are you sure?"

Liu Song had been sick for weeks. At first she thought it had been the food or that the sour stomach she suffered through every morning and into the afternoon was because of her infatuation with Colin. She'd kissed his card and slept with it beneath her pillow every night, hoping it would sweeten her dreams. But as the days pa.s.sed into weeks, she realized her sickness was much more than that. She felt different, dizzy and fatigued. She was sore in places. And her bleeding had stopped. If her mother were alive, she might have burned a strip of urine-soaked paper, sniffing the fumes for the strange telltale signs of a baby. Liu Song didn't bother. She knew.

She didn't know why she decided to tell Mr. b.u.t.terfield, of all people. Maybe it was due to the queasiness she felt while riding on the streetcar to his store every morning. Or perhaps it was because he was the only person who saw her on a daily basis. She knew that at some point she wouldn't be able to fit into her mother's dress-she couldn't hide the truth forever. In the end she realized she just needed to break the news, confess, to tell someone-he happened to be there when the dam burst.

Mr. b.u.t.terfield sat down on a stool, rubbed his balding pate, and took out a flask of sweet-smelling brandy. He poured the brown liquor into a small cup, and for a moment Liu Song thought he might offer a toast. Then he found his three-finger cigar case, slipped out a Corona, and dipped it into the cup. He cut the tip off, sniffed the wet, rolled tobacco, and then discarded the stub in the trash. "Honestly, I expected better things from you. You didn't strike me as that kind of girl-why would you do an impetuous, careless thing like that? You had such a promising future." He sounded stunned but also saddened. He groaned but more in disappointment than in anger.

The word had stung her, reminding her of so many other things in life she had to do-she had to feel regret and embarra.s.sment, she had to pretend she was strong, she had to accept the loss of her parents, her brothers, she had to keep breathing, had to come up for air-because she had her uncle's baby inside her.

You've had me standing in the rain, working for nickels, Liu Song thought. She grew defensive but knew any frustration toward Mr. b.u.t.terfield was misplaced. She was his employee, a partner even, if only in a token way. But now she felt small, as though she were shrinking, withering in front of him. She felt used up. She felt like nothing.

"I'm sorry ..." She wanted to tell him about Uncle Leo but didn't know how. She sank deeper into the pit of shame she had fallen into. "It was only a few times."

Mr. b.u.t.terfield grumbled and rolled his eyes. "That's what girls always say." He shook his head and lit his cigar. "And who is this beau of yours? Is he going to do right by you or what? Or is he the kind of lout that skips town as soon as he finds out? You're how old-sixteen? Seventeen? Half the girls in the city are married off at fifteen, dear; there's no shame in the two of you taking care of this down at the courthouse ..."

"I can't," Liu Song said as she stared at her feet.

"And why is that, pray tell?"

She looked up at Mr. b.u.t.terfield's curious, gossipy stare and then looked away. She found the clock on the wall and watched each second slowly tick away. Her face felt hot and her lip trembled. She wanted to cry, but as always, the tears didn't come.

"He's already married," she whispered. Leo's shame was now her shame.

Liu Song watched as her boss stubbed out his cigar, wide-eyed, and shook his head. He leaned forward and said, "I'm just flabbergasted. I did not see that coming. Liu Song, sweetheart, you never cease to shock and amaze ..."

"I'm so, so sorry ..."

"Young lady, for a lifelong bachelor I consider myself an expert on judging women-believe me, but ... I didn't think you had this kind of moxie in you." He picked flecks of tobacco off the tip of his tongue and then spat into the nearest waste bin. "I just can't believe it. If I were anyone else I'd have to fire you right now, you know that? That's what a practical businessman would-and should-do in a situation like this. That's all I need is for the gossips to descend on my store like flies on a dung heap."

Liu Song shook her head. "No one knows, not even him."

She watched as Mr. b.u.t.terfield swallowed his brandy in one gulp. He sat back, his cheeks slowly turning pink. He looked as though he were aging before her eyes.

"No sense in telling him now, I suppose. Sadly, you'll only ruin his reputation along with your own." Mr. b.u.t.terfield hesitated and then asked, "Are you going to carry this child? There are things that can be done in private to remedy this kind of situation."

Liu Song had considered those options-she'd agonized over them for weeks. She remembered old wives' tales of pregnant women eating small quant.i.ties of poison or using knitting needles to keep the seed from taking root. And the only family she had was no family at all-though she worried that if Uncle Leo and Auntie Eng found out, they would want the baby. They just wouldn't want the mother who came along with a newborn. She imagined them taking the child. A part of her wanted that. But another voice called out to her. And as much as she loathed her stepfather-uncle, as much as her skin crawled at the thought of his touch, the other voice knew that this child would still be a part of her-part of her mother and father. This child would be her only family-with it, she wouldn't be so alone. She tried to block out the rest, the terrible, ugly truth.

"I'm going to keep it." The decision brought her no comfort.

Mr. b.u.t.terfield seemed relieved, as though those words had some quiet, redeeming value. "If only you had shown that kind of willpower earlier, dear, none of this would have happened." He shook his head, still in shock. "Well, when you start to-you know"-he gestured to his stomach and tugged on his waistcoat-"I imagine you won't be able to work here anymore. You've set us back a bit, that's for sure. What a shame that you'll have to take a leave of absence, but necessary, I'm afraid. I certainly can't have my good customers thinking I condone this kind of behavior-appearances are everything, I'm afraid. Who knows, they might think I've been Barney-mugging you behind the counter and that I'm the father." He half-chuckled at the notion.

Liu Song blinked, trying not to grimace. She found nothing in their conversation worth smiling, let alone laughing, about.

He offered her a handkerchief. She took it but didn't cry.

"It'll be okay, sweetheart. Somehow, it'll all work out," he rea.s.sured her. "And when the time comes, I'll put you in touch with a place that will care for you until the baby arrives. They'll get you through the rough part and help you decide what to do afterward. They'll get you on your feet again."

The rough part, Liu Song thought. The rough part would be explaining this to Colin, whom she hadn't seen or spoken to in weeks.

"Thank you," she said, somewhat relieved-to have told someone but also that her boss had in mind a place that could help her. She knew that none of the white hospitals would admit her.

"I guess this explains why your uncle Leo said to pay you directly from now on." Mr. b.u.t.terfield reached beneath the counter and fished out the zippered bag with Liu Song's earnings for the past few weeks. He handed it to her. "Throw you out, did he?"

Liu Song felt the weight of the full bag. This had been her money in the first place. She'd earned every penny. But now it felt like something else-like coins the flower girls earned in the shadowy doorways of Paradise Alley. Now these dollar bills were notes that read: Go away, get lost, good riddance.

"Something like that," she said.

AFTER WORK, LIU Song walked home to save money, and besides, the weather was nice. She strolled by bakeries, inhaling their sweet aromas, and walked past the frying, clinking sounds of greasy spoon diners. She trudged up the broken sidewalks of King Street, pa.s.sing noodle factories, sausage carts, and the well-stocked window displays of the Yick Fung Mercantile, filled with simple pleasures she could never afford. When she reached Canton Alley, she looked up and down the street, mindful of peeping neighbors and pa.s.sersby, then slipped toward her apartment. She was famished as she locked the door behind her, and knowing that her cupboards were bare and her icebox empty only made the rumbling in her stomach worse. But her thoughts of food disappeared when she saw an envelope that had been slipped beneath her door. Her heart raced as she read who the fine piece of stationery was from: Dear Liu Song, I must apologize for my behavior when last we were together. It was very forward and presumptuous of me, especially after what you've already been through with the loss of your dear mother. I can understand why you haven't called or written. I should have respected your time of grief and mourning. I hope you can forgive my foolishness and perhaps let me make it up to you.

As I hinted, I landed a small part in a revival of A Chinese Honeymoon at the Empress Theatre. It's a very modest production that will only run a few weeks, but it's a rare opportunity. And it starts tonight.

I have left a ticket for you at the box office, in your name, should you decide that you'd like to see me again. Once more, please accept my sincerest apologies. Yours truly, Colin K.

FR 324.

The note had included his phone number, leaving Liu Song wis.h.i.+ng she had a telephone. She slumped to the floor and leaned against the door, staring at the vacant room, a chronic reminder of her empty, desolate life. She'd walked through Chinatown every morning, ignoring the stares and whistles from Filipino cannery workers and Chinese fishmongers. Men twice her age who undressed her with the soiled fingers of their crude imaginations. And at b.u.t.terfield's she drew stares of l.u.s.t and condemnation, admiration and hope, expectant supplication. Colin, on the other soft, gentle hand, seemed like the only person who treated her with tenderness, caring, and respect. He was everything she wanted, needed.

She touched her tight belly and remembered that her life of solitude was about to change. How could she tell Colin? How could she burden him with that news? She'd wanted to call him the morning after their dinner together. She'd wanted to run to the nearest phone booth, but she'd been so sick, and her body had ached. And as each day pa.s.sed, as each wave of nausea waned, that awful feeling was replaced with doubt, until every time she looked in the mirror she saw nothing of worth. In a roaring society that valued youth and beauty, her riches were now counterfeit, her innocence bankrupt. She had nothing to offer him but disappointment, embarra.s.sment, and shame.

But even after a few hours of contemplation, a mote of hope refused to go away. That twinkling caused her to rise like a ghost whose labors begin when the sun sets. As night fell, she walked out the door and wandered through the misty rain to the corner of Second Avenue and Spring Street. She stared up at the ornate bra.s.s awning that had turned an earthen shade of green, where A Chinese Honeymoon had been painted in broad gold lettering. She'd never seen or heard the musical before, but her father had once told her how the production had run in thousands of theaters-a favorite of white audiences all over the world, though he didn't care for it much. She knew the story well-a trumped-up tale of couples who break the law in China by accidentally kissing in public.

Liu Song gave her name to the matron in the box office, who handed her a cardboard ticket. Colin had saved a spot for her in the front row, but she chose to sit in a dark corner near the back of the theater. The Empress playhouse was tiny, but an eager crowd of patrons filled the three hundred seats, chatting and eating roasted almonds from sleeves of pink paper that turned silver when the houselights dimmed. Liu Song watched through the fog of her loneliness and grief as Colin appeared onstage as a servant in the palace of the farcical Hang Chow, the Emperor of Ylang Ylang, a made-up land for a made-up story. A white actor played the part of the Emperor, though he wore makeup to give his skin a yellowish tone. Liu Song thought he looked more like a hairless cat than a man. Still, all eyes were on the Emperor, all but Liu Song's, whose gaze was fixed on Colin. She felt so close to him, a distance measured in heartbeats instead of feet. Colin's role was small, a token at best, but she felt proud.

During intermission Liu Song s.n.a.t.c.hed a program from the trash and found Colin's name at the very bottom. She traced the printed characters with her fingertips. He was the only Chinese performer in the show-even the character of Soo Soo, the peasant girl betrothed to Hang Chow, was played by a white actress. That could be me, Liu Song thought. And when the two performers finally kissed at center stage beneath a dazzling spotlight, Liu Song closed her eyes and imagined her and Colin in those roles. Even in a dream, the sight was too much to bear. She wasn't jealous-Colin wasn't hers in any way-but watching their performance only made her want him that much more and, by comparison, made Liu Song feel beyond unworthy. How could a man like Colin accept her? She was the used, the forsaken-the discarded.

After the play ended with a musical fanfare, Liu Song fled. She left amid the clapping and cheering as flowers were thrown toward the footlights, toward the happy couple onstage that appeared like a vision, a mirage in the desert-the embodiment of all she could never be and what she could never have. She was out the door before the first curtain call. She took off her heels and ran home in the rain, shredding her stockings, splas.h.i.+ng through mud puddles, dodging motorcars that honked and flicked their lights at her. She staggered to her empty apartment, forever occupied by her persistent companions-shadows of fear, doubt, and regret. She couldn't bear to tell Colin about her condition and she didn't want to torture herself by seeing him again. She tore up the ticket, his card, and his note-all evidence of the man she knew she could never have. She caught her breath and stood in front of the sink, her cold, wet secondhand clothing clinging to her sagging shoulders. She turned on the stove for heat and put on a tiny pot of rice. Then she sat alone on the floor in the dimly lit kitchen, trying not to cry, forcing herself to think of names for her baby, wis.h.i.+ng for a boy to call her own.

Dead Letters.

(1934).

William heard clapping and cheering from upstairs as he stared at his glamorously bedraggled mother, this strange weed of a woman, still so young, but weary. You gave birth to me, he reconciled all she'd told him. You loved me, but you gave me away. I guess I know why. He grimaced at the thought. My father ... was your stepfather. This avalanche of truth wasn't the reunion he had hoped for, but at least their strange relations.h.i.+p was one he could understand. Countless times he'd seen mothers come and go from Sacred Heart, and each time he thought, If you really cared, you wouldn't leave your child behind, you wouldn't abandon him-no matter what.

What does that say about me? William wondered. Or does that merely reflect on my uncle Leo, who was never spoken of, and with good reason?

"My father was a bad man, then." Like Charlotte's father.

"Father is too generous a word." She lingered on that thought as though she couldn't find a description worthy of her disgust. But then William saw her glance in the mirror and quickly look away, her eyes cast downward. "I wasn't much better. I didn't know what to do. I wanted what was best for you, but I was young and stupid," Willow said. "But I didn't ever, ever want to leave you ..."

William heard a knock on the door and someone calling Willow's name. They knocked again insistently, and he heard Asa's voice as well.

She held out her hand, admonis.h.i.+ng William to stay while she answered. He listened as his mother argued with the comedian and a stage manager, who was saying something about breaking her contract and the legal consequences.

"I have to go, William," she said as she reached for a handkerchief and began wiping the black streaks from her cheeks. "I have to go, but it will just be a few minutes. Promise me you'll stay. I'll be right back ..."

"I'll stay. I promise."

She closed the door, and William listened to the orchestra in the distance. He waited and wondered if Willow would be performing the same song, or if she had changed her tune as she'd changed her heart so many times. Then he heard another knock and a commotion in the hall.

When he opened the door he saw Charlotte, who looked pale and angry. "I'm sorry, William." Behind her stepped Sister Briganti and two men from Sacred Heart, who grabbed William by the arms and dragged him into the hallway and up the stairs. Then all he felt was shock, and fear, and the urge to run away as fast as he could.

William was deflated-stunned. "That was my mother," he protested to Sister Briganti as she led Charlotte up and out into the alley and then to the sidewalk. He pointed to the marquee. "Willow is my ah-ma!"

Sister Briganti hailed a taxi and frowned. She hesitated and then said, "I know that, William." Her words crashed to the ground like a tree falling, snapping twigs and branches of half-truths and outright lies.

William stammered in disbelief. "What do you mean you know?" He watched as the stout woman struggled to express herself. He was used to her expressions of grace and joy, of wrath or condemnation, even pride, but he'd never seen her like this. What was it? he thought. Not sad, but doubtful.

"I knew you'd be here, William," Sister Briganti said. "From the moment I saw her in the movie theater and then on that blessed poster, I knew you'd do something impetuous like this." She shook her head. "I'm taking you back to the orphanage."

"Why should we go?" Charlotte asked. "He has a mother-that was her!"

Sister Briganti paused, shaking her head. "Because, William, your mother is not supposed to see you, nor you her. It's for the best. Come home and I'll tell you why she gave you away."

WHEN WILLIAM ARRIVED back at Sacred Heart, it felt like anything but home. To make matters worse, he was sickened by the thought of his ah-ma returning to her dressing room and finding the place empty. Would she think I left to pay her back for leaving me? Would she think I didn't care, that I didn't want her back? He imagined her searching backstage and then giving up, thinking the truth of his father was enough shame for one lifetime. He knew he would have to leave again and find his way back to the theater. The only thing holding him was that Charlotte might be whisked off right then and there-taken to a school for the blind, or some other place far away. Much to his surprise, she was allowed to return to her cottage unaided. She hugged William for what seemed like a whole minute and kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you," she whispered in his ear.

"For what?"

"For taking me and not taking advantage of me. Thanks for keeping me safe." She smiled, sadly. "I know you're going to find her again-your mother."

How little you know.

"It's only a matter of time now. And now that you know it's really her, do whatever you have to do, with or without me."

William thanked her in return. Charlotte had always been a friend-a good pal, nothing more. But that dynamic had somehow changed, and his hollow heart felt emptier without her. He was surprised that he could feel anything beyond the shock and longing of meeting his ah-ma again. His desperate imagination swirled with joy, anger, and exasperation. Love? That too. William felt as though he were treading water to keep from drowning; his emotions and memories swirled like so much flotsam and jetsam.

He was taken directly to Sister Briganti's office in the administrative wing; he walked down the long hallway like a condemned man, pa.s.sing grim-faced portraits of Abraham Lincoln and Teddy Roosevelt, but none as dour as his headmistress. As William pa.s.sed Sunny and a handful of others who were mopping the floor, some looked happy at his return, some disappointed, all of them surprised. Good to see you boys again. I'm afraid I won't be staying long.

He was ordered to remain in the office with the door closed until she arrived. He sat on his hands and stared at the books on her shelves, unsure if he were in trouble or not-not caring either way. Willow was Liu Song-his ah-ma. He had someplace to go, someone to go to, a reason to leave, even if that reason was only temporary. He hoped they would kick him out-expected it, even. But until then, he wanted answers.

He waited and waited, until he finally heard Sister Briganti arguing with someone in the hallway, in Italian. Then she walked in with an armload of papers and file folders.

William didn't wait for her to sit down. "How did you know that was my mother?" he asked. "How did you know she was alive?"