Miss Storch noticed Claire’s stare.

“Delicious, child. Have one. They’re as sweet as sugar, grown in my garden. We made the soup with them too, to get the last of them.”

“No, thank you,” she said. “But how wonderful to think you can grow your own vegetables in Hong Kong.”

“Oh, I couldn’t live anywhere else. I’ve been utterly spoiled. If I went back to England, they’d say I’d gone native, and they’d be absolutely right.”

“Do you think you will never return?” There was something about the older lady that invited intimacy.

“I don’t know what I’d return to. I haven’t any real family anymore, and the family I’ve made is here.”

Claire sipped the cold tomato soup. She grew bold.

“Can I ask you something impertinent?”

“If I can choose not to answer it,” Miss Storch said.

“How do you decide who to invite to your luncheons? We’ve never met before, and although I was so pleased to come, I don’t know how you even knew who I was to extend the invitation.”

Miss Storch laughed, pleased.

“A good hostess always thinks of the whole. What a bore to see the same people over and over again. You need a mix of nationalities, professions, personalities. As you know, Hong Kong grows very tiresome as the community is so small. And one must amuse oneself as one gets old, don’t you think?”

A Chinese woman with an American accent spoke to Miss Storch.

“I’ve heard you have a museum-quality collection of Song porcelain from Shanxi. Do you ever show people?”

“Sometimes,” Miss Storch said with a smile. The Chinese woman waited expectantly. Miss Storch’s smile grew wider.

The red-haired woman on the left of Miss Storch spoke up in the pause. She had been speaking importantly on women’s suffrage and rights and immigrants’ plights throughout the lunch.

“Have you heard? The government is forming a commission to rout out all the Japanese sympathizers once and for all. They’re sick of those scoundrels trying to blend in and pretend they weren’t part of the evil.”

“Well,” said Miss Storch. “That’s a strong word. There were certainly those who were opportunistic. But most were people simply trying to find any sort of work and get some food on the table. I think the ones who most need to be prosecuted are those who had no such worries but simply wanted to profit enormously and didn’t care about who they hurt along the way. Greed and dishonesty are always around, whether there is war or not.”

“They’ll have to answer to a higher authority,” said the redhead, with a certain pleasure.

“It’s difficult to prove anything, what with the lack of documentation during that time,” said another woman, plumpish. “They never did find out what happened to the Crown Collection.”

“I suppose they will rely on witnesses and first-person accounts,” Miss Storch said.

“Why now?” Claire asked. “It’s been ages since the surrender.”

“Well, it’s not anything official, but there have been a few events that make this particularly timely. The obvious people, Sakai, the Japanese commander-in-chief, and Colonel Tanaka, have been executed or imprisoned, but I think there’s an emphasis on finding the local civilians who were a little too enthusiastic in befriending their new masters and who are pretending that nothing of the sort happened. I do think old grudges are being dredged up.”

“So you’ve heard of this?” said the red-haired woman.

“I have been told that something like this may come along, as I may be of some help to those in charge.” Miss Storch stood up. “Who wants to come and see my new Crosley?” she said. “They delivered it last week. It doesn’t spoil the butter and defrosts automatically.” It was clear the conversation was over.

Women were lingering over lemon tea and Tcachenko’s cold cream cake when Miss Winkle was suddenly standing over Claire’s shoulder.

“Claire, would you do us the honor of playing some music. We’ve heard what a talented pianist you are.”

She flushed. “Hardly talented,” she demurred. “I teach, but rarely play for myself anymore.”

“You are teaching Locket Chen, are you not?”

“Yes, she’s been studying with me for a few months.”

“How do you like it? And her parents, Victor and Melody?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure of getting to know them more intimately as they’re rarely home when I go to teach.”

“Yes, they’re busy, I’d imagine.”

“You know them?” Claire asked.

“Know them?” Miss Winkle said with an odd cast in her voice. “Yes, I should say we know them. And Edwina knows Mr. Chen very well indeed.”

“Well,” Claire said. “I’ll give them your regards if you wish.” She sipped her tea. Thankfully, the idea of her playing for the party was not resurrected. Miss Winkle was called away on some issue with the biscuits and she was free to gather up her scarf and pocketbook and say her farewells.

May 5, 1953

“People have always expected me to be bad and thoughtless and shallow, and I do my best to accommodate their expectations. I sink to their expectations, one might say. I think it’s the ultimate suggestibility of most of us. We are social beings. We live in a social world with other people and so we wish to be as they see us, even if it is detrimental to ourselves.” She laughs, lifting her face toward his. Her eyes, her skin, they glow, distracting him. “What do you think?”

HE WOKE with a startle, then exhaled heavily in the hot air, slowly noticed the fan moving sluggishly overhead as consciousness surfaced. Perspiration covered his body and the bed linens were soaked. Her voice was as clear as a bell in his head, her sharp, vivid outline moving against a dark background. He had forgotten how much she loved her own pronouncements, how she would philosophize over a cold drink, how she was startlingly insightful at the oddest times.

She was waiting for him, expecting him to save her.

What would become his story now? he wondered. And there was Claire, who had grown important to him despite himself, in whom he saw his undeveloped self, nascent, with her silly prejudices, her cherished ignorance, and, surprisingly, her moments of clarity. Her naïveté was a salve to his battered expectations. Wasn’t love always some form of narcissism after all? She came unbidden to his dreams too, battling with the other woman, the one who haunted him day and night. Claire, with her blond and familiar femininity, English rose to Trudy’s exotic scorpion.

The black night beyond the window was velvet and welcome in its anonymity. He got up and opened the windows. Hong Kong ’s warm, intimate smell came into the room, redolent of human bodies and the ever-present sea, even at this elevation. It was never crisp here, just moist and close, though not always unpleasant. The darkness enveloped him. A lone light winked in the distance-a boat? A fellow insomniac?

He heard her voice again. It sounded more desperate now, more shrill.

He knew it was time to act.