Grace shivered at the thought. On an afternoon not unlike this one, the bands of barbarians had killed those who they believed were the source of their misery. Grace would forever remember the final count: 180 missionaries murdered— men, women, and innocent children. Their valiant story, and then the young Reverend Watson's contagious plan to be amongst the first brave souls returning to this land only a few years after the onslaught had taken place— well, of course, she had been propelled to join him in this frightful place. Her husband had been on the veritable front lines, and now it was her turn, too.
She raced back into the house and found a broom in a closet. As she cut back through the parlor and headed out the front door again, Ahcho appeared beside her. Grace was also dimly aware of Mai Lin making her way slowly down from the second floor.
"Mistress," Ahcho said, "how wonderful to see you up. You are feeling better?"
Grace paused for a moment and glanced at him. He looked inordinately calm. Why was no one else preparing to fight the oncoming horde? Had Ahcho not noticed them pouring into the yard?
"We must do our duty," she shouted and made for the door.
"Shall I sweep the porch for you?" he offered as he followed. "You must not exert yourself, Mistress."
Now Grace could hear Mai Lin coming along behind her. Surely dependable Ahcho and dear Mai Lin would see the situation for what it was and help. But they were moving too slowly, and she could not wait for reinforcements. Grace hurried down the porch steps and began stabbing the dusty ground at the feet of the milling Chinese. She used the straw broom to attack their bare toes. The coolies hopped back, startled, and barked in surprise at being poked by stiff bristles.
"Shoo, shoo," Grace shouted. "Away with you!"
As some staggered back, others filled in their places. She felt their bodies pressing toward her. Her heart beat faster, but she told herself she must not give up. Her husband had been brave so many times, and now was her chance to finally join him in his zealotry. She spun in circles, swinging the broom wide in the air to keep them away.
"Out," she shouted. "Out you go!"
Then she felt a warm hand on her arm and let the head of the broom drop to the ground. She felt surprisingly dizzy, but luckily, the hand held her steady. The unsettling vibrations that had overtaken her brain began to recede again, and Grace vaguely wondered what had come over her.
"Mistress," Ahcho said, "may I take this from you now?" He reached for the broom.
She looked up, more than a little confused, but trusted his kind voice. She felt as baffled as in the mornings after waking from her hallucinations. Whatever was going on in her mind? she wondered.
"This is what you want instead, yes?" he asked.
Ahcho's hand appeared before her. In his palm sat a small bar of lye soap and a white rag that she knew served as a washcloth.
"It is Friday today, Mistress. They are here for their weekly baths."
He gently touched her shoulder again and steered her in the direction of the Chinese women who stood in a line before the metal tub.
"They would be most honored to receive their soap and small cloths from the Reverend's excellent wife."
Grace ran her palms down the front of her slip and straightened it as best she could. She suddenly felt terribly underdressed. She should not be seen by these new congregants in her flimsy petticoat. Why had Mai Lin allowed her out without the proper attire? Although Grace had to question her own judgment in this instance as well.
"Am I all right?" she whispered to Ahcho.
"Absolutely." He nodded. "They are pleased to meet you."
She tried to stand taller. "As I am to meet them."
Grace pulled back her shoulders and made her way to her position beside the tub. She prepared to greet each tired and filthy new Christian with a smile, although she feared that she needed a bath as badly as they did. And if somehow her mind could be scrubbed clean as well, she would be most grateful.
Nine
W ould you care for a cup of tea?" Mildred Martin inquired, her eyebrows raised. The Martins' number-one boy poured, and Grace smiled when he held up a rare lump of sugar with silver tongs. Mildred must have saved her small store of the precious