The Paper Daughters of Chinatown - Heather B. Moore Page 0,39

Mei Lien wondered if the mistress had left. Then the sound of trickling water caused her to crack an eye open to see Ah-Peen Oie pouring water from a pitcher into a glass. Only half a glass, but at least Mei Lien would get something.

Her mouth salivated as Ah-Peen Oie crossed to the bed.

Mei Lien tried to reach for the glass of water, only to find that her hands had been buckled to the bedposts. When had that happened? She tugged, but the effort did little more than chafe her wrist.

Ah-Peen Oie’s beautiful eyes shone with amusement. “Ah, you poor bird. That opium must have been a stronger dose than intended.” The woman didn’t look apologetic at all.

For a moment, Mei Lien wondered where Wang Foo had gone. Had he come up the stairs with them in the first place? If not, who had tied her in straps? But that didn’t matter much now; what mattered was the water that was only a couple of handspans from her mouth.

Was Ah-Peen Oie going to help her drink?

Mei Lien opened her mouth, and Ah-Peen Oie smiled, then tilted the water glass. It was too far away, though, and the water spilled in a thin drizzle upon the bed. Mei Lien lurched for the stream of water, trying to get close enough to drink. Ah-Peen Oie continued to pour, keeping it out of Mei Lien’s reach.

Mei Lien didn’t even realize she was crying until she felt the hot tears slide down her cheeks and pool at her neck.

“Tomorrow,” Ah-Peen Oie said in her smooth lilt. “Tomorrow, you will have water if you’re an obedient mui tsai.”

Mui tsai. It was what the men at the Hong Kong harbor had called her. Mei Lien’s eyes slid shut as more tears escaped. Was there no other choice? She didn’t want to see Ah-Peen Oie’s face again. Or her beautiful, cruel smile. Or those captivating eyes that were evil themselves.

It was better for Mei Lien to fall into a dream, then wake anew to find that none of this had been real. Sleep. Dream. Sleep. Dream.

Even when the cool fingers of Ah-Peen Oie grasped Mei Lien’s jaw and slipped in another powdery dose of opium, she didn’t react. Her soul had already slipped into her dream of nothingness.

“We do not always walk crowned with laurel. . . . ’Tis not enough to help the feeble brother rise; but to comfort him after. This we find the greatest responsibility of our Mission work. . . . With simple faithfulness, therefore, let us go forward looking to God for our pattern, then weave it into human life; thus will the world become better.”

—Donaldina Cameron, mission home report

1899

Dolly looked up from the dining table where she sat with the other staff members as Mrs. Field walked in. The director wore dark colors, as usual, and her hair was fashioned into a severe bun. Mrs. Field’s reserve had driven the girls to become closer to Dolly, which she didn’t mind at all. Yet, Dolly did wish that the director would make more of an effort in cultivating relationships.

Mrs. Field smiled a rare smile as she crossed to her place at the head of the table. It was unusual for her to be late for a staff meeting, and Dolly decided there must be a good reason for it.

“Good morning, everyone.” Mrs. Field’s pale blue eyes surveyed the staff. “I’ve brought Kipling’s new poem. I think you’ll find it very applicable as well as fascinating.”

It wasn’t unusual for a staff member to share a tidbit of inspiration in their meetings, but typically it was a scripture that had taken on extra meaning during the previous week.

“The poem is entitled ‘The White Man’s Burden,’” Mrs. Field said. “As you can see, the title alone aligns with our work here at the mission home.”

Dolly raised her brows to keep them from dipping into a frown. What was the director getting at? Surely she didn’t mean that the work of rescuing Chinese slaves was a burden to the staff?

“Listen carefully.” Mrs. Field cleared her throat. “‘To wait in heavy harness / On fluttered folk and wild— / Your new-caught, sullen peoples, / Half devil and half child.’” She lifted her gaze, her pale blue eyes gleaming in the morning light.

Dolly couldn’t meet Ah Cheng’s or Yuen Qui’s eyes. Despite English being their second language, there was no doubt they had understood Kipling’s words perfectly.

Mrs. Field had no trouble looking directly into the face of each