The Black Isle by Sandi Tan Read Free Book Online

stone pestle, then scraped the paste into the earthenware pot. Sister Kwan watched the bubbling cauldron, murmuring to herself, rubbing the bright orange rosaries in her hand.
    “Ah Ying, I am speaking to you!” Mother stormed into the kitchen. “I paid good money for that duck and I expect to feed my family with it. Now clear out that pot and start cooking dinner. As for your incense, Sister Kwan, how many times have I told you I won’t have those things burning in my house?” She swiveled around and caught me hiding under the altar of the kitchen god. Her eyebrows twitched. “What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you’re part of this coven.”
    “Let her be, madam.” It was Ah Ying who spoke, the usually wordless cook who always did as she was told and kept her eyes on the stove.
    “What is this? Mutiny?” Mother grabbed my wrist and twisted it. I groaned.
    “Madam,” Sister Choon said calmly. “Perhaps we should have explained our actions. We’re cleansing the house with a protection spell. You see, Sister Yeung returned last night. We don’t know what she wants, but we don’t want her causing any mischief.”
    “Sister Yeung? What are you talking about? That woman died five years ago.”
    “That’s precisely what we’re talking about. Her ghost was seen in this house last night. She must want something. You recall she didn’t exactly have a happy death.”
    “Who’s responsible for these rumors?”
    I held my breath and tried to make myself as inconspicuous as possible. Too late.
    Sister Kwan turned to me. As her outstretched finger formed an accusation, I felt a burning hatred for her—her hypocrisy, her cowardice, her class. She averted her eyes.
    Mother gave a harsh laugh. “And you grown women are foolish enough to believe the words of this little fantasist?” She went straight for the boiling pot and grabbed it with her bare hands. For a second I feared she would fling it at me, but instead she dumped its throbbing contents down the drain. The servants jerked back from the putrid steam.
    “Enough is enough. Ah Ying, start cooking the duck. Sister Choon, please make the twins stop crying. And you,” she said to Sister Kwan, “give this girl a bath. A well-scrubbed child doesn’t make up stories.” Sister Kwan was slow to take her cue and Mother lost her patience. “Oh, forget it. I’ll bathe her myself. Just go and open some windows. I can’t bear this smell. You’re driving me insane, the lot of you.”
    As she washed me, Mother made no mention of any ghost. To her, the whole thing had been a figment of my fevered imagination. I didn’t dare bring it up either. She cleaned me in grim silence, a maid scrubbing a stained spittoon, her thoughts so distant that she forgot I was made of flesh. I hated it when she bathed me. She was always unnecessarily hard, digging her nails into my scalp and rubbing the rough cloth across my back until I gripped the sides of the tub. But I never cried out or whined; I never wanted to give her any satisfaction from hurting me.
    At one point, Li came to the doorway and stood watching us with meaningful silence, like someone who hadn’t been let in on a secret but wanted us to know he knew it anyway. He’d been strangely quiet since the park. Mother shooed him away with a light kiss.
    As I dried myself, my skin still raw, she grabbed both my shoulders and forced me to look into her unaffectionate eyes.
    “Sister Yeung was an unstable woman. Whatever happened, happened a long time ago. It’s all in the past. I don’t want you listening to any more of the amahs’ rubbish. They’re cheap, ignorant country girls, full of silly ideas. You are a city girl. You’re educated and come from a good home. If you believe their stories, then you’re no better than they are and I might as well give you away to the orphanage. Let me know if you want that, and I’ll tell the rickshaw man to take you there.”
    After toweling dry my hair and putting me in