“Then why do you care what I think?” Ling asked.
“Because…” Henry started. It wasn’t really about Ling. There was something about the song that didn’t feel right to him, but he couldn’t tell what it was anymore. He’d been trying for so long to make other people happy with his music that he’d lost his internal compass.
“Here’s one for you. Just wrote it,” Henry said. He broke into a big ragtime number. “I’ve got a yeaahn to walk with Miss Chan—”
“Awful.”
“Again and agaaain, round the gleaahnn, at half past teaahn—”
“Corny and awful.”
“See you theaahn! If you’ve a keaahn! Dear! Miss! Chaaaannnnnn!”
The lights flickered wildly for a moment. From somewhere came a strange, gurgling, high-pitched whine, like a distant swarm of cicadas. Henry jumped up from the piano.
“I told you that song was bad,” Ling said, her heart beating wildly.
But then the train’s lamp glowed in the tunnel. It lit up the station as the train came to a stop. The doors opened, and Henry and Ling raced inside.
Wai-Mae was waiting for them in the forest. Seeing Ling, she broke into a grin. “You’ve come back! I knew you would!”
“Wai-Mae, this is Henry, the other dream walker I told you about,” Ling said, nodding to Henry. “Henry, this is Wai-Mae.”
Henry bowed courteously. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Wai-Mae.”
“He is very handsome, Ling. He would make a nice husband,” Wai-Mae said in a whisper that was not a whisper at all. Ling’s face went hot.
Henry cleared his throat and said, with a formal bow, “Well, if you ladies will kindly excuse me, I’m off to meet a friend. I wish you sweet dreams.” He turned and walked down the path until he disappeared into the fog.
“I have a surprise for you,” Wai-Mae announced.
“I hate surprises,” Ling said.
“You will like this one.”
“That’s what people always say.”
“Come, sister,” Wai-Mae said, and Ling stiffened as Wai-Mae linked arms with her, just like the schoolgirls who often passed by the Tea House’s front windows, talking and laughing. But Ling had never been terribly girlish or giggly or affectionate. “You’re not much for a cuddle, are you, my girl?” her mother would say with a wan smile, and Ling couldn’t help feeling that she was letting her mother down by being the sort of daughter who enjoyed atoms and molecules and ideas instead of hugs and hair ribbons. Her mother would probably love Wai-Mae.
Wai-Mae’s mouth didn’t stop the entire walk. “… and you can be Mu Guiying, who broke the Heavenly Gate Formation. I will be the beautiful, beloved Liang Hongyu, the perfect wife of Han Shizhong, a general. She helped to lead an army against the Jurchens and was buried with the highest honor, a proper funeral befitting the Noble Lady of Yang.…”
All of Wai-Mae’s stories were romances. Oh, so you’re one of those, Ling thought, the girls who see the world as hearts and flowers and noble sacrifice. Wai-Mae led Ling deeper into the forest, and while Wai-Mae chattered away about opera, Ling noticed that the dreamscape was even more vibrant than it had been the night before. The crude sketches of trees had been filled in with rich detail. Ling ran her palm over scalloped bark. It was rough against her hand, and she couldn’t help but touch it again and again, grinning. A sprig of pine needles hung invitingly from a branch. Ling pulled and a handful of needles came away. She brought them to her nose, inhaling, then examined her fingers. No resin, no smell, she noted.