Chapter 2

The next morning, at dawn.

Grandfather sat squared in his grand armchair, both hands resting on the arms, and cleared his throat twice.

It was the same gesture he'd used for decades, his way of telling the whole family that it was time to serve tea.

The moment my mother heard it, she came out of the kitchen on reflex.

She was already bending at the knees when Janice caught her by the arm and steered her instead into the empty grand armchair beside them.

Grandfather's face went black in an instant. He leaned forward, his eyes full of disbelief.

"I'm not dead yet. Since when does a daughter-in-law get to sit as my equal in this house?"

I opened my mouth to speak, but Janice got there first.

"You're absolutely right, Grandfather. A great household lives by its rules. There has to be a clear order, high and low, who ranks above whom."

He grunted, waiting for her to haul my mother up and put her on her knees.

"So a serious matter like paying respects and serving tea to an elder has to be done by the most dignified man of the house."

"Making a woman kneel to hold up the tea, that's the way of small, no-name families with no proper rules."

"Look at Old Master Bishop's sons. Which of them isn't standing outside the old man's door before daybreak, minding the rules?"

"Since we're a great house, we can't let that standard slip."

She said it unhurried, every link of the logic locked tight.

Grandfather froze for a moment.

Janice pressed the advantage, turned to my father, and beamed at him.

"Uncle, it's your turn to show your devotion. Lift the cup level with your brow and offer it up, please."

My father was drinking from his enamel mug when he heard it. His hand jerked and the water spilled all down his trousers.

"What? Me? I've got work later. Any later and I'll miss the bus."

"What young master of a great house ever had an excuse to skip paying respects?"

Janice tilted her head at Grandfather. "Grandfather, tell us, isn't that the rule?"

Grandfather had been boxed in by Janice for a good while now, still hot with anger, and already cornered on pride.

If he said forget it, no need, then he'd be admitting that all these years of rules were worth nothing.

He hesitated a moment, then, unbelievably, spoke in a low, heavy voice.

"Sherman. Kneel."

My father went red to the roots of his neck, shuffled over in small steps, and slowly bent his knees down to the floor.

The instant he knelt, he turned his head and stared straight at my mother, threatening her.

"This is all your fault. You gave me a son who's nothing but trouble, and now he's dragged home a wife who'll wreck this family too."

"Wait till I get back tonight. I'll deal with you then."

My mother shrank her neck down, her fingers twisting together without thinking, the rims of her eyes going red at once.

I clenched my fists and stepped forward, but Janice raised a hand to stop me and gave me a small shake of the head.

She turned to the cabinet and lifted out an old porcelain lidded cup, its walls thin enough that light came through, and set it on the tea table.

Then, in front of everyone, she picked up the kettle and, glug after glug, filled the cup to the brim with water at a rolling boil.

"Uncle, the rules have to be done the original way. A great household doesn't serve tea in one of those cups with a handle."

"You use this one. Cradle the bottom in both hands, lift it above your head, and wait for Grandfather to take it."

My father looked at the cup steaming in front of him and went pale.

"That hot? How am I supposed to hold that?"

"Auntie's held it at exactly this temperature for decades. Whether your devotion's sincere, well, we'll see it in whether your hands tremble."

My father swallowed and stretched out both hands, shaking.

But the second his fingertips touched the wall of the cup he snatched them back, grimacing, and pinched his ears fast to cool his fingers.

He tried again and again, back and forth, until he finally wore Grandfather's patience thin.

"Are you serving it or not?"

My father shut his eyes, as if he'd made some kind of decision, and grabbed the cup up over his head in one go.

Grandfather sat in his grand armchair, watching his precious son kneel on the floor and suck in his breath from the burn.

The look on his face was hard to read, somewhere between hurting for him and squirming.

He took the tea, sipped a small mouthful, forced himself to swallow it, then dabbed a little of the tea on his eyelids.

"Tea's good for the eyes."

"All right. Everyone, off you go."

I watched my father kneeling there, both hands flushed red, and it would be a lie to say it didn't twist something in me.

But what hurt me more were my mother's two legs, knelt on for decades, that would never straighten again.

Only Grandfather still didn't seem to sense anything was wrong. He kept his face dark and said nothing, like a man working something out.