The Language of Threads by Gail Tsukiyama

the yellow chenille bedspread next to her. “Bach’s Cello Suites,” she whispered. “Music for the soul.” Mrs. Finch closed her eyes as she listened to the music.
    Pei smiled, set the tray down on the bedspread, and flung open the heavy drapes. She tidied up the stacks of records on the desk, then turned back to Mrs. Finch, who squinted and raised her hand against the bright autumn light.
    â€œTwenty years I’ve lived in Hong Kong, and the only thing I’ve ever missed about England is the dear old London fog.” She laughed. “Just look what this tropical heat has done to my skin!”
    â€œIt looks fine to me,” Pei said. She opened the rosewood armoire, pulled out two flower-print cotton dresses on hangers, and held them up. The comforting scent of lily of the valley floated into the room.
    Mrs. Finch poured her tea, then looked up. “The one on the left, thank you.”
    Pei carefully laid the dress on the chair by the door and hung the other up. In the past year she had come to learn the simple habits of her employer. Unlike Chen tai, who had kept Pei on pins and needles with just a look or gesture, Mrs. Finch was kind and straightforward. There were no confusing contradictions in the small household. And it wasn’t long before Pei learned to trust that what Mrs. Finch said was what she meant.
    â€œDid Ji Shen get off to school all right?” Mrs. Finch scraped butter across her toast, then dropped a spoonful of marmalade on top.
    â€œOh, yes.”
    Pei was grateful that Mrs. Finch and Ji Shen liked each other. At first, she’d struggled with doubt—could Ji Shen live in such a different world? Even the air in the flat seemed to harbor a foreign scent. It was Song Lee who had finally put all her fears to rest. “Ji Shen has already been through so much in her young life,” she said. “Do you think adapting to a new household will harm her? The important thing is that she’s with you. Besides, I can tell by this woman’s large eyes that she has an open heart.”
    Pei couldn’t imagine how difficult things might be if Ji Shen were still as unhappy as she had been a year ago. But they’d settled into their new life at Mrs. Finch’s with relative ease, and Ji Shen seemed to like St. Cecilia’s much better than Spring Valley School. It was thanks to Mrs. Finch’s kindness that Ji Shen was attending St. Cecilia’s instead of a public school farther away. Mrs. Finch was a staunch Catholic, and St. Cecilia’s had long benefited from her donations and charity work. They weren’t about to turn Ji Shen away when she arrived there one morning with Mrs. Finch.
    â€œShe’s such a bright child,” Mrs. Finch said now. “It’s a pity Howard and I never had any children of our own. God’s will, I suppose.”
    â€œYou would have been a wonderful mother,” Pei offered.
    Without answering, Mrs. Finch took a bite of her toast.
    Pei would never forget how generous Mrs. Finch had been on the day they arrived. The living room was warm and dark, the drapes still drawn tight against the morning light. Opening them, Mrs. Finch looked down at the street. “Is the young man down there with you?”
    Quan had brought them to Conduit Road in his rickshaw.
    â€œYes; he just wants to make sure we’re all right.” Pei waved for him to leave.
    â€œAh, it’s nice to know that chivalry is still alive and well.”
    But then Ji Shen rushed to peek out the window—and knocked over a glass swan. It cracked against the table. “I’m sorry!” Ji Shen cried. “I didn’t mean it.” She hovered behind Pei.
    In the pause that fell before their next words, Pei was sure they would have to return to Ma-ling’s. She stood there helpless, holding the two broken pieces in her hands.
    But Mrs. Finch surprised them by shaking her head. “Those knickknacks are a