Yulan paused in the door, hesitating as if she wanted to say something else.
“I have to finish getting ready,” Meilin said.
Her mother nodded. “Be home in good time. You have work tomorrow.”
Her mother left, and Meilin adjusted the cuffs of her knee-length jean shorts. It was nice to be able to enjoy Kevin without thinking of building a future with him. If he was staying, she would have to worry about when to tell him about her moli. She would have to negotiate with her mother over whether she could. She would need to sit him down and explain she wasn’t only a perfumer, and her daughter—and his—would make him richer beyond all comprehension. But that there would be a price, and the price was that she was a Hua, and he was not, and part her life would be always closed to him.
She’d never told another person this. She’d never had to. She never wanted to. It seemed almost sacrilegious to have to tell a man about her ability, as if she was sharing something more intimate than even her body. If she could guarantee how someone would react, that would be better. If only they had a moli to control unpredictability.
But they didn’t.
Almost time to go. She remembered Kevin had been off last time, upset about something or other. She glanced at the vial on her nightstand. She’d made him a moli perfume last night, similar to the fougère of the Calvin Klein Eternity For Men he usually wore. She lifted it up, then put it back down.
It would be nice if he was in a good mood. She tucked it in her pocket, pulled on her rhinestone-studded sandals, and left.
38
Hua Miaoyu
Qing dynasty. Miaoyu offered her moli to the leader of the Taiping Rebellion and indirectly caused the death of thousands.
Heart note //Stir sadness in others
Base note //Honeysuckle
The slamming of a door rouses me from sleep. As a person with terrible sight, the first few moments of every morning are experienced as a haze of amorphous shapes, but today they’re not as blurry as they should be. I must have left in my contacts. I blink and the back room comes into focus through my morning fog and sticky eyelids. Ana appears at the door, bleached hair in a high smooth puff that matches her Mondrian minidress and white vinyl go-go boots.
“Did you sleep here last night?” she says.
I sit up, feeling grubby and gross. “I guess so? I only meant to rest my eyes for a second. What time is it?”
“Nine.” She looks at me with sympathy and hands over her coffee. “Here, I haven’t touched it yet.”
I take it gratefully, and the first sip—almost syrupy with sugar—is heavenly. I cross my legs on the couch and lean forward to stretchwhat I think are my hip flexors but might be some other muscle. Ana checks my worktable, which is messy and not like me. “How’d it go?”
I stand beside her. “Perfect.”
“You sound sure. Normally, you say it needs some work, but you suppose you’re happy with it, although it could probably be better.”
It gives me an intense flash of joy that she knows this about me.
“Not this time.” I reach down and dip a blotter in. “Want to smell it?”
Ana steps back and waves me off. “No, thanks. I want to get my heart’s desire for myself. Actually, I don’t need it. I already have Jayne.” Her voice is nasal from holding her nose.
“Understood, and that’s very sweet, but this is only the scent. I haven’t done anything to it.”
“Oh, gotcha.” She leans forward and sniffs, then grabs it out of my hand. “Wow, Lucy. This is incredible.”
I drip some into a spray bottle and she holds out her wrist. “What do you smell?” I ask curiously.
“Freedom. Joy.” She sniffs again. “Are you sure you didn’t do anything?”
“Honest.”
“There’s citrus. I think yuzu? A flower or sorts.” She shakes her head. “I can’t tell anymore.”
“The flower is ylang-ylang.” I put the bottle back on the desk, satisfied. “There’s some patchouli and sandalwood too.” It’s not a unique mix but is deeply satisfying.
