Ana grabs a measuring tape, and I drift around like an anchorlessghost before settling back at my counter. Two seconds later, I’m at the window. I have work to do, but the weather is making me itchy.
Ana joins me. “Should we close early?” she asks. “There won’t be any more customers coming in off the street, and they’ve issued a severe weather alert.”
“You go,” I say. “I have to finish off this order.” I have one last modification for a client before I give the perfume some time to macerate. It could have been done hours ago if I’d been able to sit for more than twenty seconds.
“You sure?” Ana lets the curtains down, and their dull pink gives the room a cozy feel. “What if the power goes out?”
“Then I’ll go home, where the power will also probably be out.”
We look up as the door opens. It’s only Jayne. I sayonlybecause I want it to be someone for me—anyone—but Ana’s face says our visitor isn’t anonlybut aneverything.
“Hey.” Jayne smiles at me and takes off her black toque to brush off the snow. “I closed the bar early but saw your light still on. You two okay?”
The question is for both of us, but she’s looking at Ana.
“Ana’s heading home,” I say. “Right now.”
“Cool.” Jayne hasn’t moved her gaze, and Ana melts under its warmth. “You want company? We go the same way, and we can check on the alley cats.”
“Oh, sure.” Ana goes a mottled red. “Let me get my stuff.”
After the two leave, I yawn and collapse in a chair. I haven’t been sleeping well lately, and the warm store drags my eyelids down. It doesn’t take long before I’m dozing, my mind wandering in a dream that ends with me holding a bottle of my moli perfume and standing on a cliff over a large lake. I’ve had this dream regularly for years, and it doesn’t take Freud to analyze its deeper meaning.
I’ve tried to convince myself I chose my path because it’s what I wanted, but it’s hard to accept that I’m any happier here than I wouldbe at home. Maybe it’s weak, but I want to be the daughter and granddaughter my family expected. I want to stop being an exile. I want to not have the guilt of knowing the Hua family ends with me. I stare at my empty hands. If I could use my moli, I could go home and take my place where I belong. I could rest for a while and be a little less independent. A little less lonely.
Or maybe Dad’s right about the Hua power being explicable through science, and I’m torturing myself for nothing. “Psychosomatic nonsense,” Dad would say anytime Mom mentioned our moli. “An average family dying to make themselves feel important and preying on the hopes of others.”
He never believed our perfumes were anything special. On bad days, I think he’s right. There’s enough science to prove scents can shift emotions; perhaps my ancestors’ real gift was an early understanding of psychological manipulation. The mind is a powerful thing, after all.
On worse days, I know he’s wrong.
I look at my perfumes. It’s been so long since I tried. No one is here to watch me fail.
Before I can second-guess myself, I grab one of my premade scents, cradling the cool glass bottle in my hand. The process hasn’t changed fundamentally since the Peony Goddess first showed Aiai the truth of her gift. It’s passed on from mother to eldest daughter once she’s old enough to understand how important it is to keep our secret. The first step is writing the huo.
In my bottom drawer is a stack of tags I haven’t looked at since I moved into the store. The years haven’t dimmed my memory of the order of strokes that create the character. They’re easy enough, although the first lines are wobbly. My fingers peel off the sticker and smooth it on the bottle.
Time for the next step. The Hua gift is a mix of nature and nurture. One has to be born with the power but taught how to access and useit. I’m to gather small elements of energy from myself and my surroundings and release it into the fragrance.
For the first time in forever, I want my mother with me. The woman has a multitude of flaws, but right now I need her bulldozer approach. She’d tell me to stop overthinking every step and do it, albeit in classier language. Her conviction that all I need is hard work and a good attitude would override my own doubt.
Of course, this is when the phone rings. I’m not surprised to see it’s Mom. When I was a child, she always knew when I needed her. Sometimes she’d only have to call my name from another room to calm me down.
“Luling, I was thinking about you.”
“I’m fine.” I don’t want her to know what I’m doing. It’s better to keep her in the dark until I can report success—ifI can report success—because the pressure that would come from the other side of the country would be strong enough to power electrical grids right through the prairies.
“I looked at the weather and there’s a storm coming. Are you dressed warmly?”
“Are you checking the weather reports for Toronto?” I ask, astonished at this level of surveillance.
“Of course,” she says. “Do you have your emergency kit ready the way I told you?”
I blow out a breath. “Yes, Mother, I do.” I don’t at all.
“Good. Make sure you fill some pots with water in case the power goes out.”
“Okay.”
