"Aunt Ping," I called.
The old palace woman arrived like fate with a broom.
She had tied her hair up with a rag that used to be a sash and wore the expression that makes lesser men write poems about tigers. She took one look at Meiling's cheek and snorted like a kettle. "Hnh. Keep it clean or rot," she announced. "If you cry into it, I'll slap salt into the wound so you'll learn why tears are expensive."
Meiling stared as if she'd been introduced to a new language.
"Explain her work," I prompted.
"Basins," Aunt Ping replied briskly. "The big ones. Hot lye, cold rinse, twist, slap, beat. No jewelry. No powder. The steam will take them anyway. Starch days you'll think your bones turned to sticks. Winter mornings you'll think your fingers fell off. We keep the palace clean; you are the palace now. Welcome."
It would have been funny if it weren't true.
