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Holding a saw, Anyu sliced through a white cuttlebone. Fine powder spilled over her fingers and piled on the desk as she moved the saw back and forth. When the bone split into two halves, she put down the saw, took a knife, and began to carve the shape of a two-inch basket inside the soft interior.

She had heard about this direct casting method from Isaac and watched a few jewelers use this method in Kawashima’s workshop.

She liked this cuttlebone casting process, a convenient method since she had limited tools and funds.

With seafood abounding in Hong Kong, cuttlefish bones were also affordable; a dozen could be purchased for one Hong Kong dollar.

Using this method, she had crafted two halves of eggshells and a white five-petaled flower with gold stamens.

It had been four years since she arrived in Hong Kong.

With the help of Mr. Dearborn and Esther, she had opened a jewelry shop in a crowded neighborhood in Causeway Bay.

She didn’t sell jewelry, only offered a jewelry repair service.

Her drawers stored many broken pieces treasured by her customers: a rusty ring with a crushed claw setting, a silver necklace with a broken hook, and a brooch hollow without a gem.

They belonged to a loud-voiced grandma with a hefty dowry, a flighty young widow making ends meet by selling grass jelly, and a deaf man who hoped to surprise his daughter, who would soon be a bride.

As always, she would carefully polish the pieces, straightening the angles and soldering the broken hooks.

She charged small fees but treated the projects with the same care as a royal commission.

In this crowded neighborhood, no one knew her background or past fame; they only knew her as Anyu, from Harbin.

She liked Hong Kong, the sea, the hills, the boats, and the warm air. Her life, as she had prayed, was serene. During the day, she repaired and crafted jewelry; at night, she unfolded the rattan mat and turned the area into their bedroom.

When she was not working, or her vision was too bleary to work with tweezers, she visited the streets downhill.

She’d buy fish balls from street vendors, watch locals crack eggs in a glass with alcohol and gulp down the raw egg yolk mix, and bargain with betel nut sellers and paper fan vendors.

She had turned thirty-two and gained some weight, although she walked with a stoop that made her appear much older, and she felt, at times, she was an addled old woman with violent spells of headaches and an energy-draining cough.

She was lonely, sometimes, and longed for Confucius at night.

She had married him two months after they arrived in Hong Kong.

They had a joyous ceremony with Mr. Dearborn, Esther, and Matthew in attendance, all the people she cared about.

She wore a gold locket necklace gifted by Esther, the third piece of jewelry she owned, the only necklace she was free to show, and Confucius put on a tuxedo with tails.

They feasted on plump whitefish seasoned with green onion, clams doused with black bean sauce, and fried prawns with minced garlic, and all had too much wine.

After the ceremony, she hiked on a mountain to the Tsing Shan Monastery with Confucius, burned some incense, and wished for a happy and peaceful life together.

Then, drawn to its serene atmosphere, they made a pilgrimage to the monastery once a year, renewing their devotion to each other.

They had lived happily for three years before Confucius was struck by a racing car last year.

He died in the hospital with Anyu holding his hands.

Life is a thief who takes pleasure in showing off his sleight of hand , he had said.

How Anyu wished he had cheated and won so she could have spent her lifetime with him.

She stored Confucius’s ashes in the same monastery, Tsing Shan. They didn’t have children, but she had Matthew, who was all she cared about these days.

Every minute with Matthew filled her heart with joy.

She walked him home from school, made him Chinese noodles, took him to the beach and markets, and taught him how to make jewelry.

She had been right about Matthew being a gifted jeweler.

He was a quick learner, had dexterous hands, and possessed a natural talent for drawing and spatial reasoning.

The first time he soldered, she guided his fingers, melting the silver wire.

Matthew laughed and insisted on doing it himself; he singed his eyebrows and hair but quickly learned to hold the torch like a seasoned jeweler.

When he finished a chain at eight, she felt she had won a sizable commission.

Esther and Mr. Dearborn had been good to her. They supported her financially when they first arrived, but the biased racial law in Hong Kong prevented all of them from living together, so the Dearborns lived in Central.

Mr. Dearborn’s exporting business had taken off in Hong Kong, and he only returned to Shanghai twice.

Esther thrived in Hong Kong. She kept her Jewish identity under wraps and was happier to be called an American.

Her striking beauty made her the center of every gathering; her limp gained many empathetic remarks.

She socialized with many British women and expatriates from India and Australia, and her social circle included women of the wealthiest echelon in Hong Kong: Margaret Mak (the first wife of Robert Ho Tung), Hilda Selwyn-Clarke (the wife of Selwyn Selwyn-Clarke), and even Ursula Boxer (the wife of Maj. Charles Boxer).

A spate of coughs shook Anyu; she put down the saw and stood.

Her workshop, a closed space without windows, lacked proper ventilation, but it was safe and necessary.

This area was notorious for clever thieves who pilfered with long poles fitted with hooks; anything in a room with an open window was asking to be stolen.

She reached for the radio on the desk and turned it on.

The two hosts, in their cultured British accents, were in a heated discussion:

“The new governor, Sir Mark Young, has reestablished the Gin Drinkers’ Line in the New Territories. It’s strong enough to withstand any assault.”

“The Japanese would tear through that line in one day.”

“Impossible. The Japanese soldiers are known for their poor eyesight, and they wouldn’t be able to advance at night.”

“Poor eyesight?”

“Everyone knows that! They are no match for our garrison. May I remind you that we have thousands of well-trained Royal Scots and Indian units and a superior artillery force, including heavy and long-range guns. Our air force possesses armed flying boats, torpedo bombers, and experienced pilots.”

All the radio talked about these days was the imminent attack on the island by the Japanese and how to defend the colony.

She couldn’t remember when it had started.

When she arrived in Hong Kong four years ago, the radio only publicized automobiles, the queen, and the horse racing clubs.

She had been saddened to hear, after their departure, that the Japanese had seized complete control of the Old City in Shanghai, and since then, they had attacked more cities in the south.

Japanese forces now occupied Guangzhou, a neighboring city of Hong Kong’s New Territories.

It was depressing. The Japanese had won every war, from Harbin to Shanghai to Guangzhou. When would this end?

She turned the radio off. The talk brought her nightmares of Kawashima, standing on the wharf, her sword a bolt ready to strike.

A plague. This poisonous time, this stench of war, this greed of the Japanese military.

The clock struck two; Anyu wiped her hands clean on a rag, went to the door, and stepped out.

The humid, warm air enveloped her; she shielded her eyes with her hand and peered at the street downhill.

In a few minutes, Matthew would skip to her, out of breath, his golden hair a blazing fire opal that burned every passerby’s eyes.

She had prepared a delicious snack for him, lotus seeds soup mixed with petals of lily bulb sweetened with rock sugar, which had taken her most of the morning.

She devoted all her attention to this golden boy, but would always want to do more.

“Matthew, Matthew! There you are. Are you hungry?” She saw him climbing uphill, wearing his school uniform of black pants and white shirt, his schoolbag flapping against his leg.

Matthew glanced up at her and pinched his lips.

He was ten years old, already as tall as her, fluent in Chinese and English.

He attended a school for British and American children, and Anyu was his willing caretaker.

He had been moody these days. Once he had told her not to pick him up at school, and when he had friends around, he addressed her as “amah.”

Anyu took no offense. How Matthew treated her didn’t affect how she thought of him, a special, gifted child.

“Matthew, look what I made for you today.”

“I have to go.” He threw his schoolbag into her arms and ran back down the street, where another boy in a school uniform waved at him.

“Wait, wait! Where are you going?” She locked the door behind her and followed him.

“I’m going to Henry’s house. Don’t follow me.”

Henry’s house was located on the Peak, the highest mountain in Hong Kong, which touted the best view of the island, but the neighborhood forbade her presence.

Hong Kong was odd this way; the public spaces and venues were separated for the whites and the Chinese.

The cable tram that ran to the Peak was off-limits to her, and so were the first class of the Star Ferry and even the public botanical parks.

She was not used to being treated as less than others—in Shanghai, while certain clubs barred entry or membership to Chinese people, the racial division had been discreetly blurred, and as a famous jeweler, she had never been turned away from anywhere for her race.

But this was how the lofty white British ruled Hong Kong, she had learned: by blatantly extolling their privilege, living apart from Chinese like her, whom they mocked as maggots.

But Matthew needed to eat his snack! He would be hungry.

Anyu raced downhill, keeping a distance from Matthew so he wouldn’t be annoyed, but soon she lost sight of him.

Distracted, Anyu almost ran into a hawker selling slippers—he was covered with them, a necklace of slippers and a stack of black cloth slippers atop his head.

She halted, picked up the slippers he had dropped, skipped aside, and continued to run down the hill.

Then she saw Matthew surrounded by a group of local Chinese youths.

They seemed to be taunting him and his friend Henry.

One youngster in ripped beige pants yanked Henry’s bag; another pushed Matthew.

Henry, smartly, had found a chance and ran away, but Matthew staggered backward, lost his balance, and fell into a nullah.

The youths laughed, kicking him in his shoulder.

“Stop!” Anyu raced down the street and lunged toward the rascals, her arms flinging out to strike them. “Stop! Stop that! You scoundrel! Don’t you dare touch him. Stop. All of you!”

A few ran away, but the youth with ripped pants was still attacking Matthew. Anyu smacked his head and thrust him aside. “Leave him alone, bully!”

“White ghost! White British ghost! You’ll all soon be gone!” he shouted at Matthew, shuffling back.

“Get lost! Or I’ll call the sepoys to arrest you!

” Anyu threatened. Most Chinese people thought Matthew was British, given his features and coloring.

She reached out to pull him out of the nullah.

His feet were submerged in the filth, and he had scratched his forehead and elbow.

She picked some trash from his shoulder and hair and rubbed his arm.

“Who are those rascals? Do you know them?”

“No.” Matthew groaned, his face pink with humiliation.

“How long have they been bullying you?”

Matthew shrugged. “They came out of nowhere.”

“Shame on them!”

“Henry and I were going to play billiards at his house. No more school this year.”

“So soon?”

“Some teachers have left the island. They said the British are done for, Auntie. All of them. Those in England will be killed by the Germans, and those in Hong Kong will be killed by the Japanese. Hong Kong won’t belong to them anymore.”

The Chinese on the island disliked the British as much as the British disliked them .

Since the breakout of the war in Europe, people on the streets, even her clients, had been discussing the British struggle in the war against Germany.

With every report of German victory came the gloating and questioning of the British’s ability to rule this island.

The consensus was that the mighty empire, where once the sun never set, would eventually sink to the bottom of the sea, and all their colonies would turn on their masters and drown them with stones.

“Nonsense. The Japanese can’t touch the British. Let’s go home. Are you hungry?”

Matthew walked backward ahead of her. “The sepoys are planning a mutiny, Auntie. You didn’t know?”

“What?”

“The British authority ordered them to ditch their cloth turbans for steel helmets, and they revolted. They said it was against their religion. Henry said so.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t believe Indian policemen who worked for the British government would risk that. They had long been praised for being faithful to the queen.

“Are the British done for?”

“Absolutely not. And you’re an American. You’re safe here. Let’s go home. Your mother is coming for dinner.”

Anyu put on an encouraging smile, but news like this unnerved her.

There had been numerous disturbances as far as she could remember: the exodus of the British women and children last year, the strikes of workers in the Royal Navy’s warship dockyards, and the disputes over immigration concerning those labeled as the “impure,” whom the British looked down on.

But if the British were to sink to the bottom of the sea, then the froth of war would devour them all.