“They told me so, but I hadn’t thought it would be like this…Captain Dalton tried to describe it to me once, but—”

“Captain Dalton is a military man. The army has yet to send a poet to Mae Lwin.”

Only a piano tuner, Edgar thought, and turned back to look at the camp. A pair of birds flew across the clearing, cooing. As if to answer their song, the porter who had carried Edgar’s bags from the river called from the balcony on the second tier of houses. The Doctor answered in a strange language, which sounded different from Burmese, less nasal, with a different quality of tone. The man left the balcony.

“You should go to bed,” said Carroll. “We have much to discuss, but we can wait until morning.”

Edgar started to say something, but the Doctor seemed intent on leaving. Instead he bowed slightly, and bid the Doctor good night. He walked across the clearing and climbed the steps to the porter. On the balcony, he paused to catch his breath. It must be the altitude, he thought, It is high on the Plateau. He looked out and caught his breath again.

Before him, the land sloped to the river, a gentle descent through scattered trees and brush. On the sandy bank, a cluster of dugouts rested side by side. The moonlight was almost blinding, and Edgar looked for the rabbit, as he had on many nights since they had passed through the Mediterranean. Now, for the first time, he saw it, running at the side of the moon, as if half in dance, half in a scurried attempt to escape. Below the rabbit, the forest was thick and dark, and the Salween slipped by silently, the sky swimming almost imperceptibly through its currents. The camp was quiet. He had not seen Khin Myo since they arrived. Everyone must have left to sleep, he thought.

The air was cool, almost cold, and he stood for several silent minutes until he caught his breath, and he turned and ducked inside the doorway. He closed the door. There was a small mattress, draped in a mosquito net. The porter had gone. Kicking off his boots, he climbed beneath the netting.

He had forgotten to lock the door. A small gust of wind blew it open. Moonlight danced in on the wings of tiny moths.

The following morning Edgar awoke to the sensation of closeness, a rustling at the mosquito net, hot breath near his cheek, the muffled giggling of children. He opened his eyes to meet a half dozen other whites, irises, pupils, before their little owners shrieked and ran squealing out of the room.

It was light already, and much cooler than in the lowlands. In the night, he had pulled the thin sheet over him, and he was still in his clothes from the journey, still filthy. In his fatigue, he had forgotten to wash. The sheets were soiled with mud. He cursed, and then smiled and shook his head, thinking, It is hard to be angry when one has been wakened by the laughter of children. Points of light shone through the cross-weaves of the bamboo wall, speckling the room. They have brought the stars inside, he thought and climbed out from under the mosquito net. As he walked to the door, the percussion of his footsteps on the wooden floor was echoed by a scurrying outside the door and more squeals. The door still hung open. He poked his head out.

A small head at the end of the landing ducked back behind the corner. More giggling. Smiling, he closed the door and slid a rough bolt of wood through a socket across the door jamb. He peeled off his shirt. Dried, matted pieces of mud flaked off and broke on the floor. He looked for a washbasin, but there was none. Not knowing what to do with the clothes, he folded them roughly and set them by the door. He dressed in fresh clothes, khaki trousers, a light cotton shirt and dark waistcoat. He combed his hair hastily and collected the package he had brought for the Doctor from the War Office.

The children were waiting by the door when he opened it. Seeing him, they fled down the walkway. In their hurry, one boy tripped and the others fell on top of him. Edgar reached down, picked up one of the boys, and, tickling him, threw him over his shoulder, now surprised by his sudden playfulness. The other children stayed at his side, emboldened by the realization that the tall foreigner had only enough arms for one package and one squirming child.

On the steps Edgar nearly collided with an older Shan boy. “Mr. Drake, Doctor Carroll want you. He eat breakfast.” He shifted his eyes to the child who stared at him upside down from Edgar’s shoulder. He scolded him in Shan. The children laughed.

“Don’t be angry,” said Edgar. “It is my fault entirely. We were wrestling…”

“Wrestling?”

“Never mind,” said Edgar, now slightly embarrassed. He put the boy down and the group scattered like birds released from a cage. Straightening his shirt and brushing his hair to the side with his fingers, he followed the boy down the stairs.

When they reached the clearing, he stopped. The dark blue shadows of last night’s memory had become blossoming flowers, hanging orchids, roses, hibiscus. Butterflies flew everywhere, flittering, tiny pieces of color that filled the air like parade confetti. In the open space, children played with a ball made of woven cane, shouting as it bounced whimsically over the rough ground.

They walked through the brush and onto the sandy bank, where Doctor Carroll sat at a small table set for two. He was dressed in a crisp white linen shirt, rolled up at the cuffs. His hair was combed neatly, and he smiled as the piano tuner approached. In the sunlight, Edgar was immediately reminded of the photo of the Doctor that he had seen back in London. It must have been taken twenty years earlier, but he instantly recognized the broad shoulders, the strong nose and jaw, the neatly combed hair and the dark mustache, now speckled with gray. Something else was familiar from the photo as well, a movement, an elusiveness, a sense of animation in the blue eyes. The Doctor held out his hand. “Good morning, Mr. Drake.” His grip was strong and his hands rough. “I trust you have slept well.”

“Like a baby, Doctor. Until some of the children found my room.”

The Doctor laughed. “Oh, you will get used to that.”

“I do hope so. It has been a long time since I woke to the sound of children.”

“Do you have children yourself?”

“No, sadly, never. I do have nieces and nephews.”

One of the boys pulled out a chair for him. The river flowed by swiftly, brown and spotted with foam. Edgar had expected to see Khin Myo, but the Doctor was alone. At first her absence struck him as somewhat odd, as she had also been summoned from Mandalay. He thought to ask the Doctor about this, but the question made him uncomfortable. She had said nothing to him on their journey about why she was coming, and she had disappeared so quickly when they arrived.

The Doctor motioned to the package in Edgar’s hands. “Have you brought something?”

“Of course. I am sorry. Music sheets. You have admirable taste.”

“You opened the package?” The Doctor arched an eyebrow.

Edgar blushed. “Yes, I’m sorry, I suppose I shouldn’t have. But…well, I admit I was curious what sort of music you had requested.” The Doctor said nothing, so Edgar added, “Impressive choices…but then some others, unlabeled, which I didn’t recognize, notes that didn’t seem to make much musical sense…”

The Doctor laughed. “It is Shan music. I am trying to put it to the piano. I transcribe it and send it home, where a friend, a composer, makes some adaptations and sends it back. I always wondered what someone who read them would think…Cheroot?” He unwrapped a sardine tin from a handkerchief to reveal a line of rolled cigars of the kind he was smoking the night before.

“No thank you. I don’t smoke.”

“Pity. There is nothing better. A woman in the village rolls these for me. She boils the tobacco in palm sugar and lines it with vanilla and cinnamon and Lord knows what other nepenthe. They dry in the sun. There is a Burmese story of a girl who dried the cheroots she made for her sweetheart by keeping them warm against her body…Alas, I am not so lucky.” He smiled. “Tea, perhaps?”