Khin Myo looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “Were you just skipping?” she asked.

“Skipping?”

“I think I just saw you skipping.”

“No, never, I just was running too fast and couldn’t stop.”

Khin Myo laughed. “I think that I saw you skipping! Mr. Drake…” She smiled. “And now look, you are blushing.”

“I am not blushing!”

“You are indeed. Look, you are turning red this very instant!”

“It is sunburn; that is what happens to Englishmen when they go out into the sun.”

“Mr. Drake, I hardly think even English skin will burn so quickly beneath a hat.”

“Exertion then. I am not a young man.”

“Exertion then, Mr. Drake.” And once again she touched his arm. “Come, let’s look at the flowers.”

It was not the type of meadow to which Edgar was accustomed, not the soft dew-coated fields he knew from the English countryside. This was dry, and the stalks and brushes exploded through the hard soil with hundreds of flowers in hues he couldn’t imagine, for a man trained to tell the difference in notes may not recognize the subtlety of vision. “If only it would rain,” said Khin Myo, “there would be even more flowers.”

“Do you know the names?” he asked.

“Only a couple. I know more of the lowland flowers. But Doctor Carroll has taught me some. That one is honeysuckle. And that one is a type of primrose, also found in China. And that one is Saint-John’s-wort, those will be wild roses.” She picked some as she walked.

From over the hill, they heard singing, and a young Shan girl emerged, first her head, as if disembodied, then her torso, and then her legs and feet, which pattered along the path. She walked quickly, and lowered her head in respect. Ten paces along the trail, she turned back to look at them again, quickened her pace, and disappeared behind a rise.

Neither Edgar nor Khin Myo spoke, and Edgar wondered if Khin Myo had noticed what had been implied in the young girl’s stare, what it meant for the two of them to be alone in the meadow of flowers. Finally he cleared his throat. “Perhaps they will get the wrong idea, if we are alone here together,” he said, and immediately wished he hadn’t spoken.

“What do you mean?”

“I am sorry, never mind.” He looked at her. She was standing very close to him, and a wind from across the meadow mixed the scent of flowers with that of her perfume.

Perhaps she sensed his discomfort, for she didn’t ask again, but raised the flowers to her nose and said to him, “Come smell, there is nothing like it.” And slowly, he lowered his head close to hers, only the scent of the flowers hung in the air between their lips. He had never seen her so close, the details of her irises, the cleft of her lips, the delicate powder of thanaka that ran across her cheeks.

Finally, she looked up and said, “It is getting late, Mr. Drake. You have just been sick. We should go back. Perhaps Doctor Carroll is here already.” And she didn’t wait for him to answer, but pulled an ipomoea from the bouquet and reached behind her head to fasten the flower in her hair. She began to walk back toward camp.

Edgar stood only long enough to watch her walk away, and then set off down the trail to follow her.

Doctor Carroll didn’t return that afternoon, but after six months of drought on the Shan Plateau, the rain did. It caught the two of them as they made their way down the trail, and they began to run together, laughing, big warm drops spinning down through the air with the force of hailstones. Within minutes they were soaked. Khin Myo ran ahead of him with her parasol at her side, her hair swinging with the weight of the water. The ipomoea stayed briefly, held by the tension of droplets, and then, carried off by them, drifted to the ground. With a nimbleness that surprised him, and without breaking the mad muddy rush, Edgar reached down and picked it up.

At the edge of the village, they ran through crowds charging up from the river to escape the sudden downpour, everyone laughing, covering their heads, shouting. For each woman who ran for shelter, to protect her carefully tied turban, two children rushed out into the rain, to dance in a swelling puddle in the clearing. Edgar and Khin Myo finally reached shelter, in front of her room. Water rushed over the lip of the roof and fell curtainlike, separating them from the shouts that filled the camp.

“You are soaked,” laughed Khin Myo. “Look at you.” “And you too,” said Edgar. He watched her, her long black hair plastered against her neck, her light blouse to her body. Her skin could be seen through the translucent cloth, the outline of her breast pressing at the cotton. She looked up at him and brushed wet hair from her face.

He stood and watched her and for a moment she held his gaze, and in the deep recesses of his chest he felt something stir, a longing, that she would invite him to her room, to dry off only, of course, he would never ask for more. To dry off only, and then in the darkness of the room, scented with coconut and cinnamon, a wish that perhaps their hands would brush, first accidentally, then again, perhaps, bolder, deliberate, that their fingers would meet and entwine and they would stand like that for a moment before she looked up and he looked down. And he wondered if she thought the same, as they stood outside and felt the coolness of the water on their skin.

And perhaps it could have been, had Edgar acted with the spontaneity of the rain, had he moved toward her with the same boldness with which water falls. But not now. This expects too much of a man whose life is defined by creating order so that others may make beauty. It expects too much of one who makes rules to ask that he break them. And so, after a long silence, as they both stand and listen to the rain, his voice cracks and he says, “We’d better change then. I must find dry clothes.” Fleeting words that mean little and much.

It rained all afternoon and through the night. In the morning, when the sky cleared, Doctor Anthony Carroll returned to Mae Lwin, having ridden all night through the rain, racing through the storm with the emissary of the Shan Prince of Mongnai.

17

Edgar was sitting on the balcony, watching the frothy waters of the Salween pass, when he heard hoofbeats. The riders broke into camp: Doctor Carroll, followed by Nok Lek and a third man he didn’t recognize.

A group of boys ran out to help the men dismount. Even from a distance, Edgar could see that they were soaked. The Doctor removed his pith helmet and tucked it under his arm. He looked up and saw the piano tuner outside his room. “Good morning, Mr. Drake,” he shouted. “Please come down. I would like to introduce you to someone.”

Edgar pushed himself out of his chair and descended to the clearing. When he reached the group, the boys had taken the ponies away, and Carroll was wiping off his gloves. He wore a riding jacket, and puttees splattered with mud. A damp cheroot hung smoldering between his lips. His face was flushed and tired. “I trust you have survived in my absence?”

“Yes, Doctor, thank you. The rains came. I worked on the piano a bit more. I think it is finally tuned.”

“Excellent, excellent, Mr. Drake. That is exactly what I wanted to hear, and I will explain why in a moment. First, let me introduce you to Yawng Shwe.” He turned to his companion, who bowed slightly before offering his hand. Edgar shook it.

“You can see he is familiar with our customs,” Carroll said of the visitor.

“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” said Edgar.

“He doesn’t speak English. Handshaking only,” said Carroll, wryly. “Yawng Shwe is here as an emissary from the sawbwa of Mongnai. You must have heard of it. It is to the north. The Shan prince—the sawbwa–of the state of Mongnai has traditionally been one of the most powerful in the cis-Salween states. We raced to get here because tomorrow the sawbwa will visit Mae Lwin, and I have extended an invitation to him to stay at the camp. It is his first visit here.” The Doctor stopped. “Come,” he said, wiping his wet hair back from his face. “Let’s find something to drink before we talk further. We are completely parched from a night of riding. And this despite all the rain.”