by Jeannie Lin
Most of the fresh-faced scholars who crowded the city wards had fathers and grandfathers of notable birth and name. They were practically assured a passing mark. Cheng was only allowed within the academic halls by recommendation. Their local official had spoken of him to Minister Lo, who’d then sponsored his excursion to the imperial capital for the exams. This was his last chance to rise above his birth and bring honour to his family and hometown. He would follow every rule and custom if that’s what was required.
Yet the words wouldn’t come, no matter how much he willed them to. He needed inspiration and it had sadly abandoned him. Rose had been the one bright glimmer in an otherwise dim evening. He paused to smooth a hand over the front of his tunic at the park entrance.
She was inside the gate, standing at the edge of the grass with her back to him. Unlike the previous night, she wore a long grey tunic over trousers. With those colours, she could almost disappear against the grey brick structures of the ward. It wasn’t quite what he’d expected. Not that he knew what to expect, but he’d allowed himself a few whimsical fantasies.
“Rose!”
She didn’t answer. Cheng had to call her name again. He was nearly upon her by the time she swung around, startled.
“You scared me,” she accused.
“I was calling for you.”
In the close quarters of his chamber, she’d seemed so tempting. In the sunlit park, she took on a different appeal. Her skin was pale and radiant, her lips unpainted. He’d been thinking of her face all night in between verses about civic duty. Rose was more intriguing than immediately noticeable as pretty. Her almond eyes seemed too large for her face and her chin narrowed to a point like a cat’s.
Once again he was caught with his tongue stiff, his words tangled. “You sent me a message.”
She glanced over her shoulder once before whipping those deep eyes back to him. “Have you been to the Lotus Pavilion?”
The pagoda stood high just beyond the line of shops. The green tiled roof made it an easily identifiable landmark of the district. At night, the eaves would be hung with a cascade of lanterns. Even in the drunkest of stupors, one could tell where he was by the pavilion’s radiance.
“I can’t afford to drink at the Lotus Pavilion,” he said with a smirk. “Is that where you entertain?”
“Of course not,” she snapped, with the same force of denial he’d affected. She waved her hand about for effect. “If I did work at the Lotus Pavilion, would I be out here? I would be sleeping off the night beneath silken covers.”
The Lotus Pavilion employed the most sought-after courtesans and entertainers. Noblemen and ministers of the highest ranks hosted lavish gatherings there. Only the most fortunate of scholars were ever invited: ones with the right name or connections. Never him.
Rose shook her head, agitated. “What a mess.”
“Is there trouble?”
“A mess,” she muttered again, for dramatic effect. She fixed her hands onto her hips, perplexed.
Cheng was quickly reminded of why he’d ventured there, despite the crumpled draft of his essay that he’d fed into the fire for warmth. He liked mysteries. He also liked her impossibly slender waist and the flare of her hips beneath it. She was much nicer to look at than a blank page.
She looked him up and down. “I don’t understand. The description fit perfectly; tall, shoulders like an ox. Down to that prominent, jutting brow.”
“Really?” His hand flew self-consciously to his forehead.
He was trying to discern whether the description was unflattering when Rose snatched his hand away. Her long, delicate fingers circled his wrist. They were the only thing delicate about her.
“There was a large banquet at the Lotus Pavilion a week ago,” she said impatiently. “One of the attendees looked like you. Another scholar. Do you know him?”
Rose hadn’t been searching for him last night at all. He couldn’t help but be a bit disappointed. “What were you doing sneaking into a man’s bedchamber anyway?” he asked, leveling his gaze to hers.
She realized she was still holding onto him and let go abruptly. “He took something that belongs to me. Something valuable.”
With an impatient huff, she turned away, staring at the narrow width of the park while dropping deep into her own thoughts. Something about her impetuousness fascinated him. She was bold, single-minded, and very much a riddle—like the ones hidden in lanterns for lovers to solve.
“So you’re not a courtesan,” he said.
She made a disgruntled sound in response that was answer enough, but he already sensed she wasn’t one of the peach-blossom beauties that enchanted men to their chambers. Rose was a good name for her. She definitely had more than a few thorns to her.
Her gaze narrowed. “You’re going to help me,” she declared.
“What?”
“Yes.” She straightened to square off against him, which still left her a head shorter. Still she had the look of a marauding barbarian. “I have your books.”
“But those dogs in the alley—”
“I sent them.”
“You?”
He was shocked more than outraged. His knuckles were scuffed from the fight. Her eyes flickered to his left cheek, the same spot where a bruise had formed. She flinched before glancing away. At least she felt some remorse.
“I should go to the city guards and have you arrested,” he growled.
His threat brought her fire back. “I know every official in the district. And what evidence do you have? Another drunken student got himself mugged. The magistrate hears that story every day.”
His retort died before it left his lips. The ward station had been less than helpful when he’d gone to them. They’d appeared bored, not even caring that his name had been marked down incorrectly in the report.
He tried to appeal to her sense of reason. “There’s an essay in there that I need before the imperial exams.”
“Then you have no choice but to help me.”
He folded his arms over his chest. This woman was going to be the end of him. “What do you propose?”
“You find this other student and bring me what he stole from the Lotus Pavilion.”
“And what is that?”
“A book.”
“A book?”
“It’s a very valuable book.” She tucked her hands into her sleeves nervously. “A book of poetry.”
Rose didn’t strike him as a connoisseur of poems. There was something else there. A hint of desperation had crept into her expression. She tried to play as if she held something over him, but in truth she was the one in need.
“It’s the personal journal of the courtesan Xue Lin,” she continued.
“Xue Lin?”
The infamous courtesan was well known. Her poems had been presented within the imperial court to the Emperor himself.
“I have no interest in her exalted verses. Someone is offering a fortune for that book. Enough to pay my debts and be free of this place.” She looked away, but he’d seen how her mouth grew tight. Her tone was thin, forced. “I could play the pipa until my hair turns grey and I wouldn’t earn that much.”
In profile, her fine bone structure appeared more delicate and vulnerable. It was as if he were seeing her again for the first time; the plain clothing, the slightness of her frame. She didn’t have the soft, rounded curves of a well-fed courtesan or a pampered singsong girl. Rose earned her stay in the North Hamlet as a musician, coin by coin.
Perhaps her sharp, snappish nature worked on the people she consorted with. It made her formidable enough to be taken seriously, to have some measure of authority. She didn’t have a courtesan’s seductive ways, so she’d put on another layer of armour, warding people away with the fierceness of her scowl.
“The book doesn’t really belong to you,” he said.
“I have more right to it than that dog who took it from the Pavilion. I live here, grew up here. You scholars just come to drink and laugh until th
e cash runs out. And then you write home to rich fathers for more.”
A moment of guilt washed over him. He’d considered writing to Minister Lo that morning to ask for more funds, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He’d already failed the exams one time. If he didn’t pass this time, it would be another three years before the exams would be administered again. Cheng would rather return home, a no-name, than ask for another chance. He’d work the fields for the rest of his life to repay the minister what he already owed.
All Rose wanted was a chance as well. She wasn’t so different from him.
“I knew you weren’t a courtesan,” he began. “When you were in my room you seemed so nervous.”
The perfumed flowers of the evening didn’t solicit men in their private apartments. Patrons came to the courtesans to worship. He had been drawn in by her awkwardness and her sincerity—though she’d been lying to him at the time.
“And also so uncultured,” he added.
Her gaze narrowed menacingly. It was good to get the best of her for once.
“That’s not to say you’re lacking in grace—”
Rose’s eyes flashed like a sleek tigress ready to lunge for his throat. He imagined her claws unsheathing beneath her manicured nails.
“Or charm.” He grinned, decidedly unapologetic.
“For a scholar, you show a great talent for an improper choice of words.” Her lower lip pouted fuller than her upper lip and he knew he was about to do something foolish.
“I do know the man you’re looking for,” he admitted.
“You do? Where is he?”
That got her interest. She was all mercenary, this Rose.
Zhang Guo was his height and build. Other than that, they were night and day. Guo was the son of a merchant who did lucrative business within the city. His father had money. His father had influence. Guo went on and on about it.
He couldn’t let her try to sneak into Guo’s chamber. A little musician could get her hands broken for stealing from someone with Guo’s status. His words escaped before reason settled in.
“I’ll have to show you.”
She met Cheng in the courtyard outside his chambers that night. The moon was high and round, with that faint harvest gleam that marked it as a night for recitations of poetry. She’d come straight from her last performance with her pipa in hand. Cheng was waiting just inside the front gate which led into the courtyard. Three wings formed the walls of the enclosed space, with each wing containing a series of private apartments.
Hopeful scholars preparing for the exams stayed in courtyard houses such as these throughout the city, paying for the rooms by the month. Year after year, a new cycle of students came and went. Jia wondered what would happen to the imperial capital without the yearly crop of scholars to fill its drinking houses and tea rooms.
Cheng’s hands were folded behind his back as he gazed up at the sky contemplatively. What was it with scholars and the moon?
He must have heard her footsteps as he turned to her the moment she entered. With a long look, he took her in from head to toe. She was once again in full costume. Her robe was turquoise and embroidered with lilies along the seams and the silk flowed down her figure like a cascade of water. Her hair was coiled and pinned, her lips stained with a shock of red.
“You look pretty tonight.”
Men were so predictable. “Scholars with your honey and sugar words,” she scoffed.
Cheng’s crooked grin surprised her. “I haven’t even begun to wield my poetry on you.”
“Come on. I don’t have much time,” she snapped, but a small spiral of unexpected pleasure curled through her.
They had agreed to meet at the first hour, the Hour of the Rat, and though it was late into the night, it was early when it came to the nightly festivities in the district. She had been playing at a lakeside gathering for a minor official and she’d had to leave early, leaving all those precious coins behind. Maybe after tonight, it wouldn’t matter.
“Where’s my bag?” he asked.
“When I have Xue Lin’s journal.”
He shrugged and led her into the courtyard. She froze when he beckoned her behind the branches of a potted tree in the corner. What kind of mischief was he thinking of? Her grip tightened around the neck of the pipa. She’d hit him over the head with it if he even blinked at her wrong. Not that the instrument would stop a man of his size, and breaking it would add several hundred cash in debt onto her ledger.
“We’re supposed to go get the book,” she protested.
He stopped a respectable distance away. “Guo lives there.” He pointed to a door across the courtyard. “You weren’t too far away when you wandered into my chamber.”
“Is he in there now?”
“At this time?” Cheng sneered. “Guo’s evening is just beginning. He’ll be gone for hours. Stay here.”
“Wait.” She grabbed onto his sleeve as he started toward the door. “You’re going in there alone?”
“If I’m caught, I can always say I was drunk and wandered into the wrong room.” His mouth twitched as his eyes met hers. “You would be more difficult to explain.”
She could see the bruise over his cheek. It looked worse than it had that morning. He’d taken a decent blow to the face to earn that mark. Something didn’t feel right about this. Why was Cheng so willing to help her?
“Keep watch for me,” he said.
She sank back into the corner behind the shrubbery while Cheng moved across the courtyard. Within moments, he disappeared through the door. No locks in these quarters. They were so trusting.
Luo Cheng wasn’t at all as she expected. There was something pure about him. His desk had been stacked with books and pamphlets. That morning, there had been dark circles beneath his eyes and his fingertips always held a faint stain of ink. While his colleagues drank the nights away, it was clear Cheng returned to his rooms each night to study.
She imagined his broad hand closing around a calligraphy brush. He wasn’t born to be a scholar any more than she was born to be a musician, but she’d scrubbed floors and fetched and carried for years to be accepted into the troupe. At the same time, she’d trained on the pipa every moment in between. The only other prospect would have been on her back as a common drinking house whore. She didn’t have the beauty, elegance, or breeding to be anything more.
She turned the instrument around and around in her hands nervously as she glanced from the courtyard gate to the door. It was clear Cheng had come from a place very different than these crowded streets. A place where a young man with all the prospects in the world would risk himself to help a stranger after she’d wronged him.
She’d wronged him.
Her gaze stopped on the door. No man save the Buddha himself would be so forgiving.
Jia swept through the garden, weaving around the shrubbery. How could she be so foolish? She’d made the mistake of telling Cheng how much the book was worth. She had to get to it before him.
She slipped into the room and found Cheng at the opposite end of the room with his back to her. He swung around, a scroll in hand. A single oil candle flickered from the edge of the desk.
“It will be quicker if we both search,” she explained hastily.
He didn’t look pleased with her decision, but he nodded toward the far wall. “Look inside that chest.”
The wooden trunk stood beside a wardrobe. Whoever this Guo was, she could already tell his room was larger than Cheng’s and more elaborately furnished. The candle provided a small halo of light at the opposite side of the room. Jia knelt and rummaged through the trunk, searching for anything that felt like a book. She even ran her hands along the edges and the bottom searching for secret compartments.
“Nothing,” she reported.
“Nothing,” Cheng echoed.
“Maybe he found out how valuable the book is. It might be hidden inside something.” She opened the wardrobe. “Bring that candle here.”
Cheng held the fl
ame up to illuminate the interior. Jia dug her hands through the layers of silk and linen inside. She became restlessly aware of his presence behind her as they both peered into the cabinet.
“He has a lot of clothes,” she muttered in frustration.
“Guo’s father is a textile merchant.”
“He must have some status to drink at the Lotus Pavilion.”
“Maybe Guo didn’t take the book after all,” he suggested.
There were thousands of students in the city. She couldn’t investigate all of them. “It has to be him,” she insisted, renewing her search.
Her pulse skipped as her arm brushed against his. Immediately her insides pulled tight. This sudden sharpening of her senses on him was entirely inconvenient.
“Is the book so important to you?” Cheng asked quietly.
“How important is it to control one’s own future?” She turned her head to find him close. His arm was nearly around her as he held up the candle. He’d never understand. “There are no imperial exams for song girls,” she said in a whisper.
He fell silent, scrutinizing her. A faint orb of light enclosed them like a secret embrace. Even in the darkness, she was afraid the glow would reveal too much. She dropped her gaze to the point just below his chin as her stomach fluttered.
She struggled with her next words. “Where else can we look?”
A voice rang out just beyond the door. Cheng tensed. She tensed.
“I can’t believe you lost it all so early!”
“Quiet, you drunken dog.”
Cheng blew out the candle and ushered her into the space between the bed and the wardrobe as the door rattled. He shut the cabinets and shoved himself into the tiny enclosure against her. Right against her.
Jia bit back a protest as she was pressed flat against the wall at one end and flush against a male torso at the other. The two men were inside, making as much noise as the lunar festival. She sucked in a breath and held it. She could feel the solid thump of Cheng’s heartbeat against her cheek.
“Only a minor delay,” one of the men was saying. He grunted laboriously and she thought she heard a scraping sound. His companion continued to crow about the good wine they were missing every moment they were away and the girl with the peach-shaped face that fancied him.
