"Don't give me poetry, Baosheng. I can buy poetry for a copper coin. Give me flesh."
Liu Zihe lounged on the divan in the upper room of the Hall of Loving Benevolence, a cup of Shaoxing wine tilting dangerously in his hand. The air in the pharmacy was heavy with the scent of dried herbs and the sweeter, cloying odor of opium smoke.
Qian Baosheng, the apothecary with the ruined face, sat opposite him. He savored the moment. He knew his audience. For a man like Zihe—spoiled, jaded, and possessing the attention span of a gnat—desire was an act of imagination before it was an act of the body.
"Young Master," Baosheng hissed, the sound whistling slightly through the collapse of his cartilage. "To describe her is to cheapen her. But if you insist..."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr.
"Imagine skin the color of milk in a porcelain bowl—cool to the eye, but fever-hot to the touch. A face shaped like a melon seed, perfectly balanced. Eyebrows like the willow leaves of spring, thin and curved as if drawn by a master calligrapher. And her feet... Golden Lotuses, barely three inches long. When she walks, she sways like a flower in a breeze. Even a monk would drop his rosary."
Zihe's eyes dilated. He swirled his wine, mesmerized.
"You paint a masterpiece, Baosheng. But surely you exaggerate. A tofu maker's wife? With such refinement?"
"I do not lie to gold," Baosheng said, glancing at the heavy ring on Zihe's finger. "She is a freak of nature. A pearl thrown into a pigsty. Why do you think the great scholar Yang Naiwu risked his neck for her? Why do you think he wrote poems to her eyes? She is the 'Little Cabbage.' Fresh, crisp, and utterly forbidden."
Zihe laughed, a sharp, excited sound. "Little Cabbage. A rustic name for a rare dish. But tell me—where does this paragon hide? In a tower?"
Baosheng grinned, exposing yellow teeth. "In a hole, Young Master. Peace Alley. A dark, narrow scar of a street. She is trapped there with her husband, the Dwarf."
"The Dwarf?" Zihe sat up, his lethargy vanishing.
"Ge Pinlian," Baosheng sneered. "A man not five feet tall. Ugly as a gargoyle, poor as a church mouse, and smelling of sour beans. It is the great joke of the gods—Beauty and the Beast living in a shack. He works all night; she stays home, stitching embroidery to buy rice. It is a tragedy. A waste."
Zihe's mind began to race. The image was irresistible: a stunning beauty shackled to a monster, abandoned by her cowardly lover, waiting in the dark for a savior. And Liu Zihe, with his silk robes and gold bars, fancied himself a savior.
"She will be easy," Zihe declared, draining his cup. "A woman like that must loathe her existence. A few gold coins, a touch of elegance... she will fall into my lap like a ripe plum."
Baosheng raised a cautionary hand. "Do not be so sure. This fruit hangs high. She is from a scholar's family. She can read. She knows the Confucian virtues. She is not a common whore who spreads her legs for silver."
"Virtue?" Zihe scoffed, pouring more wine. "Virtue is just a negotiation tactic."
"Perhaps," Baosheng conceded. "But to catch her, you will need more than money. You will need... opportunity."
"Then create one," Zihe ordered.
"Tomorrow," Baosheng said. "The Grand Procession. She will come out to watch the ghosts. And we will be waiting."
The morning of the twenty-ninth dawned hot and sticky, the sun pressing down on Cangqian like a heated iron. The town was a hive of activity, buzzing with the manic energy of the festival.
Baosheng woke his patron early. Zihe, groggy and irritable, was dressed by his servants in a robe of pale azure silk, chosen to contrast with the grime of the streets. He tucked the pouch of gold leaf into his sash and followed the apothecary out into the heat.
They navigated the crushing crowds, Baosheng clearing a path with his sharp elbows and his terrifying face. They turned away from the main thoroughfare and slipped into the gloom of Peace Alley.
It was a depressing stretch of mud and rotting timber. The houses leaned against each other like drunks, their whitewash peeling in damp strips.
"Here," Baosheng whispered, pointing to a dilapidated tea shop. "The view is perfect."
They entered the teahouse. It was a low-ceilinged, smoky den filled with coolies and laborers. The air smelled of cheap tea and unwashed bodies. Zihe wrinkled his nose, lifting a scented handkerchief to his face.
"Must we sit here?" he complained.
"It is the only vantage point," Baosheng insisted. He bribed the waiter—a harried boy with a towel over his shoulder—and secured the table by the window.
Through the wooden lattice, they had a direct line of sight to the house across the alley: Number Five. The door was closed, the wood gray and weathered.
Zihe sat down, arranging his silks so they wouldn't touch the greasy table. He ordered a pot of tea he had no intention of drinking and a plate of watermelon seeds.
"Now," Baosheng whispered, "we wait."
The hours dragged. The heat inside the teahouse rose. Flies buzzed lazily over the sugar bowls. Zihe grew restless, his leg bouncing under the table.
"She isn't coming," he grumbled, cracking a seed between his teeth and spitting the shell onto the floor. "The Dwarf keeps her locked up."
"She will come," Baosheng soothed him. "The procession passes the end of the alley. No one stays inside for the ghosts. Patience, Young Master. The hunter does not complain of the wait; he only cares for the kill."
Zihe signaled his servant to bring the wine hamper they had packed. He began to drink, his cheeks flushing.
"If this is a trick, Baosheng," Zihe warned, his voice slurring slightly, "I will have your other ear."
Just then, the door of Number Five creaked open.
Zihe froze, the cup halfway to his mouth.
A figure emerged. But it was not a beauty. It was a lumbering, heavy-set girl with a vacant, doughy face and a string of saliva at the corner of her mouth. She sat on the threshold, blinking in the sunlight, and began to clap her hands at a passing stray dog.
"Is that her?" Zihe asked, horror dawning on his face. "Is that the pearl?"
Baosheng chuckled dryly. "No, Young Master. That is Third Girl. The idiot sister-in-law. She is the watchdog. If she is out, the Cabbage is coming."
Zihe exhaled, wiping sweat from his upper lip. He took another drink. The noise from the main street was growing louder—the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of the great drums announcing the approach of the procession.
"It begins," Baosheng murmured.
The alley began to fill with people rushing toward the main street. The teahouse emptied, patrons abandoning their cups to catch a glimpse of the High Platforms.
But Zihe did not move. He kept his eyes glued to the door of Number Five.
Third Girl stood up and shouted something into the house, waving her arms excitedly.
A hand appeared on the doorframe. It was white, slender, and delicate, glowing against the dark wood like a piece of carved ivory.
And then, Little Cabbage stepped out.
Liu Zihe stopped breathing.
She was wearing a simple tunic of pale green cotton, faded from washing, and trousers of white linen. She wore no jewelry, no makeup, no flowers in her hair. She was stark, unadorned, and breathtaking.
The contrast with her surroundings was violent. In the gray mud of the alley, she shone with a terrifying luminosity. Her face was indeed a melon seed, pale and smooth; her eyes were dark pools of melancholy. She stood on the threshold, shielding her eyes from the sun, a wistful, almost tragic smile touching her lips as she listened to the music.
It was not the practiced beauty of the courtesans Zihe knew. It was raw. It was the beauty of something wild and trapped.
"Gods," Zihe whispered. The wine cup slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor, splashing his boots. He didn't even blink.
"You see?" Baosheng whispered, leaning close, his breath hot on Zihe's ear. "Did I lie?"
Zihe couldn't speak. He felt a physical ache in his chest—a mixture of lust and a sudden, overwhelming possessiveness. He didn't just want to touch her; he wanted to break her out of this cage and put her in one of his own making.
At that moment, as if sensing the weight of his gaze, Little Cabbage turned her head.
Across the narrow alley, through the lattice of the window, their eyes met.
She saw a young man in expensive blue silk, his face flushed, staring at her with the hunger of a wolf.
She did not smile. She did not lower her eyes in false modesty. She simply looked at him with a cool, detached curiosity, as if he were a strange insect. Then, without a flicker of interest, she turned away, took Third Girl's hand, and began to walk toward the main street.
V. The Beast and the Observer
"I must follow her," Zihe stammered, scrambling to stand up. "I must speak to her."
"Sit down!" Baosheng grabbed his sleeve, his grip surprisingly strong. "Do not be a fool. If you chase her in the street, you are just another lecher. Look."
Baosheng pointed a crooked finger.
Following Little Cabbage out of the house was a man. He was short, stunted, with broad shoulders and a face like a compressed dough ball. He wore the stained apron of a tofu worker, and he walked with a rolling, proprietary swagger.
"The Dwarf," Zihe realized, revulsion curling his lip.
"Ge Pinlian," Baosheng confirmed. "Look at him."
They watched as Pinlian caught up to his wife. He said something sharp, gesturing angrily at her delay. He shoved her roughly by the shoulder to steer her around a puddle. Little Cabbage stumbled, catching herself, but she didn't look at him. She just kept walking, her head high, enduring the touch of the beast.
Zihe's hands clenched into fists on the windowsill. "He touches her with those hands? It is a profanity."
"It is an opportunity," Baosheng corrected. "He is a brute. You are a gentleman. She is suffering. You are the cure."
Zihe nodded slowly, watching the mismatched couple disappear into the crowd. The narrative was set in his mind now. He was not a predator; he was a liberator.
"Tonight," Zihe whispered. "I want her tonight."
"Tonight the ghosts walk," Baosheng grinned. "Chaos is our friend."
But they were not the only ones watching.
In the darkest corner of the teahouse, hidden in the shadows of a pillar, sat a man in a wide-brimmed straw hat. He had been nursing a single cup of cold tea for two hours. He had seen the arrival of the silk-clad stranger. He had seen the gold ring. He had seen the shattered cup.
And he had seen the look on Zihe's face when the woman appeared.
The man stood up quietly, leaving a few copper coins on the table. He slipped out the back door, moving with the stealth of a cat.
He was Liu Zihan, the former servant of the Yang family—the thief who had stolen the love letter from Yang Naiwu's desk months ago. He still carried that letter next to his heart, waiting for the moment it would turn into silver.
He had watched the Scholar fall. Now, he saw the Magistrate's son stepping into the same trap.
A cruel smile played on his lips as he vanished into the crowd. He had leverage on the Scholar. Now, he realized, he might soon have leverage on the Magistrate.
The trap was set. The bait was taken. And as the sun began to set over Cangqian, the shadows lengthened, ready to swallow them all.
To see how the trap is sprung in the darkness of the festival, read the next chapter.