Liu Zihe sat in the window of the tea shop, picking at a plate of cold watermelon seeds, while the heat of the afternoon sun intensified the stench of the alley. He was bored, hungry, and starting to doubt the wisdom of Qian Baosheng's plan.
"If we leave now," Zihe grumbled, fanning himself with a silk handkerchief, "we can find a restaurant with actual walls and perhaps a breeze."
"And lose the vantage point?" Baosheng hissed, his ruined nose twitching. "Look around you, Young Master. The coolies are circling like vultures. If we stand up, this table is gone. And if the table is gone, so is your view of the Cabbage."
Zihe sighed, acknowledging the logic. But his stomach growled.
Baosheng, ever the sycophant, snapped his fingers at the waiter. "Boy! Run to the Hall of Loving Benevolence. Tell my apprentices to bring the baskets. The Young Master will dine here."
Half an hour later, a procession of Baosheng's apprentices arrived, weaving through the crowded tea shop carrying lacquered hampers. They cleared the greasy table and laid out a feast that made the surrounding laborers stare in open envy.
There was Jinhua ham, sliced paper-thin and glowing like rubies. There were river shrimp, sautéed in tea leaves. There was West Lake fish in vinegar sauce, braised pork knuckle, and a roast duck that glistened with soy glaze.
"It is a simple meal," Baosheng apologized, pouring a cup of warmed Shaoxing wine for his patron. "But it will sustain us."
Zihe picked up his ivory chopsticks. "You have a talent for comfort, Baosheng."
As they ate, Baosheng kept one eye on the door of Number Five across the alley. The tea shop was filling up. Men who had spent the morning working were now settling in for the spectacle, their voices rising in a cacophony of dialects. But at Zihe's table, an island of luxury amidst the squalor, the conversation was hushed.
"She will come," Baosheng promised, refilling Zihe's cup. "The ghosts are punctual."
The hour of the procession approached. The sun began its descent, casting long, bruised shadows across the mud of Peace Alley. The noise from the main street grew louder—a rhythmic thudding of drums that vibrated in the chest.
"They are coming," a voice shouted from the street. "The ghosts are coming!"
Zihe straightened, wiping grease from his lips. He fixed his eyes on the door of Number Five.
A voice rang out from across the alley—loud, grating, and unpleasant, like a saw cutting through bone.
"The show is starting! Come out! Come out!"
Zihe flinched. "Gods, Baosheng, is that her voice? You said she was a nightingale."
"Look," Baosheng said, pointing.
A figure emerged from the house. It was a woman, but a woman who seemed constructed from spare parts rejected by the gods. She had a flat nose, a protruding mouth, and skin the color of old parchment. Her hair was thin and yellow, like dry straw. She lumbered onto the threshold, clapping her large, clumsy hands.
"Hurry up!" the woman shouted into the house. "Little Cabbage! The ghosts won't wait!"
Zihe recoiled, genuine horror on his face. "That... thing? That is the beauty?"
Baosheng chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. "No, Young Master. That is Third Girl. The idiot sister-in-law. They call her 'Wilted Vegetable.' She is the shadow that proves the light."
Zihe relaxed, but his nerves were frayed. He took another drink of wine.
"Then where is the light?" he demanded.
As if on cue, a hand appeared on the doorframe.
It was a hand of shocking delicacy—white, slender, with tapered fingers that seemed carved from milk jade. It rested against the dark, rotting wood of the door like a flower against a coffin.
And then, Little Cabbage stepped out.
She wore a tunic of pale green cotton, simple and unadorned, but it fit her form with a grace that made the silk of the courtesans seem gaudy. Her hair was pulled back in a severe knot, revealing the long, elegant curve of her neck. Her face was a perfect oval, pale and luminous in the gloom of the alley. Her eyebrows were curved like distant mountains in a painting; her lips were a small, red bud.
But it was her eyes that stopped Zihe's heart. They were large, dark, and filled with a profound, quiet melancholy. They were eyes that had seen too much and expected nothing.
She walked with a swaying gait, her tiny "Golden Lotus" feet encased in embroidered shoes of red satin. She moved to stand beside the lumbering Third Girl, a diamond placed next to a rock.
"Gods," Zihe whispered. The wine cup slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor. He didn't notice.
He stared at her, transfixed. He had come looking for a conquest, a toy to break. Instead, he felt a sudden, violent ache in his chest. It was lust, yes, but it was also something darker—a desire to possess, to own, to consume.
"You see?" Baosheng hissed, leaning close. "Did I lie?"
Zihe couldn't speak. He just nodded, his eyes devouring her.
At that moment, Little Cabbage turned her head. She looked across the alley, toward the tea shop. Her gaze swept over the crowd of coolies and settled on the window.
She saw them.
She saw the table laden with expensive food. She saw the man with the ruined face. And she saw the young man in the blue silk robe, staring at her with a hunger that was naked and terrifying.
Their eyes locked.
For a second, the noise of the festival faded. Zihe felt exposed, as if she could see the gold in his pocket and the rot in his soul.
Then, she turned away.
It wasn't a coy turn, or a flirtatious glance over the shoulder. It was a dismissal. She turned her back to him, focusing her attention on the street, as if he were no more interesting than the flies buzzing around the watermelon rinds.
"She saw me," Zihe whispered. "And she looked away."
"She is modest," Baosheng lied. "She is virtuous. That is part of the game."
"No," Zihe said, his voice tightening. "She looked away because she didn't care. She dismissed me, Baosheng. A tofu maker's wife dismissed the son of a Magistrate."
His hand closed around the edge of the table, his knuckles white. The rejection stung more than any insult. It transformed his desire into obsession.
The drums reached a crescendo. The procession arrived at the mouth of the alley.
The crowd surged forward, pressing against the barriers. But Zihe and Baosheng had the high ground.
First came the horses—thirty-four of them, draped in silk and bells, led by grooms in red liveries. Then came the "High Platforms," towering floats carried on the shoulders of sweating men. On top, children tied to iron frames enacted scenes from legend: The Eight Immortals Crossing the Sea, Judge Bao Clearing a Case, Guan Yu Riding Alone.
The crowd roared its approval.
Then came the penitents—men with iron hooks pierced through the skin of their arms and chests, dragging heavy bronze incense burners. The smell of blood and sandalwood filled the air, a heady, sickening perfume.
It was a display of medieval brutality and religious ecstasy.
But Zihe saw none of it. He watched only the back of Little Cabbage's neck. He watched the way a stray lock of hair curled behind her ear. He watched her hand resting on Third Girl's shoulder.
He noticed something else, too.
Standing a few feet away from Little Cabbage was a man. He was short, stunted, with a face like a compressed dough ball. He wore the stained apron of a tofu worker. He did not look at the procession; he looked at the crowd, his eyes darting suspiciously.
"The husband," Baosheng whispered. "Ge Pinlian."
Zihe watched as Pinlian reached out and grabbed Little Cabbage's arm, pulling her back from the edge of the crowd. His grip was rough. She didn't flinch, but her posture stiffened.
"He treats her like cattle," Zihe hissed.
"He owns the cattle," Baosheng shrugged. "Until someone buys it."
The Twist: The Observer in the Shadows
The procession lasted an hour. When the final float—a terrifying effigy of the King of Hell—passed by, the crowd began to disperse.
Little Cabbage turned immediately and went back inside the house, her head bowed. Third Girl lingered, clapping at the retreating ghosts, until Pinlian barked an order and dragged her inside.
The door of Number Five slammed shut.
Zihe sat back, exhausted. The adrenaline of the sighting had faded, leaving a hollow ache.
"She is gone," he said.
"But not far," Baosheng reminded him. "She is just across the alley."
"It doesn't matter," Zihe said, pouring the last of the wine. "Did you see her face? She is cold, Baosheng. She is a statue. Money won't buy that."
"Money buys everything," Baosheng insisted. "It just depends on the currency. Sometimes it is gold. Sometimes it is fear. Sometimes it is hope."
As they argued, neither noticed that they were still being watched.
In the corner of the tea shop, a man in a wide-brimmed straw hat stood up. He had nursed a single cup of tea for three hours. He had seen the food, the wine, the lust. And he had seen the rejection.
He was Liu Zihan, the thief who held Yang Naiwu's love letter.
He slipped out the back door of the tea shop and melted into the crowd. He had a plan. He knew that a man like Zihe, stung by rejection, would be vulnerable to a different kind of offer.
Liu Zihan walked toward the Hall of Loving Benevolence. He would wait for them there. He had something to sell. Not a woman, but a weapon.
Back in the tea shop, Zihe stood up, smoothing his silk robe.
"Let's go," he said. "I need to think."
"About what?" Baosheng asked.
"About how to break a statue," Zihe said. "Without shattering it."
They walked out into the twilight, the smell of incense and rot hanging heavy in the air. The festival was over, but the real drama was just beginning.
To see how the thief makes his move, read the next chapter.