Descendant of the Crane(3)

“Welcome to the Yellow Lotus,” said a madam, weaving toward them through flocks of painted girls and boys. Her smiling, moonlike face dimmed when she neared Caiyan. “First time at this establishment, I presume?”

Lilian coughed.

“Let’s see…” The madam scanned the courtesans. “The White Peony might be to your liking—”

“We’re here to meet the Silver Iris,” cut in Caiyan.

The madam frowned. “The Silver Iris is our most highly sought-after entertainer.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“She has mastered the golden triad of calligraphy, music, and dance.”

“Again, so I’ve heard.”

“She is choosy with patrons and has limited hours.” The madam leaned in and, with a long, emerald-varnished fingernail, extracted a loose thread from Caiyan’s cloak. “Her gifts are wasted on the likes of you.”

Hesina gulped.

Without batting an eye, Caiyan withdrew a brocade purse. “Is this enough?”

The madam snatched it, loosened the drawstring, and peered in. Hesina couldn’t tell what the woman was thinking, and as the madam bounced the purse up and down in her ringed hand, she sweated through her underclothes.

At last, the madam scrunched the purse shut. “Come with me.”

As she led them up a set of purple zitan-wood stairs and rapped on one of the many doors lining the second-floor corridor, Hesina pinched her own wrist. For five nights, she’d tormented herself with questions. Was it right to do this? Was it wrong? If it was, then was she angry enough, sad enough, selfish enough to see it through regardless? She didn’t know. She’d gotten this far, and she still didn’t know. But now only one question remained: Was she brave enough to hear the truth?

Hesina knew her answer.

The madam rapped again, harder, and a husky voice unfurled from within. “Yes?”

“You have guests.”

“How many?”

“Two,” said Lilian. She leaned against the wall beside the door. “I’ll be right out here.”

“Have they paid?”

The madam moistened her lips. “They have.”

“Leave them, then.”

Nothing happened immediately after the madam departed. The doors didn’t open. Demons didn’t descend from the beamed ceiling to exact their punishment, but as they waited, Hesina’s mind produced demons of its own. Maybe they’d been followed. Maybe someone had recognized her. Maybe—

The doors parted, and her demons fled before treason’s face.

It was an exquisite face. Ageless. Pearlescent. Silver-lidded eyes skimmed past Hesina and landed on Caiyan. Rose-tinted lips crimped in displeasure, and Hesina had all of a heartbeat to wonder how, exactly, Caiyan was acquainted with a courtesan before she was ushered past the doors. The courtesan bolted them, the ivory dowel falling into place like the final note of a song.

Hesina, unfortunately, was much too prone to nervous laughter. In an attempt to ignore the tickling tension in her chest, she fixated on the chamber. A gallery of pipa hung on the walls, their scrolled necks knuckled with ivory frets, strings drawn tight over their pear-shaped bellies. Four-word couplets papered the remaining space. To her embarrassment, Hesina only recognized one from her studies.


Downward unbridled water flows;

Upward unrealized dreams float.


“I assume you’ll want to skip the tea.”

Hesina nearly jumped at the Silver Iris’s voice, which was as metallic as her name.

“That’s correct,” said Caiyan, standing against the door.

“Then let’s have a little demonstration, shall we?”

That won’t be necessary, Hesina imagined saying with grace and magnanimity, but it was a lie, and the Silver Iris knew it. A hairpin was already in the courtesan’s hand. She pushed her finger into its needle-sharp tip, then held the pin over an unlit candle. A bead of blood fell and burst on the wick.

A wisp.

A spark.

A flicker.

The wick ignited into blue flame.

Hesina’s vision swam. The flame blurred, but stayed blue.

Blue. Blue. Blue.

“A nice parlor trick, don’t you think?” asked the Silver Iris. Her tone was conversational, but her gaze picked Hesina apart, straight to the core of who she was: a descendant of murderers.

Hesina’s stomach clenched. She wasn’t supposed to think the Eleven cruel. They’d built a kinder era, a fairer era—one where individuals were judged by their honest work, not the number of sooths and nobles they knew. Everyone was promised rights by the law—everyone but the soothsayers, who had manipulated the public for so many centuries. Death by a thousand cuts was considered kind for them…and for the people who employed the sooths for their gifts.

People like Hesina.

The Silver Iris sat and gestured for her to do the same. Weak at the knees, Hesina sank onto the silk-cushioned stool. She realized, somewhat belatedly, that she had yet to reveal her face. The disguise seemed silly now. A child’s game. She looked to Caiyan in question while the Silver Iris swaddled her finger with a handkerchief.

The courtesan spoke before Caiyan could. “So tell me, Princess Hesina.” She balled up the bloodied handkerchief and tossed it into the brazier at their feet, where it promptly burst into flame. “What is it that you wish to see?”