Jade Fire Gold(2)

“I did, but it isn’t enough,” I lie, a knot twisting in my stomach.

I lost my job two weeks ago at the only place that would hire me. The innkeeper’s a stickler for punctuality and I was late for work a few times this month. I kept missing my ride from our village into Shahmo after staying up through the night caring for Ama. It’s impossible to sprint the entire distance in the oppressive heat. I’ve tried, but sometimes, trying isn’t enough.

The healer gives me an odd look. “How old are you? Sixteen?”

I nod, self-consciously tugging the two braids that run down to my waist. Girls my age normally keep their hair pinned up and secured by a fāzān—the ceremonial hairpin that shows they are of marriageable age. Ama wanted to get me one; she felt it was an important rite of passage. I don’t see the point. Marriage is the last thing on my mind and money is better spent on food or fixing our run-down hut.

The healer averts his eyes, mumbling, “I hear Madam Liu is looking for new girls for her establishment. The bazaar is finally coming back this weekend, and she expects a crowd. Even with that scar on your cheek, a girl like you wouldn’t have a problem.”

The knot in my stomach tightens. “Are you suggesting that I work at the brothel?”

“There is no shame in what those women do. It’s an honest living,” he says quickly, a hand raised to smooth the tension between us. “My wife’s second cousin works there as a cleaner. She could help arrange a meeting with Madam Liu.”

“I’ll think about it,” I manage.

Something like sympathy crosses the healer’s face before he turns back to his herbs, narrow shoulders hunching. I grab my pathetic stack of coins and stumble out of the apothecary, nausea fermenting in my stomach. I know he’s right. The old silvery scar on my left cheek is faint, hardly noticeable except under harsh light, and I have youth on my side.

An honest living.

For the desperate. And I am desperate.

But I don’t know if I’m desperate enough. I brush those thoughts away. I can think about that later. Right now, I can’t go home empty-handed.

The dreadful sound of Ama’s rib-rattling cough echoes in my mind. She doesn’t know I lost my job. I’ve kept up my act, waking at dawn each day, hitching the same ride into town and back again, spinning tales of my days at the inn during our evening meals. Meals that have gotten increasingly meager as money runs out.

Time to fix this.

I lower the brim of my old straw hat and drape my linen scarf across my chin and nose. Even though most of my time in Shahmo is spent in the inn’s kitchen and not many people would recognize me at first glance, it’s best to be cautious.

It helps that an Imperial decree went up in the town square a week ago: we are to dress in white robes for the next forty-nine days as a sign of respect for our dead emperor. But new robes cost money and white robes are hard to keep clean. Most of us wear the cheaper but well-woven pale linens the desert nomads trade instead. It’s against tradition and an imperfect substitute, but the Imperial troops pay little attention to this far-flung outpost of the Shi Empire and its surrounding villages.

As a town that was formerly part of another country, and more important, one that doesn’t fill the Imperial coffers, we aren’t worth the effort.

I blend easily into the milling crowd of beige, with the occasional dot of creamy white, and skim past the open food carts. My light fingers pick up some yóutiáo and a couple of mántou. By the time I get home, the crullers will be a soggy mess and the fluffy steamed buns as hard as rocks. But they’ll have to do. The food disappears into my robes with practiced ease, honed by years of not having enough.

The cart in front of me has some chuàn’r, grilled meat that would be a treat for Ama. But I’m not sure if the sharp points of the skewers would tear my patched-up robes. As I loiter, instinct turns my head.

A hulking man is walking toward me, his forehead scrunched into a deep frown. Did he see me stealing the food? Pulse quickening, I move to the next stall and examine the display of rough-spun cotton handkerchiefs with feigned interest. Dull and poorly embroidered, they are pitiable imitations of the silk handkerchiefs carried by the ladies from the great eastern cities of the Empire.

My shoulders loosen as the man passes me by without incident. Just to be sure, I watch his retreating back. He can’t be from around here. Unlike the men in the Shi Empire who keep their hair long because of tradition, his is razored close to his scalp. His coarse, ruddy skin hints of a southern lineage or too much time in the sun. Showing no regard for the official decree, he’s dressed in a dark gray cotton hànfú with no embroidery or decoration on his tunic or pants. Civilian clothes of a lower class. A trader from the Nandah nation in the south, maybe.

Or a soldier on leave, I remind myself. Best to stay away. Besides, I need to get the food back to Ama.

“I saw what you did.”

I spin around and find a cheeky grin. Li Guo eyes the lumps around my waist.

“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at work?” I say to the strapping boy in front of me. He has a laugh that makes you think his life is easy. But Li Guo has a leanness we all share here. A leanness that tells you how often we go to bed with empty stomachs.

“I’m done with today’s shift and was on my way home when I saw you.”

“How’s everyone?” I ask as we walk side by side. I was working at the inn for almost a year; Li Guo’s been there for two after moving from our village to Shahmo. He’s probably my only friend, but the other workers at the inn were at least civil to me.