Stars Never Lie (a Cinderella Story), Part 1/4 | AS/S | NC-17
Title: Stars Never Lie (a Cinderella Story)
Author: persepolis130
Word Count: ~ 35,500
Beta: younglizbeth
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Disguised as a girl to escape a life of servitude, Scorpius is forced to attend the annual Spring Festival, where the Imperial Prince's heir is searching for a wife. When an ill-mannered servant boy discovers his secret, Scorpius flees, leaving behind a single golden shoe. Can he evade the Prince's heir, who's fallen in love with the elegance of his tiny feet? And why does every animal he sees claim to be his dead ancestor?
Author's Notes: This was supposed to be part of the_ass_fest's "AS/S through the Ages," but I had two artists bail on me (very rude, BTW!), so I was forced to withdraw. Anyway, this fic is a quasi-magical AU of our two boys that takes place in China in 1678. Thanks millions to younglizbeth, without whose help, this fic would never have been finished!
Seventeenth Year of the Reign of the Kangxi Emperor
Province of the Bordered White Banner
Imperial China
The yip of our watchdog heralds the messenger's arrival. The silly little thing trots right up to the man, its tail wagging, hopping up and down in hopes of a treat. The messenger shoos it, shifting the strap of his satchel across his shoulder as he treads up the courtyard.
Further inside, tethered in shadow, the guard dog gives a warning growl. Never one to bark, the dark behemoth is deadly with its bite. The messenger gives it a wide berth.
With a sigh, I step away from my vantage point and back into my room. What sort of impression would it give if a man not of my family saw me hanging out a window, gaping at passers-by like a commoner? There's nothing all that special about his coming, anyway; the Prince sends someone every year.
Even so, preparation has no substitute, and I check my clothing, smoothing the silken fabric across the flat of my chest. I feel at the pins in my hair, rearranging a few that have slipped, and straighten my lacquer comb. The sash at my waist is twisted, so I pull it back into place, rolling my fingers into the bow. I squeeze my eyes shut and whisper a quick prayer for luck.
It's a funny thing, luck. They say whether you have it or not is determined at the moment of your birth. On the night I was born, the constellation Scorpius burned brightly in the heavens, and the astronomers declared it an auspicious omen. It was sure to bring fortune to my family, they said, and once I'd outgrown my milk name, Father named me after it. After all, the stars never lie.
Is it odd, then, that my life has turned out this way?
I try not to think about that, though, as it does no good to dwell upon such things. And anyway, even though today's visit is nothing more than a formality, it does feel like a bit of an occasion. It's not every day that we have a visitor, especially one who's here on my account.
Should I change my shoes?
But no, perhaps going that far would be vulgar.
I've just finished readying myself-- all thoughts of vulgarities pushed firmly aside-- when Pansy rushes through the door in her usual graceless manner. "A messenger!" she shrieks, all of a dither. "From the Imperial Prince himself! Quickly, quickly!"
The fine robes and expensive jewelry she wears do nothing to disguise her utter lack of elegance, and I impatiently brush away her hands, which try in vain to tug me out the door. "What could a messenger possibly have to do with me?" I ask, feigning innocence with my usual polish.
"Oh, don't be an imbecile," she says, and rolls her eyes. "You know why he's here!"
"I'm sure I don't want to see anyone," I inform her. "Send him away."
She laughs as though I've said something funny. "The way you talk, people would think you're really something special."
"Mind how you speak to me," I order, but this just makes her laugh harder.
I take a calming breath because as much as she irritates me, I know I shouldn't fault her for behaving like a girl from a teahouse. She can't help it: that's what she is. Or rather, it's what she was before Father took a liking to her.
Not long after Mother died, Father was to sit for the Imperial Examinations, but he felt so terribly listless that he feared he would fail them yet again. He brought Pansy home one day and set her up as his concubine, and proceeded to pass with highest distinction. Grandfather voiced no protest at her presence, and she's been here ever since.
Of course I recognize the good she's brought to us, but she's not exactly the epitome of class. After Father moved away to serve the Emperor, I do think he should've tossed her back onto the street where such women belong.
As if illustrating my point, she shoves me toward the door. "Stop posturing and hurry up, already!" she scolds.
I make a show of straightening my robes, and when a sufficient period of time has passed, I declare, "I suppose if I must go…" and lift my chin, looking down my nose at her. I've been practicing in the mirror, and I'm sure the effect is quite dramatic.
Pansy says, "You look just as stupid doing that as your father does," and shakes her head.
Stung, I tell her, "Well, I am my father's son." As though there were ever any doubt as to my paternity! The same can't be said for her child, of course. Though the girl was born some time after Pansy joined us, Father has never acknowledged her as one of his. A child of this family with a round face, ready smile, and plump fingers?
Isn't that a proverbial cuckoo in the nest!
Pansy purses her lips, catching the jibe. "Don't let the messenger hear you talk like that. As far as anyone else knows, you're your father's daughter. His son died when you were five years old!"
"Do you think I'd forgot?" I snap.
She doesn't answer but makes a disgusted sounding noise.
I ignore it and follow her out into the hall. Her pace is swift, and she looks ready to throttle me when I fall behind. But of course I can't keep up; her feet are two finger widths longer than mine, and I'm nearly a head taller.
The reception room is silent as Pansy and I enter. The messenger stands fussing with a roll of paper, his long legs gangly and odd looking in his Manchu trousers. Grandfather sits elegantly with his Hanfu robes draped over his knees, a haughty expression on his refined features, looking every bit the master of a grand estate. Though he admitted our visitor without delay, he hasn't offered him anything to quench his thirst, which doesn't bode well.
I tilt my head downward and feign womanly modesty. Beside me, Pansy makes the requisite movement of deference to the men, and I hurry to copy it.
"Ah," Grandfather says. "My beloved granddaughter, the beautiful Jade, at last. Shall we commence?"
More shrewd than kind, Grandfather is the sort of man who was held in high esteem back when a clever man's goal was something more than merely being clever. Intelligence used to mean wealth, station, and influence, but that was before the Manchu invaders came to China and ousted us Han from our rightful position of power. Grandfather's still respected now, though primarily for his excellent health at over six decades of age. It shocks people to learn that he still has nearly all of his teeth.
The messenger clears his throat and raises his paper. He sounds very young as he says, "Ahem. By order of the Divine Imperial Prince, much loved adopted son of the Most Heavenly Emperor of China, the unmarried daughters of this household who are of marriageable age and proper breeding are officially--"
"--invited to the Spring Festival, yes, yes, I know the drill," Grandfather snaps. "And my answer is the same as it was last year: my granddaughter is a delicate flower! She is not yet ready!"
I suck in my breath at his discourtesy. I've never heard Grandfather speak in such a way to someone's face. He always waits for people to leave before insulting them.
The messenger says nothing, and I hazard a peek up at him. It is horribly rude for a woman of good breeding to look a free man in the face. Such a thing should be done only amongst family, and even then at the proper time. He doesn't see me though, as he is too busy gaping at Grandfather.
Now I understand Grandfather's irritation: the man bears the red circle emblem and vapid expression of Grandfather's enemies, those traitors to the Han blood whose only benefit to society seems to be the ability to breed like well fed silkworms. They have barbaric names and dirty noses.
It angers me to see him here.
I hide my face and hope the red in my cheeks is mistaken for a maiden's blush.
The messenger clears his throat. "Look, it's got nothing to do with her being ready," he says, sounding harassed. "It's not an invitation this year, it's an order. If she's a proper young lady, she's got to come. My unc-- the Prince is beside himself. I honestly couldn't care less, but there's no getting around it. I mean, unless she's not proper…"
The anger in Grandfather's voice is nearly palpable. "She is the most proper young lady who shall ever graced your sorry excuse for a--"
"Okay, fine," the messenger interrupts his rant. "You say she's completely proper, and I believe you. I'll just make note of her qualifications and then be on my way. I know I've got the list somewhere, I think I put it right next to my… alright. Okay, so… how's her embroidery?"
His question is met with a resounding silence.
"Right, so… no embroidery, then?" the messenger offers.
Tactfully, Grandfather says nothing, as any utterance that escaped his mouth would likely revolve around the distinct probability of embroidery needles through the traitor's eyes.
"How about cooking?" the man asks next.
Silence once again.
"Cleaning?"
Grandfather clears his throat.
"Um, does she at least talk?" he asks.
"I beg your pardon!" Grandfather exclaims.
Pansy sighs and places a hand on my shoulder. Though she used to speak to men on a nightly basis, she shouldn't now that she's Father's. I hold my breath for another breach of decorum.
"Look, the girl's shy, but she's got the Four Womanly Accomplishments well under control, if that's what you're getting at. Womanly speech, womanly virtue, womanly deportment, and womanly work." She counts them off on her fingers. "And she can even read."
"Can she?" the messenger asks. He sounds shocked. "Well, I hope she's not too good at it. It'd be nice for her to be able to teach her sons, but you give a woman too much knowledge, and she might start thinking…"
"I assure you," Grandfather spits, "no woman in this house would ever dream of such a thing!"
"Well, that's a relief," the man answers, nodding. He marks something off on his paper. I suppose this is what he had strapped across his back.
I realize I've looked up again, and turn my gaze back to the floor. Even when they consider themselves literate, most women know only the most basic of characters, but reading is a particular hobby of mine. Grandfather has dozens of books in his library, and I've read every single one from front to back. War and poetry, agriculture and opera, Emperors of ancient times and the oddities of Mongols, I know it by heart.
"Will that be all?" Grandfather asks. His tone implies that the answer is yes.
"Well, um," the man says. "Just, ah, one more thing. I realize it's not really… I mean, I don't understand the custom at all, seems like a horrible disability to me, and I really think it should be banned, but… the rules say I've got to take a look."
Pansy giggles and taps her foot against mine. Aghast, I stare down at my tiny embroidered shoes, the hard earned symbol of my false womanhood.
I swallow.
A woman's worth is measured by her feet. If she is poor or course, or needed for work in the fields, they are large and ugly. If she has discipline and breeding, however, they are bound small and delicate, a graceful extension of the leg. Tiny feet ensure a woman's faithfulness and desirability; the smaller the foot, the higher quality the woman. As the old saying goes, A pretty face comes from nature, pretty feet from character.
To have a man so blatantly ask to see mine, to take a look, is as ghastly and embarrassing as if he asked to examine my--
"I don't need to touch them or anything, but we've got so many girls coming, I've just get a general, you know, estimate…" the messenger tells me (me, oh no, he can't be talking to me, how improper!) as he sinks to his knees.
For a wild moment, his face is even with mine, and in my panic, I forget where I'm looking. Our eyes lock, and a strange feeling washes over me. I've looked at men from my window, and sometimes I watch Grandfather or Father's guests in the atrium, but always from afar. This man's not handsome, but younger than I'd thought, and his eyes so close are brilliant and deep.
They break from mine, but I can still feel them as though he hadn't looked away. He kneels before me and says, "If you could maybe just… hold one up? Just a bit? Your, um, Han dress thingie is covering…"
He may use such words, but I know what he's after. Men covet a woman's tiny golden lotuses. They dream of them and write poetry about their fragrance and the soft ways they want to caress them in the night. I've never read such poems myself, as no one in my family would ever own something so vulgar except Pansy, and she can only read three words. One is her name, and the other two are not repeatable in mixed company.
Though this man may claim to follow the way of the Manchu, he's Han to the core, and I know he's thinking lewd things!
"I feel faint," I whisper. I raise my hand to my forehead and sway against Pansy. "I feel faint…"
She squeals and catches me, but I close my eyes and let my head loll to the side. I must be doing as good of a job at looking traumatized as I imagine because Grandfather starts hissing, "Now look what you've done! I told you she was delicate! We'll have to summon a doctor! Get out of my house, you--"
Pansy hauls me off to the women's quarters, where I can't hear Grandfather's shouts. "Are you trying to get the Board of Punishments involved?" she demands.
I sigh and sit down beside Grandfather's second wife; his only, now that Grandmother's died. I call her my Step-Grandmother, but she's actually my great aunt, Grandmother's sister. Her husband was killed because he wouldn't submit to the new government's Queue Order.
Confucius says we receive our hair from our parents and, in honor to them, should never cut it. Yet the Manchu, to exert their control as our new rulers, force their barbarous custom upon us as a show of our loyalty to them. Keep your hair and lose your head, or keep your head and lose your hair, they say. When we want to keep our heads, what choice do we have?
The Manchu are wicked, our men shave their foreheads, and our parents are disgraced.
Step-Grandmother had nowhere to go with her husband dead, no matter how valiantly he perished, so of course Grandfather did the respectable thing and married her. She's entirely crazy now and usually just stares into nothing and pulls at her own hair, but I don't mind. We're all crazy in our own way, as my existence no doubt proves.
"The Spring Festival," I say, straightening Step-Grandmother's Hanfu. She's got the front part twisted, and her breast is nearly hanging out. "What a joke."
"Not a joke this time," Pansy tells me, brow furrowed. "There's no way around it, the two of us will have to spend our New Years there. The Prince's word is law."
"It is utterly ridiculous," I declare, "that the Emperor of my country could have made such a person his son. Why, the man's not even nobility! What did his father do? Something very stupid and common…"
"Potter," Pansy says. "He made ceramics. Bowls and vases and things."
"Ridiculous!" I repeat.
Pansy shrugs, and Step-Grandmother laughs madly at nothing.
I sigh.
The Spring Festival is held every year, and since I turned twelve, I've been invited. Marriage in Spring is thought to bring harmony and many sons, and dozens of matchmakers attend the Festival, hoping to make good matches for their clients. Most girls beg to go, Pansy says, if not to find a rich husband, then for a chance to view the flowers and meet with childhood friends.
I don't have any friends, we've got flowers at home, and I hardly need festivals to garner proposals. I've had a half dozen over the years, and they always cause trouble for Grandfather. Finding a different way to turn everyone down-- especially when it's the son of a high-ranking official whom I, by all reasoning, should marry-- has been difficult.
Less difficult than giving the real reason, though.
Oh, poor Grandfather, I bring such strain upon him! It's not his fault his grandson makes such a lovely girl! Just imagine all the Festival offers my dignified posture and minuscule feet will bring!
"Of course you know why the Prince is making so many girls come, don't you?" Pansy asks.
I shake my head, still feeling remorseful for Grandfather's sake, and pull Step-Grandmother's hand from her hair. She's been fussing with it a lot and has a bald spot now. "The messenger mentioned him being upset about something, but I can't imagine what that has to do with me."
Pansy grins the way she does when she knows something I don't. It doesn't happen often, but she's an absolute fiend for gossip. "Well, his heir was killed, now wasn't he?" she asks.
I've heard something of this. Grandfather knows a lot of people who know a lot of things, and he tells me those things a grandson should be privy to. The Imperial Prince's eldest son had been training in the military and was killed in a rebellion on the Banner's border some months ago.
"But he has another son," I say. "Why doesn't he name him as heir? Is there something wrong with him?"
Pansy makes a noise of assent. "He was never the most proper of boys, but he's been absolutely uncontrollable since his brother died. Reckless, unruly, stays out all night drinking and cavorting with commoners," she tells me. "They say he wailed with the women at the funeral, and though the mourning period's over, he still hasn't shaved his hair off!"
"I'd thought the brothers didn't get along," I say. "Didn't you say you'd heard that?"
She shrugs. "Maybe he's using grief as an excuse for his behavior."
"Is it so bad that the Prince would disown him, though?" I ask. "Is that why he needs another wife? To give him a more suitable son?"
Pansy laughs. "Oh, it's not the Prince who's getting a wife. You think that shrew he's married to-- feet as big as any man's!-- would allow another woman in the Palace, much less his bed? She can barely stand the concubines, and he's only got twenty-six of them! It's the son's wedding they're preparing for!"
"But you just said he was horrid! An ill-mannered ruffian!" I insist. "And he's hardly older than I am! What would a boy like that do with a wife?"
"I can think of a few things," Pansy says, smirking.
I feel my face heat. "That's not what I meant! Why must you be so crude?"
"They say," she leans in toward me, as though someone other than Step-Grandmother could overhear, "that he invokes the rule of the Third Night."
"The what?" I ask, though the sound of it has me feeling wary.
"It's a Manchu custom, of course. You hear rumors of it on the streets. It states that a woman automatically becomes a man's wife when he's spent the night with her three times," she tells me.
I clap my hands over my mouth, my eyes wide. How barbaric!
"Of course, I'm sure it doesn't count if he pays for it. Such a shame," she laments. "Think of how pretty I would've looked as a bride…"
Pansy has never looked pretty a day in her life, and I hardly think a bride's costume would change that. I'm too disgusted over the Manchu to mention it, though. Imagine marrying in such a way! What about the dowry-- the tea set, linens, lotus seeds, jewelries and lucky money? And the bride price-- cakes, land, and geese, and maybe a few servants thrown in for good measure? And what if--
"What if he only spends two nights with her?" I ask, dreading the response.
Pansy shrugs. "Considering the boy doesn't have a wife yet, I'd say that's exactly what he's been doing."
The noise I make startles even Step-Grandmother. "Disgusting!" I exclaim. "How could anyone think such licentious behavior is suitable? He's sullied innocent maidens! And I'm to be presented as a potential spouse to this boy?"
"I don't think you'll have to worry about your maidenhood around him," Pansy points out.
I ignore her and proclaim, "How mortifying! I feel dirty just thinking of it!"
Pansy laughs and tells me, "You're still young. You'll change your mind one day, you'll see."
"Better that I don't," I tell her.
"Why?" she asks. "You're good looking enough. Don't think you could give some girl a thrill?"
I glare at her, anger building up in my chest. "You're very funny," I snap. "Do you think many girls would rejoice at the thought of passion with a man who's more feminine than they are? Would the arch of my foot inspire them to new heights?"
"Oh, calm down," she says. "I was just--"
"Would you have done it?" I demand, refusing to be pacified. "Back when you did unnamable things for money? Would you have taken the poor soul's payment, or thrown it back in his face and laughed?"
"Don't be stupid, I'd have taken the money, and you know it. Anyone would-- money is money! Must you be so continually melodramatic?" Pansy demands.
I rise in a flurry of movement and kiss Step-Grandmother goodbye, feeling bitter about the whole affair.
"Jade… Jade, wait!" Pansy calls after me as I leave, but I don't answer. Jade… it's a fake name for a fake girl, and I don't feel like being a girl at this moment. As a matter of fact, I don't feel like being much of anything right now.
I wander the halls until I find myself at the ancestral shrine.
Of everyone in the world, I've always loved Father best. He takes me seriously no matter how petty my issues. With him away so often now for his work in the Forbidden City, it's difficult finding someone who understands me. I've always felt that Mother would, though, so I like to visit her here. I bring her tea today, and burn incense to her memory.
"I miss you, Mother," I tell her.
Wishing she were here doesn't do me any good, though, so I walk out to the pond. It's a slow, swaying trek on tiny lotus feet, and I plant each footstep firmly, one paving stone at a time. A single misstep on such uneven ground could mean a broken ankle, twisted knee, or worse.
The sun is just starting to lower in the sky, its brightness warding off the late winter chill. Our servants are all off in the fields, or doing whatever else it is that such people do, and the atrium is quiet. I sigh and sit, dipping my fingers into the still waters of the pond.
It seems that the Imperial Prince is the cause of all woe in my life. If not for Father's stupid life debt to him, no one would've had to think I was a girl in the first place. I don't know the whole story, only that the Prince saved Father's life, a deed which demanded recompense. This was years ago, and Father was young and foolish, and offered his firstborn son.
Never a fool, the Prince accepted.
When the time came, though, Father realized his error. Mother wept herself to illness at the thought of them taking me away, and Father, too, had come to love me very much. What was there to do but hide me? And what better place than in plain sight?
By all accounts, I was a clever and likable boy. I adored horses, jumping rope, pet dragon flies and throwing stones at Grandfather's tetchy old hunting dogs. My family being members of the ancient Han aristocracy and still fairly well off, I was pampered at every turn, but I'm told I never became spoiled from it. I was happy, healthy and carefree.
Perhaps a girl would have known what was coming when she saw the roosters, knife, kettle and wrappings set out in the atrium. Perhaps she would've screamed, or cried and begged for just one more day of freedom, one more romp in the fields under a warm sun before meeting her fate.
I don't remember what I did, but I suppose I just smiled and went along with it.
Unlike what many experience, it wasn't painful for me at first. Mother's belly was heavy with the baby, and she didn't bind as tightly as she might've. Twisting my toes underneath, urging the ball of my foot toward my heel, her hands caused only discomfort. She stitched the bindings up so that I couldn't undo them, but no such thought occurred to me.
Walking was difficult, but Mother let me sleep beside her that night, sending her servant out into the hallway. She fed me fruit slices and rice candy. I thought it a treat.
It wasn't until the third re-binding that I understood.
The bones in the foot of a five year old are not as well formed as those of an adult. They're quite easily broken, especially the long, slender bones of the arch. A bit of force, and they shatter like glass, and just as loudly.
I shrieked at the first pop.
I remember it as though it were yesterday, that horrible sound, and pain like fire burning all the way up my calf. I scarcely noticed when she did the other; what is a one more drop of water to a flood?
"It shall soon be over, darling, don't fear," Mother soothed afterward. "When your baby brother comes, it will all be over. We'll unbind your feet, and you'll be good as new…"
I sobbed and sobbed and didn't notice until I had no tears left that Mother looked more ill than I felt.
The baby was born the next day. It was a boy.
It died.
Then, so did Mother.
And so I'm left here, alone with no future and no one daring to expose me now that Father has no other child to offer up.
But I can't blame Father for going back on his word, even if it's left me the way I am today. Who knows what an Imperial Prince of the Manchu would have done to me, an innocent Han boy? I'm sure it would've been a fate worse than death.
I can't help but wonder sometimes, though, had I been born into a different life, would I have remained the way I started out? Innocent and sweet?
"Hello, there," I hear a voice say.
I blink and look around me. Has someone entered the atrium without me noticing?
But there's no one there, and I turn my eyes back to the pond. A enormous golden fish swims just below me, its fins flapping, mouth gulping hungrily at the water.
I sigh. "I'm sorry, I don't have anything for you. I'll have to remember to bring feed next time," I tell it.
"Thanks," it says.
My mind goes blank.
"I hear you're in a spot of trouble," the fish tells me.
I realize I'm gaping and close my mouth. Perfect. Now I'm going mad.
"I can help you, you know," the goldfish says. "I know exactly what you need."
Perhaps I've had too much fresh air. I'm unused to being outside for long periods, and combined with the strain from the messenger's visit, his clever, searching eyes--
"You're not imagining me. And you're not going mad. I realize I look like a fish, but I'm not," the fish announces. "I'm your ancestor, a guardian spirit. I'm here to guide you on your path."
I think back to the shrine and my wish for Mother to be with me, but the fish's voice is that of a man. "My ancestor is a fish?" I say, just to prove that the creature won't respond.
To my annoyance, it answers, "Well, if you want to get technical, I'm not so much of an ancestor as a cousin. On your father's mother's side. I'm called Black. Perhaps you've heard of me?"
Grandmother did have a cousin named Black who died long before I was born, but this proves nothing. In fact, I'm sure it's all my imagination, and there's no fish in the pond at all. I pull up my sleeve and reach my hand into the water. My fingers brush slippery scales, and I wince.
"What you need," the golden Black fish tells me, "is your mother's shoes. You'll find them in a trunk in her old room, under the cloak of kingfisher feathers. You'll be stunning at the Festival in those!"
I pull my hand sharply from the water. Imagine going through my dead Mother's things to retrieve a pair of shoes! You'd think I had none of my own! "What an unsavory hallucination I'm having!" I declare, and stand with as much dignity as possible when fleeing from one's own insanity.
"Remember, in the chest under the cloak! You'll thank me later!" Black calls after me.
Madness. Madness! I've lost my mind! There's only one thing to do: find Pansy.
She's washing her daughter's hair in a basin on the floor. Lather covers her arms up to the elbow, and a stray lock of hair hangs in her face.
"Hi, Jade!" my chubby cheeked, common looking step-sister says, rubbing at her eye when water splashes into it.
I ignore her. "I want fish for dinner," I tell Pansy. "There's a huge one out in the pond. Have it cooked."
"Do I look like a servant?" she asks. She blows the strand of hair out of the way, and it plops back down again, wet from the humidity.
"Do you really want me to answer that?" I shoot back.
I feel a bit bad at dinner, having sacrificed a perfectly innocent and beautiful creature to my insanity. It doesn't even taste good.
I'll have to have Father buy me a new one.
* * * * *
On the day before the Festival, I take my newest shoes out of their wooden box and discover that the extent of my mistake with the fish goes beyond a simple order of purchase.
I've worked on the shoes for months, painstakingly embroidering each stitch with a skill that has never come naturally to my hands. My fingers are long and slender, but a man's nonetheless, and more suited to handling a bow and arrow than needle and thread. Accepting mediocrity is out of the question, though; I must excel no matter many times I prick myself. Thus, for this project, I chose an exceptionally complex design: tiny golden dragons weaving in and out of red and pink peonies, tongues of fire licking at the stems.
They're stunning.
I slide one onto my foot, admiring the way it emphasizes the elegant point of my toe. I've done well; people will gain a new respect for my family when I show up in these. I'll be the envy of every girl there.
I take a step, and the shoe falls off my foot.
"Oh no," I murmur. I put it back on, trying to walk more carefully, but it's no use. I try on the other shoe, but that one is no different. I've bound my feet too tightly, and now the shoes are too big!
Panicked, I untie the sash from my waist and wrap it around one foot, as though a second layer of binding, and knot it at my ankle. I brace myself against the wall and try to shove the shoe on, but now my foot is too fat.
"Pansy!" I screech, not bothering to keep my voice low and womanly. "Pansyyyyyyyyy! "
Oh, this is horrible! All of that hard work to prove that even my family's boys are better than everyone else's girls, and now this! Wobbling, I pull up my Hanfu robe, which has fallen open in the front without its tie. It ignores my efforts, however, and continues to slide off my shoulders. Exasperated, I let it do as it will, balancing on one foot and yanking with both hands on the shoe.
"PANSY!" I yell again, and hear her shouting from down the corridor.
"What are you screaming about? You're going to frighten the servants to death with all that noise! The nerve of you, you bratty little spoiled rotten--"
"Don't call me that!" I shout, furious, and tug at the shoe with all my might. I finally feel my foot sliding into place… just before the silk lets loose a horrible ripping sound.
I gasp as my fingers slide from the fabric, and I pitch backwards. For a moment that feels like eternity, my arms circle in the air as I try to regain my balance.
But it's no use.
I tumble to the ground, my back hitting so hard that it takes the wind from me. My robes are wide open, baring my naked skin to the air, and the ripped fabric of my once perfect shoe dangles from my foot.
"Having a little problem, darling?" Pansy asks. "And I do mean little…"
I look down at my naked body and know it's not my feet she's talking about. Unneeded and unused, my penis lies limp against my thigh. I cover it with the edge of my Hanfu and feel like crying.
What a monstrous farce my body is.
Pansy laughs.
I hate it, and I hate her. She's the most awful, terrible, wicked concubine step-mother anyone has ever had. "It's not funny!" I tell her. "Stop laughing, it's not funny! I've ruined my shoe!"
She stops after what seems like forever and helps me up off the floor. "If you'd waited two seconds for my help, this never would've happened," she tells me. "You overreact to everything. Just wear the pair you made last summer."
"But they don't match my best outfit!" I protest, struggling to close my robes. "And one of the Narcissus flowers is crooked, I'll disgrace Grandmother's memory if I wear those awful things!"
She rolls her eyes, and I hang my head. "For someone who claims they don't want to go, you're awfully particular about your clothing," she mutters.
What does she know? I have a family name to uphold, and I don't take such matters lightly. In fact, my very diligence has led to my downfall!
Everyone knows that normal girls are naughty little things who only want to be rid of the pain of their bound feet. Unlike them, when I get upset, I wrap my bindings tighter. Or rather, I scream at Pansy to wrap them tighter, and she says I'm going to lose another toe but does it anyway. It takes my mind off of things when my feet throb, and makes me more grateful for the times when they don't. And of course, it's given me the daintiest, most desirable feet.
If I'm to pretend I'm a girl, why do it halfway? And what do I care if my toes all rot off? I'm not using them for anything.
That evening, wallowing in my own despair and wasting New Year's poetry paper with hideous calligraphy, I think of my ancestor fish. Of course I imagined the creature, but still. What if Mother really did have fabulous shoes stored away in a trunk someplace?
Everyone knows not to enter Mother's room, but the lock on the door is easily removed. I'm the proverbial woman of the house now, and as such, I've been entrusted with the keys. The last time I ventured inside was when I was five years old, and I don't remember it well. The trunk sits opposite the bed, against the far wall under the window. Dust covers it, and my fingers make dark marks on its surface. Inside, beneath a cloth package yellowed with age, sits a pair of breathtaking shoes with gold soles.
Side by side, they rest in the palm of my hand. Crimson roses flow over their sides as though the shoes themselves were a garden, the colors still brilliant as though they'd been stitched yesterday. My breath catches in my throat because I know just by looking at them that they'll fit.
I slide them on, awed, and sway about the room, admiring the soft clicks the gold makes against the ground. I know I shouldn't, but I can't help but smile. My mother was an admirable woman to have such feet; I'm sure Grandfather paid an astonishing bride price for her. Such a shame that she died so young, before the investment paid off.
As I prepare for the Festival, I try not to think of killing piscine reincarnations of my ancestors. I'm sure it was total coincidence that my mind dreamt up a creature that knew about Mother's shoes. Most likely, I'd seen what was in the chest when I was young, and the knowledge was playing at the edges of my thoughts.
Though that doesn't explain how the fish knew I'd need the shoes before I did.
But what could I do about it anyway?
It's as they say: Water spilled can never be retrieved.
* * * * *
Our journey into the city starts just after dawn, Pansy sitting beside me on the palanquin. She peeks out from between the silk panels, squealing and giggling at the sights. I try not to look, but being a proper girl, I've never been off our land before, and I find my eyes straying.
As the sun rises higher, odd looking buildings seem to pop up from nowhere, and people line the streets, some with banners and all wearing red to celebrate the holiday. Someone sets off a firework, and the noise nearly startles me off the side of the litter.
Pansy laughs. "This is where I lived, you know, before your father brought me home. Just a few streets over…"
City people are frightening, poor and uncouth. Father says they have bugs and don't wash themselves. I'm sure they'd spit on boys with tiny feet. I mustn't look.
I repeat this to myself over and over, concentrating on the rhythmic step of the litter bearers, the eight strong men Grandfather has hired to transport me with dignity. That enticing sliver of the outside world still calls to me, though, and I feel ashamed.
The Festival site is loud and bright and terrifying. I have no intention of leaving the safety of the palanquin.
"You can't sit here all day," Pansy tells me.
I cross my arms and give her a look that says I beg to differ.
"We're at the entrance to the matchmakers' tents just beside the palace. This is where we get off, and then the litter moves so the next person can get off. There's a system to it. We can't stay here," she announces. "You haven't got any choice."
I purse my lips. "The summons only said I had to come to the Festival. It didn't say I had to do anything once I arrived," I tell her.
"All the unwed noble girls in the entire Banner will be here to enjoy the day. It won't hurt you to join them for once," she informs me.
I tip my chin up. "I shall stay with the litter."
She looses an indelicate snort. "Fine then, stay with the litter. The men are going to take it around back and get pissed. If you're lucky, they'll offer you some rice wine before they have their way with you." And with that, she pulls back the silk and orders one of the men to help her down.
I stare after her, aghast, and shake my head, swinging my feet over the palanquin's edge. The man who helps me to the ground farms our land, but he was father's personal servant when the two were young. When Father left for the Capitol, he had a home built for the man and found him a suitable wife. Though he's the size of an ox, he's always had a soft spot for me, and a mere quiver of my bottom lip has him at my beck and call. In three strides, he catches up to Pansy and motions for her to wait for me.
She turns back in my direction and rolls her eyes. "Life is not this difficult," she says. "You make things so much harder than they are. Why don't you grow up, already?"
"Into what?" I demand.
"Pansy!" a voice screeches. "Pansy, darling, is that you?"
"Iris!" she exclaims waving her arm wildly in the direction of a group of women I hadn't noticed before. "How have you been, it's been forever since we--"
"What are you doing!" I hiss, feeling panicky. "We haven't got time for this, I've got to--"
"Oh, just go inside and find one of the matchmakers, Jade," Pansy tells me with a dismissing gesture. "You'll be fine!"
"But I--"
She waves me away and sets off toward her friend to bone up on the latest worthless gossip. Iris wears badly embroidered robes, and as Pansy embraces her, I can't help but think of what a tacky pair the two of them make.
I sigh, alone and out of place in the columned courtyard of the palace. The multitudes of flowers mock me with their colorful cheeriness. I should've known this would happen. In the end, I'm always alone.
Feminine voices and music punctuated with laughter drift out from the matchmakers' tent's entrance, and I take a deep breath and start toward it. I must be at my best. I must not bring disrespect to my family. I must play the perfect girl, the most delicate, obedient, and marriageable.
This is my role.
Two men stand guard at the tent flaps, but I keep my head down, eyes venturing no higher than their knees as I pass. I step into the laughter and sounds of happy women, only to find that it's gone silent.
I take a step forward, but with my eyes on the ground, I have no idea where to go. The clicking of my shoes in the quiet of the room echoes in my ears. Swallowing, I look up.
Everyone is staring at me.
Matchmakers sit at their tables, brushes suspended in the air. The jaws of the girls in the seats before them hang open. Musicians' fingers hover above their strings. Wide-eyed women put their hands to their mouths in surprise. Manchu and Han, old and young, in silks or cheap cottons, they're all gaping at me. A small girl exclaims, "Mummy, look at her!"
This break the silence, and the women begin whispering, tittering to each other. I catch bits about my hair, my robes, my willowy figure, the tiny gold shoes on my tiny lotus feet. I stare down at them myself, my face flaming.
Perhaps Pansy was right when she told me I'd overdressed. I only wanted to make a good impression wearing my best things, but it seems my things are too much nicer than everyone else's. My red Hanfu is embroidered in a thick border of flowers at the hem and bottom of the sleeves, with vines trailing up the front to my waist. To ward off the spring chill, I've donned a cloak interwoven with strands of gold thread, which matches my shoes exactly. My long hair is tastefully twisted and held in place with my jade phoenix comb, and long, beaded earrings emphasize the slenderness of my neck.
Should I be vilified for being better than other people? Is it a crime to be beautiful?
I suck on my bottom lip, wondering if it's too late to change my mind and drink rice wine with the litter bearers, when a girl comes up to me. "Hello," she says. "I haven't see you here before."
I swallow and nod, eyes trained on my toes.
"I'm Lily," she says.
Of course she is. Isn't every girl named Lily nowadays? Pansy says that if you've got less than a half dozen in your extended family, you're passé.
"It's so nice to meet you. I've never seen such lovely clothing," Lily tells me, and ducks her head down so that her face is between my eyes and my toes. Her dark eyes are pretty, but she has her hair pulled into a most ghastly coiffure, two massive buns with peonies sticking out of them. Her face is cute with quirky red lips, but I can't say I'd call her pretty. Her looks are too Manchu.
"Thank you," I murmur, at a loss.
She smiles. "You, um… might want to move out of the doorway, though. Other people will want in."
My face flushes redder still, and I follow her to a bench. Still looking down, I can't help but notice her feet as they poke out from beneath her robes. At first glance, they appear to be bound, but her shoes are actually attached to odd wooden stilts that pose as feet. She's probably never felt a day of pain in her life.
Cheater.
"Are you here to see the matchmakers?" Lily asks after we've settled ourselves. "They're all looking for a wife for the Prince's son, you know. Everyone says he'll be named heir soon, and just think of the commission they'll get on that deal. Oh, but I'm sure you'd look lovely at an Imperial banquet. Though I'd feel sorry for the chefs-- everyone would be so busy admiring you, they'd forget to eat!"
"You flatter me," I say in my most modest tone, though I can't help but agree. If only Imperial banquets didn't come with a husband attached!
"Are you here with your mother?" she asks. "Where has she gone?"
I shake my head, embarrassed to explain.
"Have you found a new friend, Lily, dear?" a voice asks. "How nice!"
I look up to see an older woman, her hair turning grey, smiling down at us. She has plump red cheeks and looks far too cheerful for someone with so few years left to live.
I nod delicately and look back at my shoes.
"What a pretty thing!" the woman exclaims. "And so modest! But what are you doing here with the maidens, dear, surely you've already been married! Are you with a younger sister, maybe?"
Lily laughs, a cute tinkling sound I wish my voice had, and tells her, "She's here for the Prince's son, Grandmother. She's come out of hiding for him!"
"No," I protest, "truly, that's not why--"
"Oh, what a dear!" the woman exclaims, likely going deaf in her old age. "We must find you a quiet place to sit until one of the matchmakers is free. All of this noise can't be healthy for such a delicate thing. Oh! I know just where we can put you…"
Lily waves goodbye as the woman hauls me out of the tent and into the hallways of the palace. Her feet are small, but she moves like a carthorse. I pant to keep up, horrified at the possibility of breaking into a sweat. She deposits me in a room, quite alone and feeling justifiably terrorized, and tells me to wait.
I want to tell her that Pansy will be looking for me soon, but I can't think of what to say. Is it shameful to not have come with my mother, or at least a true woman of my family? Would it look bad for a mere concubine to be escorting me? And how should I describe her? "Plump, plain, and loud" could apply to so many different women here!
"Just have a seat, dear, someone will be right with you!" the old woman exclaims, and then bustles back out the door.
I sigh.
How do I get myself into these things?
At least the room isn't terribly unpleasant. It's quiet, the couch is comfortable, and a folding screen painted with a landscape stands opposite me. I wonder if the artist is the same as the man who did the one we have, as they do look similar. Grandfather commissioned our eight panel screen before I was born, and I remember it from my earliest childhood. It sits in Grandfather's library.
I think it's nicer than this one.
A servant girl with large feet brings me tea and sweets.
"How long do you think the wait shall be?" I ask.
She shakes her head and says something that brings to mind the time our watchdog was bitten by a snake.
"Don't you speak Chinese?" I demand.
When she doesn't answer, I groan. What irony has brought me a servant who speaks only Manchu?
Probably the same that brought me masculine body odor and feet the length of my thumb.
After some time, I begin to think I've been abandoned. My tea has gone cold, and still no one has come. Though spring has begun, the days are still short, and the sun has begun to lower in the heavens. I pull my cloak tighter and slide my legs up under me, tucking my robes over my feet. Embroidered silks and golden shoes are beautiful, but not warm.
How long am I to sit here? Where is the matchmaker? Where is Pansy?
And why hasn't that idiot Manchu servant girl brought me any supper?
I'm gazing at the folding screen, examining the way the mountains disappear into the mist as my stomach grumbles, when I hear the pad of feet enter.
"It's about time," I tell the servant.
"About time for what?" a voice asks.
I look up, startled, to find a young man in the room. He wears rumpled clothing in the Manchu style, his legs in trousers and pointed shoes on his feet. But I barely notice these things because of his hair, which is easily the most hideous travesty I've ever witnessed.
The plait of his queue trails elegantly over one shoulder, but the shaved part on top has grown out. His hair sticks up half a finger length like a brain addled bird's nest or the reeds of a half woven basket. I find myself staring, lost to all propriety.
"Have you lost your voice?" he asks.
I flush and turn my eyes toward the ground. Who is this person, and what is he doing here? "My apologies," I murmur. "I am waiting for someone."
"Whatever," he says. "You're all so stupid."
My face goes red, jaw clenching. Stupid! A boy with rumpled clothing and ugly hair who wanders into other people's waiting chambers called me stupid! He's probably somebody's litter bearer, or a food vender, or peddler of trinkets or some such. There's a Festival for the commoners today as well, isn't there?
Imagine such a person insulting me!
But I must take it in stride; it won't do to be rude. "It seems that you may have taken a wrong turn, as I am waiting in this room at the moment," I say, in the hopes that he'll take the hint and leave.
"No, I know exactly where I am," he tells me. "No one has any idea I'm here, and I don't feel like being chased around the place again, so if you think I'm going, you're wrong."
Chasing him around the place? What has this boy done! Am I sharing a room with some sort of felon? Oh, and he's coming closer to me! But I can't leave-- where would I go, and however would Pansy find me? Perhaps if I sit in silence…
"What's your name?" the boy asks.
I sigh in defeat. "Jade," I tell him.
"What a boring name," he says. "Did your father sell himself to get you those clothes?"
I bite my tongue to keep from answering. Of all the uncouth, irresponsible, moronic--
"You think fancy robes and hair combs and things are going to net you the Prince's son? You think men like rubbish like that? Pretty clothes to disguise an empty brain? You're stupid," he says. "You're all stupid."
I clear my throat. "Pardon my speech," I murmur, sure to keep my voice low and womanly despite my boiling rage, "but are you suggesting that I wear clothing more like your own?"
He laughs. "I slept in it in the back of a restaurant last night. Clothing doesn't make the man," he tells me.
I tip my chin, and my earrings sway, my fingers traveling to the sash around my waist. "On that sentiment, we are surely in agreement." Now if you would kindly leave my sight post-haste…
"So what does make the man?" he asks. "That's what I've been wondering."
"I'm sure a woman wouldn't know," I say, "though since you have asked, I would venture… dignity, propriety, and respect, to name a few. Now, if you please, someone shall be here for me soon, and it wouldn't do for us to be seen together. Perhaps, in the name these esteemed manly qualities which I have noted, you might--"
"Hey, you're not so bad after all," he says, and places his horrifying and likely lice infested self beside me on the couch. "You can talk to men without stuttering, that's useful. And you're actually kind of pretty. It's too bad your face is all pointy like that. Has your whole family got that chin?"
Appalled beyond words and so infuriated that my jaw hurts, it takes a moment for me to collect my thoughts. "I have been very patient with your insolence, peasant, but if you think for one moment that I shall disregard ill words towards my family, that thing which is most close to my heart, you have--"
"Do you know The Peony Pavilion?" he asks. "It's an opera."
"I know it's an opera, I've read it!" I exclaim. "It's the most romantic thing ever written! I have the final scene memorized! Now get out of my sight!"
"Hey, show me your feet," he says. His hands go to the hem of my Hanfu. I squeal in a way which must be most unbecoming and try to keep him from pulling back the fabric. He pushes my hands away, and I swat at his fingers, the noise sharp in the still of the room, but to no avail.
"Whoa!" he exclaims. "You can walk on those?"
"Pervert! Get your dirty hands off me!" I order, and do my best to shove him away.
He laughs and shoves back. With a squeak, I slip backwards on the couch and find myself propped against the armrest, my neck bent at an uncomfortable angle. When I try to pull myself up again, he's holding me down.
"Let go!" I hiss.
He doesn't let go. Instead, he takes my shoulders and slides me across the couch so that my head rests on a pillow. His fingertips run across my collarbone, and he leans over me.
Before I know what I'm doing, I slap him.
My hand stings, and I stare at it in shock as though it's not mine. As I'm not truly a girl, I'm in no danger, yet I lashed out. Or did I? Could my smooth-skinned, elegant, well-bred hand truly slap someone? Even if that someone is the most uncivilized brute I've ever met?
Above me, the boy makes a noise, and I look up at him. He touches his cheek, on which a welt the size of my palm is rising. He blinks at his fingers as though he can't believe my hand could do such a thing, either. And then he looks at me.
His face is smooth and unblemished, a touch of sun lighting his cheekbones. White teeth like pearls rest behind his parted lips. The green of my hair comb reflects in his eyes, brilliant and shining in their depths.
So handsome.
My heart skips a beat.
With a slowness that tugs at my every nerve, he brings his lips to my cheek. His breath puffs against my skin, mouth sliding across and pressing below my ear. Warm and soft, his lips trail down my neck, and I gasp at the sensation, unable to move a muscle.
And then my hand-- the same one that slapped him-- wraps itself around his neck.
This is insanity! I've lost my mind; my body is doing things beyond my control! I am shaming myself with this servant boy and bringing disgrace to my family! The thought chokes me, and I turn my head when he brings his lips to mine.
"Kiss me," he whispers. His lips brush the corner of my mouth, and I shiver.
His fingers slide down the front of my robes.
My head spins, and I grasp his wrist, but it's too late. He's felt what I hide beneath the padded silk, or rather, what I don't: no soft female breasts, no warm flesh to cup in his hand, only the hard planes of my chest and nubs of nipples.
I hide nothing.
He swallows, his throat making a strange clicking noise. He pulls his hand from my Hanfu, and I squeeze my eyes shut against the sight of him.
What he finds next is not my fault. I'm a healthy young man with a warm body leaning over me, a mouth on my neck, and hand sliding against my bare skin. My body's reacted of its own accord! It would happen to any man!
But I'm not supposed to be a man.
His hand between my legs is warm and firm, and he grips me through the fabric, as though testing the feel. It's like nothing I've ever felt before, and I hear myself whimper, wanting desperately for him to stop.
Yet somehow, a strange little part of me wishes wouldn't.
Thus, I do the only thing I can: with all my strength, I knee him in the groin.
He makes a choked sounding noise, rolling off me and clutching himself between his legs. He slides to the floor groaning, his face an indeterminate shade of puce, eyes squeezed shut in agony.
I try to work up the saliva to spit on him, but my mouth is dry. I clap my hand over it, horrified with my very existence, and flee the room.
As I step past him, his hand darts out and grabs my foot.
I scream and barely catch myself from falling. He tugs at me, fingers biting into my ankle, and I try to kick off his hand. As I pull free, my shoe comes off in his grasp, skittering across the floor, but it can't be helped. I escape as quickly as my ridiculous feet will carry me, winding through the mazelike corridors of the palace before I find someone who can direct me to the litters. I arrive breathless and disheveled.
NEXT PART
Author: persepolis130
Word Count: ~ 35,500
Beta: younglizbeth
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Disguised as a girl to escape a life of servitude, Scorpius is forced to attend the annual Spring Festival, where the Imperial Prince's heir is searching for a wife. When an ill-mannered servant boy discovers his secret, Scorpius flees, leaving behind a single golden shoe. Can he evade the Prince's heir, who's fallen in love with the elegance of his tiny feet? And why does every animal he sees claim to be his dead ancestor?
Author's Notes: This was supposed to be part of the_ass_fest's "AS/S through the Ages," but I had two artists bail on me (very rude, BTW!), so I was forced to withdraw. Anyway, this fic is a quasi-magical AU of our two boys that takes place in China in 1678. Thanks millions to younglizbeth, without whose help, this fic would never have been finished!
Seventeenth Year of the Reign of the Kangxi Emperor
Province of the Bordered White Banner
Imperial China
The yip of our watchdog heralds the messenger's arrival. The silly little thing trots right up to the man, its tail wagging, hopping up and down in hopes of a treat. The messenger shoos it, shifting the strap of his satchel across his shoulder as he treads up the courtyard.
Further inside, tethered in shadow, the guard dog gives a warning growl. Never one to bark, the dark behemoth is deadly with its bite. The messenger gives it a wide berth.
With a sigh, I step away from my vantage point and back into my room. What sort of impression would it give if a man not of my family saw me hanging out a window, gaping at passers-by like a commoner? There's nothing all that special about his coming, anyway; the Prince sends someone every year.
Even so, preparation has no substitute, and I check my clothing, smoothing the silken fabric across the flat of my chest. I feel at the pins in my hair, rearranging a few that have slipped, and straighten my lacquer comb. The sash at my waist is twisted, so I pull it back into place, rolling my fingers into the bow. I squeeze my eyes shut and whisper a quick prayer for luck.
It's a funny thing, luck. They say whether you have it or not is determined at the moment of your birth. On the night I was born, the constellation Scorpius burned brightly in the heavens, and the astronomers declared it an auspicious omen. It was sure to bring fortune to my family, they said, and once I'd outgrown my milk name, Father named me after it. After all, the stars never lie.
Is it odd, then, that my life has turned out this way?
I try not to think about that, though, as it does no good to dwell upon such things. And anyway, even though today's visit is nothing more than a formality, it does feel like a bit of an occasion. It's not every day that we have a visitor, especially one who's here on my account.
Should I change my shoes?
But no, perhaps going that far would be vulgar.
I've just finished readying myself-- all thoughts of vulgarities pushed firmly aside-- when Pansy rushes through the door in her usual graceless manner. "A messenger!" she shrieks, all of a dither. "From the Imperial Prince himself! Quickly, quickly!"
The fine robes and expensive jewelry she wears do nothing to disguise her utter lack of elegance, and I impatiently brush away her hands, which try in vain to tug me out the door. "What could a messenger possibly have to do with me?" I ask, feigning innocence with my usual polish.
"Oh, don't be an imbecile," she says, and rolls her eyes. "You know why he's here!"
"I'm sure I don't want to see anyone," I inform her. "Send him away."
She laughs as though I've said something funny. "The way you talk, people would think you're really something special."
"Mind how you speak to me," I order, but this just makes her laugh harder.
I take a calming breath because as much as she irritates me, I know I shouldn't fault her for behaving like a girl from a teahouse. She can't help it: that's what she is. Or rather, it's what she was before Father took a liking to her.
Not long after Mother died, Father was to sit for the Imperial Examinations, but he felt so terribly listless that he feared he would fail them yet again. He brought Pansy home one day and set her up as his concubine, and proceeded to pass with highest distinction. Grandfather voiced no protest at her presence, and she's been here ever since.
Of course I recognize the good she's brought to us, but she's not exactly the epitome of class. After Father moved away to serve the Emperor, I do think he should've tossed her back onto the street where such women belong.
As if illustrating my point, she shoves me toward the door. "Stop posturing and hurry up, already!" she scolds.
I make a show of straightening my robes, and when a sufficient period of time has passed, I declare, "I suppose if I must go…" and lift my chin, looking down my nose at her. I've been practicing in the mirror, and I'm sure the effect is quite dramatic.
Pansy says, "You look just as stupid doing that as your father does," and shakes her head.
Stung, I tell her, "Well, I am my father's son." As though there were ever any doubt as to my paternity! The same can't be said for her child, of course. Though the girl was born some time after Pansy joined us, Father has never acknowledged her as one of his. A child of this family with a round face, ready smile, and plump fingers?
Isn't that a proverbial cuckoo in the nest!
Pansy purses her lips, catching the jibe. "Don't let the messenger hear you talk like that. As far as anyone else knows, you're your father's daughter. His son died when you were five years old!"
"Do you think I'd forgot?" I snap.
She doesn't answer but makes a disgusted sounding noise.
I ignore it and follow her out into the hall. Her pace is swift, and she looks ready to throttle me when I fall behind. But of course I can't keep up; her feet are two finger widths longer than mine, and I'm nearly a head taller.
The reception room is silent as Pansy and I enter. The messenger stands fussing with a roll of paper, his long legs gangly and odd looking in his Manchu trousers. Grandfather sits elegantly with his Hanfu robes draped over his knees, a haughty expression on his refined features, looking every bit the master of a grand estate. Though he admitted our visitor without delay, he hasn't offered him anything to quench his thirst, which doesn't bode well.
I tilt my head downward and feign womanly modesty. Beside me, Pansy makes the requisite movement of deference to the men, and I hurry to copy it.
"Ah," Grandfather says. "My beloved granddaughter, the beautiful Jade, at last. Shall we commence?"
More shrewd than kind, Grandfather is the sort of man who was held in high esteem back when a clever man's goal was something more than merely being clever. Intelligence used to mean wealth, station, and influence, but that was before the Manchu invaders came to China and ousted us Han from our rightful position of power. Grandfather's still respected now, though primarily for his excellent health at over six decades of age. It shocks people to learn that he still has nearly all of his teeth.
The messenger clears his throat and raises his paper. He sounds very young as he says, "Ahem. By order of the Divine Imperial Prince, much loved adopted son of the Most Heavenly Emperor of China, the unmarried daughters of this household who are of marriageable age and proper breeding are officially--"
"--invited to the Spring Festival, yes, yes, I know the drill," Grandfather snaps. "And my answer is the same as it was last year: my granddaughter is a delicate flower! She is not yet ready!"
I suck in my breath at his discourtesy. I've never heard Grandfather speak in such a way to someone's face. He always waits for people to leave before insulting them.
The messenger says nothing, and I hazard a peek up at him. It is horribly rude for a woman of good breeding to look a free man in the face. Such a thing should be done only amongst family, and even then at the proper time. He doesn't see me though, as he is too busy gaping at Grandfather.
Now I understand Grandfather's irritation: the man bears the red circle emblem and vapid expression of Grandfather's enemies, those traitors to the Han blood whose only benefit to society seems to be the ability to breed like well fed silkworms. They have barbaric names and dirty noses.
It angers me to see him here.
I hide my face and hope the red in my cheeks is mistaken for a maiden's blush.
The messenger clears his throat. "Look, it's got nothing to do with her being ready," he says, sounding harassed. "It's not an invitation this year, it's an order. If she's a proper young lady, she's got to come. My unc-- the Prince is beside himself. I honestly couldn't care less, but there's no getting around it. I mean, unless she's not proper…"
The anger in Grandfather's voice is nearly palpable. "She is the most proper young lady who shall ever graced your sorry excuse for a--"
"Okay, fine," the messenger interrupts his rant. "You say she's completely proper, and I believe you. I'll just make note of her qualifications and then be on my way. I know I've got the list somewhere, I think I put it right next to my… alright. Okay, so… how's her embroidery?"
His question is met with a resounding silence.
"Right, so… no embroidery, then?" the messenger offers.
Tactfully, Grandfather says nothing, as any utterance that escaped his mouth would likely revolve around the distinct probability of embroidery needles through the traitor's eyes.
"How about cooking?" the man asks next.
Silence once again.
"Cleaning?"
Grandfather clears his throat.
"Um, does she at least talk?" he asks.
"I beg your pardon!" Grandfather exclaims.
Pansy sighs and places a hand on my shoulder. Though she used to speak to men on a nightly basis, she shouldn't now that she's Father's. I hold my breath for another breach of decorum.
"Look, the girl's shy, but she's got the Four Womanly Accomplishments well under control, if that's what you're getting at. Womanly speech, womanly virtue, womanly deportment, and womanly work." She counts them off on her fingers. "And she can even read."
"Can she?" the messenger asks. He sounds shocked. "Well, I hope she's not too good at it. It'd be nice for her to be able to teach her sons, but you give a woman too much knowledge, and she might start thinking…"
"I assure you," Grandfather spits, "no woman in this house would ever dream of such a thing!"
"Well, that's a relief," the man answers, nodding. He marks something off on his paper. I suppose this is what he had strapped across his back.
I realize I've looked up again, and turn my gaze back to the floor. Even when they consider themselves literate, most women know only the most basic of characters, but reading is a particular hobby of mine. Grandfather has dozens of books in his library, and I've read every single one from front to back. War and poetry, agriculture and opera, Emperors of ancient times and the oddities of Mongols, I know it by heart.
"Will that be all?" Grandfather asks. His tone implies that the answer is yes.
"Well, um," the man says. "Just, ah, one more thing. I realize it's not really… I mean, I don't understand the custom at all, seems like a horrible disability to me, and I really think it should be banned, but… the rules say I've got to take a look."
Pansy giggles and taps her foot against mine. Aghast, I stare down at my tiny embroidered shoes, the hard earned symbol of my false womanhood.
I swallow.
A woman's worth is measured by her feet. If she is poor or course, or needed for work in the fields, they are large and ugly. If she has discipline and breeding, however, they are bound small and delicate, a graceful extension of the leg. Tiny feet ensure a woman's faithfulness and desirability; the smaller the foot, the higher quality the woman. As the old saying goes, A pretty face comes from nature, pretty feet from character.
To have a man so blatantly ask to see mine, to take a look, is as ghastly and embarrassing as if he asked to examine my--
"I don't need to touch them or anything, but we've got so many girls coming, I've just get a general, you know, estimate…" the messenger tells me (me, oh no, he can't be talking to me, how improper!) as he sinks to his knees.
For a wild moment, his face is even with mine, and in my panic, I forget where I'm looking. Our eyes lock, and a strange feeling washes over me. I've looked at men from my window, and sometimes I watch Grandfather or Father's guests in the atrium, but always from afar. This man's not handsome, but younger than I'd thought, and his eyes so close are brilliant and deep.
They break from mine, but I can still feel them as though he hadn't looked away. He kneels before me and says, "If you could maybe just… hold one up? Just a bit? Your, um, Han dress thingie is covering…"
He may use such words, but I know what he's after. Men covet a woman's tiny golden lotuses. They dream of them and write poetry about their fragrance and the soft ways they want to caress them in the night. I've never read such poems myself, as no one in my family would ever own something so vulgar except Pansy, and she can only read three words. One is her name, and the other two are not repeatable in mixed company.
Though this man may claim to follow the way of the Manchu, he's Han to the core, and I know he's thinking lewd things!
"I feel faint," I whisper. I raise my hand to my forehead and sway against Pansy. "I feel faint…"
She squeals and catches me, but I close my eyes and let my head loll to the side. I must be doing as good of a job at looking traumatized as I imagine because Grandfather starts hissing, "Now look what you've done! I told you she was delicate! We'll have to summon a doctor! Get out of my house, you--"
Pansy hauls me off to the women's quarters, where I can't hear Grandfather's shouts. "Are you trying to get the Board of Punishments involved?" she demands.
I sigh and sit down beside Grandfather's second wife; his only, now that Grandmother's died. I call her my Step-Grandmother, but she's actually my great aunt, Grandmother's sister. Her husband was killed because he wouldn't submit to the new government's Queue Order.
Confucius says we receive our hair from our parents and, in honor to them, should never cut it. Yet the Manchu, to exert their control as our new rulers, force their barbarous custom upon us as a show of our loyalty to them. Keep your hair and lose your head, or keep your head and lose your hair, they say. When we want to keep our heads, what choice do we have?
The Manchu are wicked, our men shave their foreheads, and our parents are disgraced.
Step-Grandmother had nowhere to go with her husband dead, no matter how valiantly he perished, so of course Grandfather did the respectable thing and married her. She's entirely crazy now and usually just stares into nothing and pulls at her own hair, but I don't mind. We're all crazy in our own way, as my existence no doubt proves.
"The Spring Festival," I say, straightening Step-Grandmother's Hanfu. She's got the front part twisted, and her breast is nearly hanging out. "What a joke."
"Not a joke this time," Pansy tells me, brow furrowed. "There's no way around it, the two of us will have to spend our New Years there. The Prince's word is law."
"It is utterly ridiculous," I declare, "that the Emperor of my country could have made such a person his son. Why, the man's not even nobility! What did his father do? Something very stupid and common…"
"Potter," Pansy says. "He made ceramics. Bowls and vases and things."
"Ridiculous!" I repeat.
Pansy shrugs, and Step-Grandmother laughs madly at nothing.
I sigh.
The Spring Festival is held every year, and since I turned twelve, I've been invited. Marriage in Spring is thought to bring harmony and many sons, and dozens of matchmakers attend the Festival, hoping to make good matches for their clients. Most girls beg to go, Pansy says, if not to find a rich husband, then for a chance to view the flowers and meet with childhood friends.
I don't have any friends, we've got flowers at home, and I hardly need festivals to garner proposals. I've had a half dozen over the years, and they always cause trouble for Grandfather. Finding a different way to turn everyone down-- especially when it's the son of a high-ranking official whom I, by all reasoning, should marry-- has been difficult.
Less difficult than giving the real reason, though.
Oh, poor Grandfather, I bring such strain upon him! It's not his fault his grandson makes such a lovely girl! Just imagine all the Festival offers my dignified posture and minuscule feet will bring!
"Of course you know why the Prince is making so many girls come, don't you?" Pansy asks.
I shake my head, still feeling remorseful for Grandfather's sake, and pull Step-Grandmother's hand from her hair. She's been fussing with it a lot and has a bald spot now. "The messenger mentioned him being upset about something, but I can't imagine what that has to do with me."
Pansy grins the way she does when she knows something I don't. It doesn't happen often, but she's an absolute fiend for gossip. "Well, his heir was killed, now wasn't he?" she asks.
I've heard something of this. Grandfather knows a lot of people who know a lot of things, and he tells me those things a grandson should be privy to. The Imperial Prince's eldest son had been training in the military and was killed in a rebellion on the Banner's border some months ago.
"But he has another son," I say. "Why doesn't he name him as heir? Is there something wrong with him?"
Pansy makes a noise of assent. "He was never the most proper of boys, but he's been absolutely uncontrollable since his brother died. Reckless, unruly, stays out all night drinking and cavorting with commoners," she tells me. "They say he wailed with the women at the funeral, and though the mourning period's over, he still hasn't shaved his hair off!"
"I'd thought the brothers didn't get along," I say. "Didn't you say you'd heard that?"
She shrugs. "Maybe he's using grief as an excuse for his behavior."
"Is it so bad that the Prince would disown him, though?" I ask. "Is that why he needs another wife? To give him a more suitable son?"
Pansy laughs. "Oh, it's not the Prince who's getting a wife. You think that shrew he's married to-- feet as big as any man's!-- would allow another woman in the Palace, much less his bed? She can barely stand the concubines, and he's only got twenty-six of them! It's the son's wedding they're preparing for!"
"But you just said he was horrid! An ill-mannered ruffian!" I insist. "And he's hardly older than I am! What would a boy like that do with a wife?"
"I can think of a few things," Pansy says, smirking.
I feel my face heat. "That's not what I meant! Why must you be so crude?"
"They say," she leans in toward me, as though someone other than Step-Grandmother could overhear, "that he invokes the rule of the Third Night."
"The what?" I ask, though the sound of it has me feeling wary.
"It's a Manchu custom, of course. You hear rumors of it on the streets. It states that a woman automatically becomes a man's wife when he's spent the night with her three times," she tells me.
I clap my hands over my mouth, my eyes wide. How barbaric!
"Of course, I'm sure it doesn't count if he pays for it. Such a shame," she laments. "Think of how pretty I would've looked as a bride…"
Pansy has never looked pretty a day in her life, and I hardly think a bride's costume would change that. I'm too disgusted over the Manchu to mention it, though. Imagine marrying in such a way! What about the dowry-- the tea set, linens, lotus seeds, jewelries and lucky money? And the bride price-- cakes, land, and geese, and maybe a few servants thrown in for good measure? And what if--
"What if he only spends two nights with her?" I ask, dreading the response.
Pansy shrugs. "Considering the boy doesn't have a wife yet, I'd say that's exactly what he's been doing."
The noise I make startles even Step-Grandmother. "Disgusting!" I exclaim. "How could anyone think such licentious behavior is suitable? He's sullied innocent maidens! And I'm to be presented as a potential spouse to this boy?"
"I don't think you'll have to worry about your maidenhood around him," Pansy points out.
I ignore her and proclaim, "How mortifying! I feel dirty just thinking of it!"
Pansy laughs and tells me, "You're still young. You'll change your mind one day, you'll see."
"Better that I don't," I tell her.
"Why?" she asks. "You're good looking enough. Don't think you could give some girl a thrill?"
I glare at her, anger building up in my chest. "You're very funny," I snap. "Do you think many girls would rejoice at the thought of passion with a man who's more feminine than they are? Would the arch of my foot inspire them to new heights?"
"Oh, calm down," she says. "I was just--"
"Would you have done it?" I demand, refusing to be pacified. "Back when you did unnamable things for money? Would you have taken the poor soul's payment, or thrown it back in his face and laughed?"
"Don't be stupid, I'd have taken the money, and you know it. Anyone would-- money is money! Must you be so continually melodramatic?" Pansy demands.
I rise in a flurry of movement and kiss Step-Grandmother goodbye, feeling bitter about the whole affair.
"Jade… Jade, wait!" Pansy calls after me as I leave, but I don't answer. Jade… it's a fake name for a fake girl, and I don't feel like being a girl at this moment. As a matter of fact, I don't feel like being much of anything right now.
I wander the halls until I find myself at the ancestral shrine.
Of everyone in the world, I've always loved Father best. He takes me seriously no matter how petty my issues. With him away so often now for his work in the Forbidden City, it's difficult finding someone who understands me. I've always felt that Mother would, though, so I like to visit her here. I bring her tea today, and burn incense to her memory.
"I miss you, Mother," I tell her.
Wishing she were here doesn't do me any good, though, so I walk out to the pond. It's a slow, swaying trek on tiny lotus feet, and I plant each footstep firmly, one paving stone at a time. A single misstep on such uneven ground could mean a broken ankle, twisted knee, or worse.
The sun is just starting to lower in the sky, its brightness warding off the late winter chill. Our servants are all off in the fields, or doing whatever else it is that such people do, and the atrium is quiet. I sigh and sit, dipping my fingers into the still waters of the pond.
It seems that the Imperial Prince is the cause of all woe in my life. If not for Father's stupid life debt to him, no one would've had to think I was a girl in the first place. I don't know the whole story, only that the Prince saved Father's life, a deed which demanded recompense. This was years ago, and Father was young and foolish, and offered his firstborn son.
Never a fool, the Prince accepted.
When the time came, though, Father realized his error. Mother wept herself to illness at the thought of them taking me away, and Father, too, had come to love me very much. What was there to do but hide me? And what better place than in plain sight?
By all accounts, I was a clever and likable boy. I adored horses, jumping rope, pet dragon flies and throwing stones at Grandfather's tetchy old hunting dogs. My family being members of the ancient Han aristocracy and still fairly well off, I was pampered at every turn, but I'm told I never became spoiled from it. I was happy, healthy and carefree.
Perhaps a girl would have known what was coming when she saw the roosters, knife, kettle and wrappings set out in the atrium. Perhaps she would've screamed, or cried and begged for just one more day of freedom, one more romp in the fields under a warm sun before meeting her fate.
I don't remember what I did, but I suppose I just smiled and went along with it.
Unlike what many experience, it wasn't painful for me at first. Mother's belly was heavy with the baby, and she didn't bind as tightly as she might've. Twisting my toes underneath, urging the ball of my foot toward my heel, her hands caused only discomfort. She stitched the bindings up so that I couldn't undo them, but no such thought occurred to me.
Walking was difficult, but Mother let me sleep beside her that night, sending her servant out into the hallway. She fed me fruit slices and rice candy. I thought it a treat.
It wasn't until the third re-binding that I understood.
The bones in the foot of a five year old are not as well formed as those of an adult. They're quite easily broken, especially the long, slender bones of the arch. A bit of force, and they shatter like glass, and just as loudly.
I shrieked at the first pop.
I remember it as though it were yesterday, that horrible sound, and pain like fire burning all the way up my calf. I scarcely noticed when she did the other; what is a one more drop of water to a flood?
"It shall soon be over, darling, don't fear," Mother soothed afterward. "When your baby brother comes, it will all be over. We'll unbind your feet, and you'll be good as new…"
I sobbed and sobbed and didn't notice until I had no tears left that Mother looked more ill than I felt.
The baby was born the next day. It was a boy.
It died.
Then, so did Mother.
And so I'm left here, alone with no future and no one daring to expose me now that Father has no other child to offer up.
But I can't blame Father for going back on his word, even if it's left me the way I am today. Who knows what an Imperial Prince of the Manchu would have done to me, an innocent Han boy? I'm sure it would've been a fate worse than death.
I can't help but wonder sometimes, though, had I been born into a different life, would I have remained the way I started out? Innocent and sweet?
"Hello, there," I hear a voice say.
I blink and look around me. Has someone entered the atrium without me noticing?
But there's no one there, and I turn my eyes back to the pond. A enormous golden fish swims just below me, its fins flapping, mouth gulping hungrily at the water.
I sigh. "I'm sorry, I don't have anything for you. I'll have to remember to bring feed next time," I tell it.
"Thanks," it says.
My mind goes blank.
"I hear you're in a spot of trouble," the fish tells me.
I realize I'm gaping and close my mouth. Perfect. Now I'm going mad.
"I can help you, you know," the goldfish says. "I know exactly what you need."
Perhaps I've had too much fresh air. I'm unused to being outside for long periods, and combined with the strain from the messenger's visit, his clever, searching eyes--
"You're not imagining me. And you're not going mad. I realize I look like a fish, but I'm not," the fish announces. "I'm your ancestor, a guardian spirit. I'm here to guide you on your path."
I think back to the shrine and my wish for Mother to be with me, but the fish's voice is that of a man. "My ancestor is a fish?" I say, just to prove that the creature won't respond.
To my annoyance, it answers, "Well, if you want to get technical, I'm not so much of an ancestor as a cousin. On your father's mother's side. I'm called Black. Perhaps you've heard of me?"
Grandmother did have a cousin named Black who died long before I was born, but this proves nothing. In fact, I'm sure it's all my imagination, and there's no fish in the pond at all. I pull up my sleeve and reach my hand into the water. My fingers brush slippery scales, and I wince.
"What you need," the golden Black fish tells me, "is your mother's shoes. You'll find them in a trunk in her old room, under the cloak of kingfisher feathers. You'll be stunning at the Festival in those!"
I pull my hand sharply from the water. Imagine going through my dead Mother's things to retrieve a pair of shoes! You'd think I had none of my own! "What an unsavory hallucination I'm having!" I declare, and stand with as much dignity as possible when fleeing from one's own insanity.
"Remember, in the chest under the cloak! You'll thank me later!" Black calls after me.
Madness. Madness! I've lost my mind! There's only one thing to do: find Pansy.
She's washing her daughter's hair in a basin on the floor. Lather covers her arms up to the elbow, and a stray lock of hair hangs in her face.
"Hi, Jade!" my chubby cheeked, common looking step-sister says, rubbing at her eye when water splashes into it.
I ignore her. "I want fish for dinner," I tell Pansy. "There's a huge one out in the pond. Have it cooked."
"Do I look like a servant?" she asks. She blows the strand of hair out of the way, and it plops back down again, wet from the humidity.
"Do you really want me to answer that?" I shoot back.
I feel a bit bad at dinner, having sacrificed a perfectly innocent and beautiful creature to my insanity. It doesn't even taste good.
I'll have to have Father buy me a new one.
* * * * *
On the day before the Festival, I take my newest shoes out of their wooden box and discover that the extent of my mistake with the fish goes beyond a simple order of purchase.
I've worked on the shoes for months, painstakingly embroidering each stitch with a skill that has never come naturally to my hands. My fingers are long and slender, but a man's nonetheless, and more suited to handling a bow and arrow than needle and thread. Accepting mediocrity is out of the question, though; I must excel no matter many times I prick myself. Thus, for this project, I chose an exceptionally complex design: tiny golden dragons weaving in and out of red and pink peonies, tongues of fire licking at the stems.
They're stunning.
I slide one onto my foot, admiring the way it emphasizes the elegant point of my toe. I've done well; people will gain a new respect for my family when I show up in these. I'll be the envy of every girl there.
I take a step, and the shoe falls off my foot.
"Oh no," I murmur. I put it back on, trying to walk more carefully, but it's no use. I try on the other shoe, but that one is no different. I've bound my feet too tightly, and now the shoes are too big!
Panicked, I untie the sash from my waist and wrap it around one foot, as though a second layer of binding, and knot it at my ankle. I brace myself against the wall and try to shove the shoe on, but now my foot is too fat.
"Pansy!" I screech, not bothering to keep my voice low and womanly. "Pansyyyyyyyyy! "
Oh, this is horrible! All of that hard work to prove that even my family's boys are better than everyone else's girls, and now this! Wobbling, I pull up my Hanfu robe, which has fallen open in the front without its tie. It ignores my efforts, however, and continues to slide off my shoulders. Exasperated, I let it do as it will, balancing on one foot and yanking with both hands on the shoe.
"PANSY!" I yell again, and hear her shouting from down the corridor.
"What are you screaming about? You're going to frighten the servants to death with all that noise! The nerve of you, you bratty little spoiled rotten--"
"Don't call me that!" I shout, furious, and tug at the shoe with all my might. I finally feel my foot sliding into place… just before the silk lets loose a horrible ripping sound.
I gasp as my fingers slide from the fabric, and I pitch backwards. For a moment that feels like eternity, my arms circle in the air as I try to regain my balance.
But it's no use.
I tumble to the ground, my back hitting so hard that it takes the wind from me. My robes are wide open, baring my naked skin to the air, and the ripped fabric of my once perfect shoe dangles from my foot.
"Having a little problem, darling?" Pansy asks. "And I do mean little…"
I look down at my naked body and know it's not my feet she's talking about. Unneeded and unused, my penis lies limp against my thigh. I cover it with the edge of my Hanfu and feel like crying.
What a monstrous farce my body is.
Pansy laughs.
I hate it, and I hate her. She's the most awful, terrible, wicked concubine step-mother anyone has ever had. "It's not funny!" I tell her. "Stop laughing, it's not funny! I've ruined my shoe!"
She stops after what seems like forever and helps me up off the floor. "If you'd waited two seconds for my help, this never would've happened," she tells me. "You overreact to everything. Just wear the pair you made last summer."
"But they don't match my best outfit!" I protest, struggling to close my robes. "And one of the Narcissus flowers is crooked, I'll disgrace Grandmother's memory if I wear those awful things!"
She rolls her eyes, and I hang my head. "For someone who claims they don't want to go, you're awfully particular about your clothing," she mutters.
What does she know? I have a family name to uphold, and I don't take such matters lightly. In fact, my very diligence has led to my downfall!
Everyone knows that normal girls are naughty little things who only want to be rid of the pain of their bound feet. Unlike them, when I get upset, I wrap my bindings tighter. Or rather, I scream at Pansy to wrap them tighter, and she says I'm going to lose another toe but does it anyway. It takes my mind off of things when my feet throb, and makes me more grateful for the times when they don't. And of course, it's given me the daintiest, most desirable feet.
If I'm to pretend I'm a girl, why do it halfway? And what do I care if my toes all rot off? I'm not using them for anything.
That evening, wallowing in my own despair and wasting New Year's poetry paper with hideous calligraphy, I think of my ancestor fish. Of course I imagined the creature, but still. What if Mother really did have fabulous shoes stored away in a trunk someplace?
Everyone knows not to enter Mother's room, but the lock on the door is easily removed. I'm the proverbial woman of the house now, and as such, I've been entrusted with the keys. The last time I ventured inside was when I was five years old, and I don't remember it well. The trunk sits opposite the bed, against the far wall under the window. Dust covers it, and my fingers make dark marks on its surface. Inside, beneath a cloth package yellowed with age, sits a pair of breathtaking shoes with gold soles.
Side by side, they rest in the palm of my hand. Crimson roses flow over their sides as though the shoes themselves were a garden, the colors still brilliant as though they'd been stitched yesterday. My breath catches in my throat because I know just by looking at them that they'll fit.
I slide them on, awed, and sway about the room, admiring the soft clicks the gold makes against the ground. I know I shouldn't, but I can't help but smile. My mother was an admirable woman to have such feet; I'm sure Grandfather paid an astonishing bride price for her. Such a shame that she died so young, before the investment paid off.
As I prepare for the Festival, I try not to think of killing piscine reincarnations of my ancestors. I'm sure it was total coincidence that my mind dreamt up a creature that knew about Mother's shoes. Most likely, I'd seen what was in the chest when I was young, and the knowledge was playing at the edges of my thoughts.
Though that doesn't explain how the fish knew I'd need the shoes before I did.
But what could I do about it anyway?
It's as they say: Water spilled can never be retrieved.
* * * * *
Our journey into the city starts just after dawn, Pansy sitting beside me on the palanquin. She peeks out from between the silk panels, squealing and giggling at the sights. I try not to look, but being a proper girl, I've never been off our land before, and I find my eyes straying.
As the sun rises higher, odd looking buildings seem to pop up from nowhere, and people line the streets, some with banners and all wearing red to celebrate the holiday. Someone sets off a firework, and the noise nearly startles me off the side of the litter.
Pansy laughs. "This is where I lived, you know, before your father brought me home. Just a few streets over…"
City people are frightening, poor and uncouth. Father says they have bugs and don't wash themselves. I'm sure they'd spit on boys with tiny feet. I mustn't look.
I repeat this to myself over and over, concentrating on the rhythmic step of the litter bearers, the eight strong men Grandfather has hired to transport me with dignity. That enticing sliver of the outside world still calls to me, though, and I feel ashamed.
The Festival site is loud and bright and terrifying. I have no intention of leaving the safety of the palanquin.
"You can't sit here all day," Pansy tells me.
I cross my arms and give her a look that says I beg to differ.
"We're at the entrance to the matchmakers' tents just beside the palace. This is where we get off, and then the litter moves so the next person can get off. There's a system to it. We can't stay here," she announces. "You haven't got any choice."
I purse my lips. "The summons only said I had to come to the Festival. It didn't say I had to do anything once I arrived," I tell her.
"All the unwed noble girls in the entire Banner will be here to enjoy the day. It won't hurt you to join them for once," she informs me.
I tip my chin up. "I shall stay with the litter."
She looses an indelicate snort. "Fine then, stay with the litter. The men are going to take it around back and get pissed. If you're lucky, they'll offer you some rice wine before they have their way with you." And with that, she pulls back the silk and orders one of the men to help her down.
I stare after her, aghast, and shake my head, swinging my feet over the palanquin's edge. The man who helps me to the ground farms our land, but he was father's personal servant when the two were young. When Father left for the Capitol, he had a home built for the man and found him a suitable wife. Though he's the size of an ox, he's always had a soft spot for me, and a mere quiver of my bottom lip has him at my beck and call. In three strides, he catches up to Pansy and motions for her to wait for me.
She turns back in my direction and rolls her eyes. "Life is not this difficult," she says. "You make things so much harder than they are. Why don't you grow up, already?"
"Into what?" I demand.
"Pansy!" a voice screeches. "Pansy, darling, is that you?"
"Iris!" she exclaims waving her arm wildly in the direction of a group of women I hadn't noticed before. "How have you been, it's been forever since we--"
"What are you doing!" I hiss, feeling panicky. "We haven't got time for this, I've got to--"
"Oh, just go inside and find one of the matchmakers, Jade," Pansy tells me with a dismissing gesture. "You'll be fine!"
"But I--"
She waves me away and sets off toward her friend to bone up on the latest worthless gossip. Iris wears badly embroidered robes, and as Pansy embraces her, I can't help but think of what a tacky pair the two of them make.
I sigh, alone and out of place in the columned courtyard of the palace. The multitudes of flowers mock me with their colorful cheeriness. I should've known this would happen. In the end, I'm always alone.
Feminine voices and music punctuated with laughter drift out from the matchmakers' tent's entrance, and I take a deep breath and start toward it. I must be at my best. I must not bring disrespect to my family. I must play the perfect girl, the most delicate, obedient, and marriageable.
This is my role.
Two men stand guard at the tent flaps, but I keep my head down, eyes venturing no higher than their knees as I pass. I step into the laughter and sounds of happy women, only to find that it's gone silent.
I take a step forward, but with my eyes on the ground, I have no idea where to go. The clicking of my shoes in the quiet of the room echoes in my ears. Swallowing, I look up.
Everyone is staring at me.
Matchmakers sit at their tables, brushes suspended in the air. The jaws of the girls in the seats before them hang open. Musicians' fingers hover above their strings. Wide-eyed women put their hands to their mouths in surprise. Manchu and Han, old and young, in silks or cheap cottons, they're all gaping at me. A small girl exclaims, "Mummy, look at her!"
This break the silence, and the women begin whispering, tittering to each other. I catch bits about my hair, my robes, my willowy figure, the tiny gold shoes on my tiny lotus feet. I stare down at them myself, my face flaming.
Perhaps Pansy was right when she told me I'd overdressed. I only wanted to make a good impression wearing my best things, but it seems my things are too much nicer than everyone else's. My red Hanfu is embroidered in a thick border of flowers at the hem and bottom of the sleeves, with vines trailing up the front to my waist. To ward off the spring chill, I've donned a cloak interwoven with strands of gold thread, which matches my shoes exactly. My long hair is tastefully twisted and held in place with my jade phoenix comb, and long, beaded earrings emphasize the slenderness of my neck.
Should I be vilified for being better than other people? Is it a crime to be beautiful?
I suck on my bottom lip, wondering if it's too late to change my mind and drink rice wine with the litter bearers, when a girl comes up to me. "Hello," she says. "I haven't see you here before."
I swallow and nod, eyes trained on my toes.
"I'm Lily," she says.
Of course she is. Isn't every girl named Lily nowadays? Pansy says that if you've got less than a half dozen in your extended family, you're passé.
"It's so nice to meet you. I've never seen such lovely clothing," Lily tells me, and ducks her head down so that her face is between my eyes and my toes. Her dark eyes are pretty, but she has her hair pulled into a most ghastly coiffure, two massive buns with peonies sticking out of them. Her face is cute with quirky red lips, but I can't say I'd call her pretty. Her looks are too Manchu.
"Thank you," I murmur, at a loss.
She smiles. "You, um… might want to move out of the doorway, though. Other people will want in."
My face flushes redder still, and I follow her to a bench. Still looking down, I can't help but notice her feet as they poke out from beneath her robes. At first glance, they appear to be bound, but her shoes are actually attached to odd wooden stilts that pose as feet. She's probably never felt a day of pain in her life.
Cheater.
"Are you here to see the matchmakers?" Lily asks after we've settled ourselves. "They're all looking for a wife for the Prince's son, you know. Everyone says he'll be named heir soon, and just think of the commission they'll get on that deal. Oh, but I'm sure you'd look lovely at an Imperial banquet. Though I'd feel sorry for the chefs-- everyone would be so busy admiring you, they'd forget to eat!"
"You flatter me," I say in my most modest tone, though I can't help but agree. If only Imperial banquets didn't come with a husband attached!
"Are you here with your mother?" she asks. "Where has she gone?"
I shake my head, embarrassed to explain.
"Have you found a new friend, Lily, dear?" a voice asks. "How nice!"
I look up to see an older woman, her hair turning grey, smiling down at us. She has plump red cheeks and looks far too cheerful for someone with so few years left to live.
I nod delicately and look back at my shoes.
"What a pretty thing!" the woman exclaims. "And so modest! But what are you doing here with the maidens, dear, surely you've already been married! Are you with a younger sister, maybe?"
Lily laughs, a cute tinkling sound I wish my voice had, and tells her, "She's here for the Prince's son, Grandmother. She's come out of hiding for him!"
"No," I protest, "truly, that's not why--"
"Oh, what a dear!" the woman exclaims, likely going deaf in her old age. "We must find you a quiet place to sit until one of the matchmakers is free. All of this noise can't be healthy for such a delicate thing. Oh! I know just where we can put you…"
Lily waves goodbye as the woman hauls me out of the tent and into the hallways of the palace. Her feet are small, but she moves like a carthorse. I pant to keep up, horrified at the possibility of breaking into a sweat. She deposits me in a room, quite alone and feeling justifiably terrorized, and tells me to wait.
I want to tell her that Pansy will be looking for me soon, but I can't think of what to say. Is it shameful to not have come with my mother, or at least a true woman of my family? Would it look bad for a mere concubine to be escorting me? And how should I describe her? "Plump, plain, and loud" could apply to so many different women here!
"Just have a seat, dear, someone will be right with you!" the old woman exclaims, and then bustles back out the door.
I sigh.
How do I get myself into these things?
At least the room isn't terribly unpleasant. It's quiet, the couch is comfortable, and a folding screen painted with a landscape stands opposite me. I wonder if the artist is the same as the man who did the one we have, as they do look similar. Grandfather commissioned our eight panel screen before I was born, and I remember it from my earliest childhood. It sits in Grandfather's library.
I think it's nicer than this one.
A servant girl with large feet brings me tea and sweets.
"How long do you think the wait shall be?" I ask.
She shakes her head and says something that brings to mind the time our watchdog was bitten by a snake.
"Don't you speak Chinese?" I demand.
When she doesn't answer, I groan. What irony has brought me a servant who speaks only Manchu?
Probably the same that brought me masculine body odor and feet the length of my thumb.
After some time, I begin to think I've been abandoned. My tea has gone cold, and still no one has come. Though spring has begun, the days are still short, and the sun has begun to lower in the heavens. I pull my cloak tighter and slide my legs up under me, tucking my robes over my feet. Embroidered silks and golden shoes are beautiful, but not warm.
How long am I to sit here? Where is the matchmaker? Where is Pansy?
And why hasn't that idiot Manchu servant girl brought me any supper?
I'm gazing at the folding screen, examining the way the mountains disappear into the mist as my stomach grumbles, when I hear the pad of feet enter.
"It's about time," I tell the servant.
"About time for what?" a voice asks.
I look up, startled, to find a young man in the room. He wears rumpled clothing in the Manchu style, his legs in trousers and pointed shoes on his feet. But I barely notice these things because of his hair, which is easily the most hideous travesty I've ever witnessed.
The plait of his queue trails elegantly over one shoulder, but the shaved part on top has grown out. His hair sticks up half a finger length like a brain addled bird's nest or the reeds of a half woven basket. I find myself staring, lost to all propriety.
"Have you lost your voice?" he asks.
I flush and turn my eyes toward the ground. Who is this person, and what is he doing here? "My apologies," I murmur. "I am waiting for someone."
"Whatever," he says. "You're all so stupid."
My face goes red, jaw clenching. Stupid! A boy with rumpled clothing and ugly hair who wanders into other people's waiting chambers called me stupid! He's probably somebody's litter bearer, or a food vender, or peddler of trinkets or some such. There's a Festival for the commoners today as well, isn't there?
Imagine such a person insulting me!
But I must take it in stride; it won't do to be rude. "It seems that you may have taken a wrong turn, as I am waiting in this room at the moment," I say, in the hopes that he'll take the hint and leave.
"No, I know exactly where I am," he tells me. "No one has any idea I'm here, and I don't feel like being chased around the place again, so if you think I'm going, you're wrong."
Chasing him around the place? What has this boy done! Am I sharing a room with some sort of felon? Oh, and he's coming closer to me! But I can't leave-- where would I go, and however would Pansy find me? Perhaps if I sit in silence…
"What's your name?" the boy asks.
I sigh in defeat. "Jade," I tell him.
"What a boring name," he says. "Did your father sell himself to get you those clothes?"
I bite my tongue to keep from answering. Of all the uncouth, irresponsible, moronic--
"You think fancy robes and hair combs and things are going to net you the Prince's son? You think men like rubbish like that? Pretty clothes to disguise an empty brain? You're stupid," he says. "You're all stupid."
I clear my throat. "Pardon my speech," I murmur, sure to keep my voice low and womanly despite my boiling rage, "but are you suggesting that I wear clothing more like your own?"
He laughs. "I slept in it in the back of a restaurant last night. Clothing doesn't make the man," he tells me.
I tip my chin, and my earrings sway, my fingers traveling to the sash around my waist. "On that sentiment, we are surely in agreement." Now if you would kindly leave my sight post-haste…
"So what does make the man?" he asks. "That's what I've been wondering."
"I'm sure a woman wouldn't know," I say, "though since you have asked, I would venture… dignity, propriety, and respect, to name a few. Now, if you please, someone shall be here for me soon, and it wouldn't do for us to be seen together. Perhaps, in the name these esteemed manly qualities which I have noted, you might--"
"Hey, you're not so bad after all," he says, and places his horrifying and likely lice infested self beside me on the couch. "You can talk to men without stuttering, that's useful. And you're actually kind of pretty. It's too bad your face is all pointy like that. Has your whole family got that chin?"
Appalled beyond words and so infuriated that my jaw hurts, it takes a moment for me to collect my thoughts. "I have been very patient with your insolence, peasant, but if you think for one moment that I shall disregard ill words towards my family, that thing which is most close to my heart, you have--"
"Do you know The Peony Pavilion?" he asks. "It's an opera."
"I know it's an opera, I've read it!" I exclaim. "It's the most romantic thing ever written! I have the final scene memorized! Now get out of my sight!"
"Hey, show me your feet," he says. His hands go to the hem of my Hanfu. I squeal in a way which must be most unbecoming and try to keep him from pulling back the fabric. He pushes my hands away, and I swat at his fingers, the noise sharp in the still of the room, but to no avail.
"Whoa!" he exclaims. "You can walk on those?"
"Pervert! Get your dirty hands off me!" I order, and do my best to shove him away.
He laughs and shoves back. With a squeak, I slip backwards on the couch and find myself propped against the armrest, my neck bent at an uncomfortable angle. When I try to pull myself up again, he's holding me down.
"Let go!" I hiss.
He doesn't let go. Instead, he takes my shoulders and slides me across the couch so that my head rests on a pillow. His fingertips run across my collarbone, and he leans over me.
Before I know what I'm doing, I slap him.
My hand stings, and I stare at it in shock as though it's not mine. As I'm not truly a girl, I'm in no danger, yet I lashed out. Or did I? Could my smooth-skinned, elegant, well-bred hand truly slap someone? Even if that someone is the most uncivilized brute I've ever met?
Above me, the boy makes a noise, and I look up at him. He touches his cheek, on which a welt the size of my palm is rising. He blinks at his fingers as though he can't believe my hand could do such a thing, either. And then he looks at me.
His face is smooth and unblemished, a touch of sun lighting his cheekbones. White teeth like pearls rest behind his parted lips. The green of my hair comb reflects in his eyes, brilliant and shining in their depths.
So handsome.
My heart skips a beat.
With a slowness that tugs at my every nerve, he brings his lips to my cheek. His breath puffs against my skin, mouth sliding across and pressing below my ear. Warm and soft, his lips trail down my neck, and I gasp at the sensation, unable to move a muscle.
And then my hand-- the same one that slapped him-- wraps itself around his neck.
This is insanity! I've lost my mind; my body is doing things beyond my control! I am shaming myself with this servant boy and bringing disgrace to my family! The thought chokes me, and I turn my head when he brings his lips to mine.
"Kiss me," he whispers. His lips brush the corner of my mouth, and I shiver.
His fingers slide down the front of my robes.
My head spins, and I grasp his wrist, but it's too late. He's felt what I hide beneath the padded silk, or rather, what I don't: no soft female breasts, no warm flesh to cup in his hand, only the hard planes of my chest and nubs of nipples.
I hide nothing.
He swallows, his throat making a strange clicking noise. He pulls his hand from my Hanfu, and I squeeze my eyes shut against the sight of him.
What he finds next is not my fault. I'm a healthy young man with a warm body leaning over me, a mouth on my neck, and hand sliding against my bare skin. My body's reacted of its own accord! It would happen to any man!
But I'm not supposed to be a man.
His hand between my legs is warm and firm, and he grips me through the fabric, as though testing the feel. It's like nothing I've ever felt before, and I hear myself whimper, wanting desperately for him to stop.
Yet somehow, a strange little part of me wishes wouldn't.
Thus, I do the only thing I can: with all my strength, I knee him in the groin.
He makes a choked sounding noise, rolling off me and clutching himself between his legs. He slides to the floor groaning, his face an indeterminate shade of puce, eyes squeezed shut in agony.
I try to work up the saliva to spit on him, but my mouth is dry. I clap my hand over it, horrified with my very existence, and flee the room.
As I step past him, his hand darts out and grabs my foot.
I scream and barely catch myself from falling. He tugs at me, fingers biting into my ankle, and I try to kick off his hand. As I pull free, my shoe comes off in his grasp, skittering across the floor, but it can't be helped. I escape as quickly as my ridiculous feet will carry me, winding through the mazelike corridors of the palace before I find someone who can direct me to the litters. I arrive breathless and disheveled.
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