We were an ordinary family of commoners, with an unremarkable little apothecary in Zhuge Township.
Everyone in the township spoke of my parents as a match made in heaven, so devoted were they to each other.
When I was five, Mother vanished without a word.
Father traveled to the capital alone, and from then on, his fortunes soared.
The apothecary moved from the township to the county town, then expanded into the prefectural seat.
Our homes grew larger with every move: pavilions set among courtyards, red roof ridges and green tiles, servants at our heels and curtained sedan chairs at our doors.
We had become a family of wealth and standing.
Only I remained a filthy, disheveled mad girl, beaten and tormented like a little slave by Father’s new wife.
My young, innocent half-brother, egged on by someone else, ran up and raised his lively little face to ask, “They all say your mother was a demon.
She brought Father bad luck and kept our family from getting rich.
What about you?
Are you a demon too?”
I covered my bare, fingerless hands and smiled.
Mother had taught me that to stay alive, we had to pretend to be human.
Organs, flesh, blood, hair, skin—everything had to be replaced and kept fresh.
Father had broken her bones apart and sold them, piece by piece.
Mine, I would have to hide very, very carefully.
