Chapter 3

I had known every kind of man, but none as strange as He Xizhou. A scholar skilled in books and painting, he spent only half an hour each on calligraphy and reading after rising at dawn. Then he simmered broth, rolled wrappers, chopped filling, ate hurriedly, and pushed his cart out to sell wontons.

Others charged five copper coins for chicken-broth wontons; he charged three. When I mocked his business sense, he simply scattered scallions over a steaming bowl and watched the alley laborers devour it. “Life is hard. If I charge more, they will deny themselves.”

At Spring Breeze House I had learned to climb over others. Pretty girls were plentiful but only one could be queen. Our lives belonged to others; compassion was baggage. Yet Willow Alley was peaceful, without the fear of being carried out the back gate. Seeing poor diners finish every drop before going to work in the cold, I found his words oddly reasonable. The next morning I wrapped my hair and entered his kitchen.

What infuriated me was that even at three coins, people bought on credit. When Old Zheng, the incense seller, asked a third time, I dropped my rag, but Xizhou quietly stopped me. He served a brimming bowl—with extra scallions I had chopped.

I sulked behind the cart after closing. He produced a candied hawthorn skewer as if by magic. I refused to be bought by cheap sweets—and immediately snatched it, biting into its tart sweetness.

While packing, he explained, “I came here at six or seven and cried every day from homesickness. Once I stopped breathing. Uncle Zheng abandoned his stall and carried me to the clinic. His business has been poor these two years.”

My chewing slowed. The fourth time Old Zheng came, embarrassed, I glared and filled his bowl to the brim.

“Girl, could I have more scallions?”

I threw in another fistful. Xizhou coughed into his hand, laughter bright in his eyes.