Chapter 7

Half a month after entering the household, I finally met Shen Jingtan, Yunqi’s new wife. They had met at Princess Derong’s begonia banquet, and he had proposed at first sight.

I first heard Jingtan’s name on New Year’s Eve. Spring Breeze House had no family reunions; whom could we join—the kin who sold us? It was at least a holiday because even wastrels went home. Other girls shopped, painted, or drank. I usually slept.

Xizhou asked me to hold down a couplet as he pasted it to the door: *With books and fields, our family farms and reads; without office or duty, we heed no worldly affairs.*

I stared. Why not blessings and longevity? Hands tucked into his sleeves, he said, “Fortune and life are set by heaven. Begging cannot bring them.” He scooped leftover paste into his mouth. Horrified, I pried at his lips. We froze with my fingers inside. Red-eared, he explained it was only flour and water. I withdrew my hand and loudly offered Ah Huang a bone for rolling over.

At dusk snow began. Xizhou cooked a full table. Firecrackers sounded from rich northern homes; poor Willow Alley listened for free. In our warm room, Ah Huang snored by the stove. Two stools crowded a tiny table beneath dim lamps—the ordinary warmth of life, long unfamiliar to me.

I overate. Xizhou fetched hawthorn medicine. “How old are you? Still like a child.”

A child? Others called me a heartless, beautiful demon. My childhood died when Father began gambling. Only those cherished by parents were children; those without were orphans fighting society, heaven, and fate for life and pride.

I opened my mouth to rebuke him. He popped in a hawthorn pill. “Even medicine must be fed to you. What a worry.” Its sweetness bloomed on my tongue and in my heart. All my fierce words vanished. I stamped in frustration as he worked by the stove. He had diverted me again.

After dinner he warmed wine. The two of us and one dog watched snow by the crackling fire until a window crashed inward. Ah Huang barked. I stared. “I have never known another house whose window blows off.”

Xizhou remained solemn. “One gets used to it. I must not have repaired it firmly.”

“Buy a new one.”

“Too costly. This can still be mended.”

“Are you a pixiu, taking money in and never letting it out? What are you saving for, hatching chicks?”

“I need one hundred taels before I can propose.”

I went still. “You truly have a bride?”

Watching new snow, he said, “Her surname is Shen. Her given name is Jingtan.”

I lowered my eyes. Wind moaned through the broken frame. Only then did I notice how cold the deepest winter could be.