Part IThe Thread-Seeker
1
Gege! Please tell me what you see!”
The young woman peers up at me, her dark eyes wide and expectant as I carefully count the bronze coins she has paid. The money is all there and accounted for, but there’s no harm in double-checking my math. Being shorted out of a week’s worth of food once has taught me the value of diligence for the remainder of my lifetime.
Once satisfied with my tally, I tie the small purse of coins to the inside of my outer robe. “Very well,mèimei,” I say with an easy smile. “Raise your right hand, just so.”
She follows my instructions eagerly as she draws in a deep, excited breath. Her hands are those of a laborer: calloused palms and thick knuckles. She likely spends her days toiling in the neighboring rice fields. Her hands and nails are clean, however, scrubbed pink and practically raw to be rid of any dirt and grime.
She has a simple appearance. Her dull brown dress is cut from cheap, rough fabric. Her long black hair is pulled back into a simple braid that runs the length of her spine, cinched off with a short black ribbon. I can detect the faintest trace of floral perfume upon her hair, though the fragrance isn’t very strong. It’s clear that she hasput a lot of effort into looking her best despite her circumstances—and likely spent well beyond her means for such a privilege—but I blame her not.
I, too, would want to look my absolute best, were I meeting my Fated One today.
I can see her red thread as clear as the blue skies above. The shimmering magic loops around her little finger and then trails off toward the center of the city. There’s a good amount of tension, no slack to be found, which informs me that the person on the other end must be close.
“Are you ready?” I ask her.
She nods quickly, her excitement palpable.
With my hand tucked just below her wrist, we start off on our merry way.
Her thread cuts straight through the marketplace by the harbor. The narrow streets of Jiaoshan are congested pipes, clogged with merchants and customers alike. Vendors eagerly peddle their wares while workmen treat themselves to well-deserved meals made up of spiced meats, steamed buns, and dumpling soups.
The air is chilly—winter’s first frost covering the rooftops—though the cold does little to dissuade people from going about their business. There are vibrant dyes freshly imported from the western kingdoms, exotic spices from overseas, and beautiful bejeweled hairpins and rare silks from the trade routes farther up north.
There is nothing from the South. Trade with our Southern brethren has dried up since the emperor’s declaration of war nearly a year ago.
The city of Jiaoshan—so I have been told—was once nothing more than a few straw huts built around the circumference of a large lake. The more people who gathered to call it home, the more they took from the water. Decades went by, the lake shrinking afew inches every year as the population grew. People raised their homes closer to the water’s edge, chasing after it, until the lake dried up and all that was left was the sprawling city built upon its muddy basin.
It’s just as well. I loathe swimming.
The hustle and bustle of the marketplace fills my ears, but as we venture through, the whispers and curious stares follow without fail. Even the scantily clad courtesans of the local pleasure house lean out from their windows to cast their judgment.
“Isn’t that him?” a woman comments, staring at me with barely veiled contempt. “The Thread-Seeker?”
“Who?”
“He looks a mere drifter.”
“Why’s he still here? Shouldn’t he be with the other conscripts?”
“Probably weaseled his way out of it.”
“Coward.”
“Is he swindling that poor girl?”
“No, no—it’s him, I’m sure of it. Sai was the one who helped my cousin find his husband not two moons ago!”
I ignore the comments and focus on the task—literally—at hand.
Because while it’s true that I can see my client’s thread, I can also see the ones belonging to everyone else. Vibrant red lines leading left, right, and center. They crisscross and tangle, weaving near and far. Some lie slack upon the ground, while others wrap over houses or get stuck in trees. Others are taut like clotheslines, or the snapped reins of a mule-drawn wagon. The threads of fate constantly shift throughout the day and night, much like a tangled pit of vipers, moving wherever the two souls on either end see fit.
Most days, I’m able to ignore it all. It’s an ever-present, confusing web of magic that I have learned to see past over the years; same as one would with a large, faceless crowd. The threads areintangible, easily passed through, so I’m never at risk of tripping over them. Having a gentle hold on her hand helps me focus; it is much like the hand of a compass, pointing me in the right direction.
The girl’s thread begins to vibrate, an overwhelming warmth radiating off the thin strand. She gulps, breaking into a light sweat despite the cold winter morn.
