I continue to guide her through the market, climbing the base of the hill leading toward the Pearl District. The old wooden shanties that line the streets of the market slowly melt into bigger, grander homes, complete with tall cream walls, pointed roofs, and magnificent water gardens that have started to freeze over with the turn of the season.
We receive more stares from those around us, but they’re not so much curious as they are disgruntled by our presence. Aristocratic women whisper behind their custom-made silk fans, pinching their painted faces at us as we carry on.
“Are you sure we’re in the right place,gege?” the woman asks me when we approach an estate with a massive circular moon gate, its red wooden doors firmly shut. The design of a fearsome dragon has been etched around the circumference, gilded in gold leaf; its snarling teeth and sharp claws on display to scare off bad luck and spirits with cruel intentions.
I glance down at her hand again. Her red thread is taut and vibrating from the tension of her and her Fated One’s proximity. It begins to glow, a bright and rich crimson hue, sparkling like distant starlight. I’m the only one who can see the magic at work. The girl stares at me, none the wiser.
I nod encouragingly. “This is it,mèimei. Your Fated One is just beyond those walls.”
She takes a step back, shaking her head in abject horror. “That’s the councilman’s house! There has to be some kind of mistake.”
“Your red thread of fate is never wrong,” I tell her. “You are destined to be with whoever is on the other side of that gate.”
“Butlookat me. I don’t belong here.” Her bottom lip trembles, her thin brows knitting together into a steep frown. She tugs at the end of her braid, fraying her ribbon between her fingers. “What if they take one look at me and laugh? They’ll know the second they lay eyes on me that I have no dowry to give. This was a mistake. I never should have come. This whole thing’s been such a foolish endeavor.”
I place my hands on her shoulders and hold her gaze, calm and steady. “I know you’re afraid, but believe me when I say your Fated One will love you with all their heart. It matters not what you look like, nor how wealthy you are. True love will never fail you, but you must be brave enough to accept it in the first place.”
I give her the lightest of nudges toward the gate, taking a step back to watch it all unfold with the gathering crowd.
She reaches shakily for the iron door knocker and bangs it against the wood—once, twice. The silence that follows is thick and heavy. Not even the wind whistles past, afraid of shattering the suspense sizzling in the air.
At long last, the door creaks open on its hinges. A man steps out, dressed in deep purple robes and a heavy golden chain bearing the seal of the city council. He blinks down at the young woman, his brief confusion almost immediately washed away by curiosity. There’s warmth in his eyes, a kind smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
Between them, their thread sings. It glows with the brilliance of nine suns, their connection pure and true. Nobody else can see this blinding display, but they don’t have to. The way they look at each other in wonderment and awe is more than enough to understand what’s going on here.
It’s a beautiful miracle, unmatched in all things worldly or otherwise. Happiness is a contagious affliction, but I do my best not to look down at the thread wrapped around my own finger. I’m never pleased at what I see, and there’s no need to ruin my good mood.
I slip away into the crowd. My job here is done.
As exhausted as I may be after my morning spent matchmaking, there’s still much to be done around the teahouse.
Bysì shí, the hour of the snake, I’ve wiped down all the tables and given the kneeling pillows a good fluff, ready to welcome the day’s first thirsty customers.
By noon, the hour of the horse, I’ve fixed the broken window shutters facing the street to better let in light, hoping the welcoming ambience will draw patrons into my family’s humble business. No one has stepped in yet, but I haven’t given up yet.
Byshen shí, the hour of the monkey, the sun is beginning to hang low in the sky. My optimism wavers, but I must take into account the dinner rush. The local farmers and fishermen will be passing through soon, done with their day’s work. Surely I can convince a few stragglers to come in for a lovely pot of tea and a plate of sweet almond cookies.
I spend the remainder of my afternoon flipping through the teahouse’s ledger, quietly lamenting the low figures. The coin I earned today should cover the teahouse’s losses, but that leaves little room in the budget for food. Perhaps if I have a little less to eat and fill up on water, I can ensure that A-Ma gets enough to fill her stomach. I’m still young and strong. A missed meal here and there won’t hurt me.
Just as I finish balancing the books, I hear my mother break into a coughing fit. The stairs creak beneath her weight as shedescends, one step at a time, clinging to the rickety railing for stability. She’s been asleep all day, as per her doctor’s instruction.
“A-Ma, what are you doing out of bed?” I ask, hurrying over to usher her back upstairs. “You’re supposed to be resting. The doctor said—”
She waves me off, hacking into her elbow. “That doctor is a quack, Sai. An absolute quack! What harm is there in stretching my legs from time to time?”
I sigh, swallowing down the frustration burning in my chest. “Come, come. Let’s get you tucked in. Doctor Qi said not to put stress on your joints.”
My mother groans in irritation, but allows me to guide her back to her room.
We live on the top floor of the teahouse. It was supposed to be used for storage, but since Father’s passing all those years ago and Mother falling ill, money has been exceedingly tight. The few months following the funeral were particularly hard. More often than not, I found myself fretting over my choice between paying the rent and buying my mother’s medicine. Our previous landlord didn’t take kindly to my choosing the latter.
I’m thankful A-Ba left us the teahouse, at least, despite its disastrously red ledger. I know not how my mother would fare out on the streets, now that the nights are freezing. It’s drafty and uncomfortably cramped up here, but I’m grateful we have a roof over our heads nonetheless.
My mother’s pallet takes up the majority of the space, covered in all the blankets and pillows I have managed to collect from our more generous neighbors. We are surrounded on all sides by tall cabinets, jars of dried tea leaves stored away in each one of their drawers ahead of the slow trade season. The roads around the city become treacherous with winter storms, and merchants are far less willing to brave the weather. One of the first lessons my fathertaught me when I was a young boy was to stock up for the frigid months ahead.
Sometimes I wish A-Ba had been as good at squirreling away coin as he was with his beloved teas.
A-Ma settles in, but she does so with a pout. She was born in the Year of the Ox, so it makes sense that she’s as stubborn as a bull. “I’m feeling better,” she insists, then immediately coughs into her elbow. It sounds dry and excruciating, nails screeching across jagged bricks. “How did it go today?”
