Songgirls spun onstage, blending in a flurry of silks and jewels flashing beneath the lantern light, weaving the tale of their land, the fate of their people.
Lan opened her eyes only when the last quavering note of the ballad had melted like snow. The soft red light of the lanterns held the Teahouse in a muted silence, the patrons as still as statues even as the songgirls crouched into the final positions of their dance.
Lan wet her lips, letting the silence steep for several more moments before she prepared for the curtsy.
And then something extremely strange happened.
From the quiet offstage came the jarring, unmistakable sound of clapping.
Just as a master did not clap for a prized trick dog, Elantians never clapped after shows at the Teahouse. A murmur rose up among the patrons as they looked to the source of the noise. The songgirls stirred, saccharine smiles yielding to surprise.
A man in one of the front rows was standing, bringing his hands together over and over again in a slow clap.
Lan looked at him. Their gazes met, and her blood froze.
Summer-green eyes, marble-cut face, a grin that was widening by the moment as he caught her expression.
It was the Elantian soldier from Old Wei’s shop.
“Brava!” he called. Coming from his mouth, it sounded like mockery. “I’ll take one of those, yes, ma’am!”
Two of his fellow soldiers wrestled him back down. A titter of laughter spread through the Teahouse among the Elantian customers as they turned back to face the stage. A Hin might have been beheaded for such effrontery, but an Elantian soldier’s drunken debaucheries on a night of celebration only served to improve spirits.
Lan’s pulse began to race. She could hear the Angel calling after her as she turned and followed the other songgirls offstage, and she knew with utter certainty that he hadn’t been jesting. The world grew muted, the conversation of the girls a distant blur as her mind blanked with panic.
The kitchens were awhirl with motion, and the songgirls picked up trays of tea and snacks that had been laid out for them to serve their customers. Lan shoveled sunflower seeds and dried jujubes onto her tray, barely noticing what she was doing. The kitchens around her shifted, and suddenly, she was back in Old Wei’s shop, shelves and cabinets locking her in place, the press of hard fingers against her skin. Grass-green eyes that roamed her body as though they owned her, hot breath against her cheeks as the soldier thrust his marble-cut face into hers.
Don’t you worry, my pretty little flower. I’m not letting you go so easily.
Nausea roiled in her stomach as she thought of her earlier conversation with Ying, of the Peach Blossom Room. Soldiers were not known to be rich, and the price to buy out a songgirl’s contract would be out of their range.
The most they could afford was a single night.
That meant—
Her hands trembled so violently that she dropped the butterknife she was holding.
“Lanlan! Are you all right?” She could barely speak as Ying bent to pick up the knife, placing it by the plate of scones, butter, and jam Lan had picked out. The girl took one look at Lan’s face and her smile dropped. “Lanlan?”
Lan looked into her friend’s face. Was it just a bell ago that they had been teasing each other about suitors and the future?
Now Lan looked to the future and thought only of the press of pale fingers against her wrists, the gleam of green eyes too close to her face.
Help me,she wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come. What could Ying do for her, even if she asked? Her friend’s heart was as soft and as fragile as a peony; to tell her the truth—that Lan might be a breath away from being sold out like cattle and then cast onto the streets—would break her heart.
Mama had once told Lan that one day she would grow up to protect those who needed her.
Lan forced herself to smile. “I’m fine.” The words tasted like broken porcelain.
Ying’s eyes lingered on Lan’s face for a moment more, her lips parted, and for the cycles to come, Lan would wonder what she might have said.
At that moment, Li the cook popped out from behind a cabinet. “What are you two still chitchatting about here?” hedemanded, dumping lotus seed cakes onto a tray. “It’s our busiest night and you have patrons to serve. Go on, get out! Out!”
Ying snatched up her tray, shot Lan a helpless look, and scurried out.
The tray felt leaden in Lan’s hands. As she stepped out into the front of the Teahouse, the sounds of conversation, laughter, and clinking plates and cups washed over her. The low light of the lanterns seemed to paint the room in a mist of blood.
Through the fog of her thoughts, a realization cut clear as a blade. If she was going to be thrown out after tonight, she might as well make a run for it now. Why wait for an Elantian soldier to have his way with her? Why wait for Madam Meng to beat her and cast her out into some ditch like the curbside fox she’d been since the very start?
