More likely than not, most Hin these days had one or two clan ancestors unbeknownst to them.
“Help me with the liner?” Lan asked.
Ying’s lips curved into a smile as she took the kohl pencil from Lan. Her fingers were warm, soft and careful, as she traced the line of Lan’s lashes. Lan continued to dab rouge onto her lips, humming as she did so.
“Whatisthat song you’re always singing?” Ying asked, bemused.
Lan shrugged. She couldn’t place the melody—she sometimes felt as though she’d caught it from a dream one night. It was one she’d known as long as she could remember. “Probably an old lullaby,” she replied.
“Hmm.” Ying leaned back, pursing her lips to survey herwork on Lan’s eyes. She beamed. “One day you’re going to find a rich nobleman and marry yourself off.”
Lan snorted, earning herself a firm pinch from Ying. “Ai’yo, that hurts! Marrying a handsome nobleman isyourdream, Yingying.”
“Can you stop squirming for just five seconds? And yes, it is.” There was a hint of tightness to Ying’s voice as she fixed some flyaway strands of Lan’s hair. “Nothing wrong with making the best of a bad situation. I know you dread the possibility, but I dream of going to the Peach Blossom Room one day.”
A coil tightened inside Lan. The Peach Blossom Room had been the source of numerous arguments between herself and Ying. Nicknamed the Room of Delight in the Teahouse, it was in an area of the second floor that was sectioned into closed-off quarters and strictly off-limits at all times. Word was, it cost a hundred gold ingots to book a single night, and if an Elantian official or nobleman requested a songgirl there, it wasn’t the room they were paying for. If the songgirl was lucky, her contract was also transferred to the buyer and she would be taken away under his ownership.
If she wasn’t, she would be taken for a single night and then cast out by the Madam. No one wanted a tainted flower.
But, Lan thought as she studied her face in the mirror, the still-wet strands of her hair and the powders and blushes coating her skin, in the entirety of this process, there was never a time when the songgirls were given a choice.
Work at the Teahouse or starve in the streets.
Please an Elantian or die at his hands.
Lan touched a finger to the little hemp pouch of crushed dried lily petals she kept on her at all times. Refusing to smell like roses, the Elantian national flower, was one small act of rebellion.
“No changes to the show for tonight, right?” she asked,switching subjects. The rest of the songgirls were already in costume, shimmering flowers to be put on display night afternight after night. “We’re still doing ‘Ballad of the Last Kingdom’?”
Ying opened her mouth to answer, but at that moment, a cold voice cut through their conversation with the precision of a scalpel. “You would know this had you attended the rehearsal.”
At once the cheerful hubbub of the songgirls’ conversation died. The temperature in the room seemed to plummet as a shadow swept over the door.
Madam Meng’s steps fell, soft and sinuous, across the wooden floor, her silken robes slithering behind her. While the saying generally went that beauty faded with time, the madam of the Rose Pavilion Teahouse had aged like fine plumwine. Black hair fell in smoky plumes across her shoulders before sweeping into a traditional Hin updo, her face framed like a portrait by black-rimmed eyes and a blood-red mouth. As she lifted the hem of her robes, her metal nailguards—made in the same style as those of ancient Hin concubines—glittered, long and sharp as claws.
Like Haak’gong, Madam Meng and her Teahouse had survived the Conquest and even gone on to thrive as the other restaurants and taverns around the area had been cleansed, replaced with adaptations more palatable to the Elantians’ tastes. The Madam had used her beauty as a weapon and abandoned the pride, values, and morality of a fallen kingdom, running straight into her conquerors’ arms.
The people who might have judged her—well, they were all dead.
Now she stalked across the floor like an empress in her own halls, songgirls falling into line with murmurs of “Madam” as she passed by.
“Well, well, look who decided to show up,” Madam Meng said. Her voice was delicate, a near-whisper, but Lan flinched as though she’d just shouted.
“Forgiveness, Madam, I—”
The Madam’s hands darted out, curved nailguards digging into Lan’s upper arms. Lan swallowed a gasp of pain; her heart fluttered like a bird in a cage as she drew her gaze to meet the Madam’s. They were a terrifying obsidian black.
“Need I remind you,” Madam Meng murmured, “what happens to songgirls who grow toocomfortablehere?”
The nails pinched, but Lan knew the Madam wouldn’t draw blood—not on the night of her greatest show of the cycle.
Lan lowered her eyes. “No, Madam. It won’t happen again.”
In a sudden motion, the Madam lifted her hand as though to strike. Lan flinched, shutting her eyes—but the next moment, those sharp nailguards came to rest on her cheeks. Madam Mei never hit her songgirls where the marks could be seen.
“I expect nothing less than your best performance tonight,” she crooned, tracing a finger down the length of Lan’s cheek. Gently she dabbed at a spot on Lan’s face, drawing away a thin sprinkling of powder. “There. Now you look as perfect as a doll. No man will look at you and suspect the wily fox–spirited girl inside.”
It was remarkable how the Madam could deliver a compliment and make it sound like a threat. She turned and disappeared through the doors, leaving a cloud of rose-scented terror in her wake.
