‘What’s it to you? She’s a creep and deserves what’s coming to her.’
‘One should not lie.’
I don’t like the tone he takes. I press Mafan’s hilt to his chest. ‘Even the fuddy-duddy Confucius had no issue with falsehoods in the face of justice. Who are you to lecture me?’
‘I do not like liars.’ The look he gives me is so defiant I’m momentarily befuddled. Where is the cowardly mortal from before? And then my temper rises. How dare this mortal challenge me? I snarl and am about to forget all my promises to Big Wang when I see Madame Meng shuffling towards us. The ferries are coming. The fight in me deflates. I forgot all about the time.
Madame Meng wears her usual silver robes and sensible black fabric shoes. A blood-jade hair pin holds her tidy silver topknot in place. A train of attendants follow close behind, each pushing a trolley laden with candied haw on sticks. The small red fruit glisten even in the low light, like lacquered prayer beads. So many. There was a time when she only needed one trolly of the candied haws.
I bow deeply, and when Mr Lee doesn’t, I grab his sleeve and yank him down. He doesn’t fight me, but he still gives me the stink eye.
‘Virtuous Madame Meng,’ I say. ‘Ten thousand years of good health.’
Madame Meng smiles, wide and toothless, and her eyes disappear into half-moon creases. Despite all she’s seen, she continues to emanate warmth and kindness. I don’t know how she does it.
‘This one of the teahouse arrives before Little Jing unharmed,’ she says, with a slight incline of her head, then continues on her way, her retinue following her. Their trolley wheels squeak as they pass, the candied haw jiggling like spirit bells. She crosses the Bund and heads to the docks where the first ferry is already berthing. I don’t want to see the passengers disembark, but I can’t look away.
Mr Lee clears his throat. ‘Yan Luo Wang told me most ghosts spend quite a long time in Shanghai before they are called to Madame Meng’s teahouse,’ Tony Lee says with forced cheer. I want to clamp his jaw shut to spare me his drivel. ‘It’s very interesting that she meets the ferries personally.’ He pauses, and I ignore him, hoping he will stop speaking. No such luck. He continues, ‘I wonder if they get a chance to look around Shanghai, there must be many fascinating things to see...’ He trails off. Then rallies. ‘Don’t you think, Lady Jing?’
‘I am not your tour guide,’ I snap.
A hurt look crosses his face and I feel an unfamiliar sour pang in my gut. Guilt? I ignore him and my misguided senses. My gaze goes back to Madame Meng. She stands next to her helpers who wear matching silver robes, albeit less ornate than Madame Meng’s, each holding a handful of candied haws. The gangplank lowers from the ferry and connects with the wooden dock with a soft thunk that makes me flinch.
A young boy, no more than three, in a long, dirt-encrusted tunic, toddles from the boat holding a little girl’s hand. She can’t be more than six or seven, and her clothes, a pair of too short trousers and too tight shirt, are hardly more than rags. They look around, nervous and curious as they step off the gangplank. Madame Meng hands each child a stick of candied hawthorn. They hesitate, but after a moment, they take the candied haw with bright, eager eyes.
As soon as the children take the candy, a strand of red beads wraps around their wrists and links the boy to the girl. One of Madame Meng’s helpers takes the little boy by the hand, and they walk up the planks back towards the Bund. Madame Meng continues to hand out those sticks, one after another, each child linked to the next by a string of glistening crimson beads.
Children of all ages disembark from the ferry. Each takes a hawthorn stick; each receives a red bead bracelet. The oldest children disembark last, carrying the babies who cannot walk themselves.
The helper and the little boy pass us. I bow low. The children giggle and point as they pass the roosters in the trees, the lady ghosts with their long hair. A few cry but are comforted by the helpers. Most, if not all, wear patched, frayed clothing. Once they have the measure of yin Shanghai, they’ll be able to simply will their clothes new. But they’ll likely not be here that long. They are too young, too innocent; they deserve to move on, and Madame Meng will make sure they cross safely.
The procession snakes down the Bund towards the teahouse, while Madame Meng continues to hand out the hawthorn candies.
‘There are still trolleys on the pontoon,’ Mr Lee says, words hoarse. ‘How many more ferries to come?’
The tremor in his voice makes me answer him more fully than I might have otherwise. ‘There’s usually at least three or four these days. When the Japanese bombed Zhabei a few years ago, Madame Meng met a dozen ferries one morning.’ I nod at the river. ‘Here comes the second.’
He looks green, and the rims of his eyes have gone red, but to his credit he doesn’t once avert his gaze like a coward might. My estimation of Mr Lee grows a tiny bit.
The children keep coming. My stomach twists when I see a third ferry queuing to dock. I nudge Mr Lee.
‘C’mon. You wanted to see the Custom House.’
We trudge away in silence, each wrapped in our thoughts. I refocus on my plan, if only to shake the gloom from the ferries and Madame Meng’s small charges. The dragon pearl is probably being kept at the Treasury. If I can find it and hide it somewhere else, then the Hulijing Court won’t be able to get it even if Big Wang agrees to give it to them. I add to my list of tasks to ask Old Zao, the undisputed queen of Shanghai’s gossip, what they know about the dragon pearl and the Hulijing’s quest to get it. But first, the Custom House.
Most of the Custom House is a soaring stone building of flat planes, hard angles, and stone columns – Doricstyleaccording to Big Wang because of the square tops. The pink stone building looms above us, its windows lit with warm yellow light. But the ground floor entrance is preserved from the original building. Grey arched tiles line the roof in corrugated waves. The eaves curve upwards, giving the impression of a smile. More things Big Wang cherry-picked from mortal Shanghai. But I don’t tell the mortal this.
‘This is very different to our Custom House.’ Mr Lee stares open-mouthed.
I grunt and gesture for him to get a move on. We pass through four huge columns into the deeper shadow of the entry hall. Inside, the mortal stills as he takes in another change of style. We pass under a ceiling adorned with mosaics of junk boats with fan sails spread wide across a blue sky dotted with silk floss clouds. Our steps echo on the marble floors and through the cavernous hall. Dozens of desks sit side by side, making a line across the floor. All are empty, apart from one wizened old man in the grey changpao of an indentured ghost repaying his karmic debt. The ghost licks his thumb and turns the page of a comic book, chuckling to himself. I can tell from the cover it’s the latest issue ofSanmao, a popular comic about an orphan in Shanghai whose name is a play on words meaning three hairs on his head as well as three cents to his name.
‘Where is all the joss money?’ Mr Lee asks, noting the empty desks, the empty building. Not a single ghost waiting to collect their funds.
I lift my chin to point at the old ghost. The mortal can get answers from him. I lean against one of the columns and pull out the sword. Blue flames ripple from the hilt to the tip of the broad blade and my insides flutter at the beauty and power. Horsey would lecture me from here to Mount Kunlun for not treating such a weapon with the deference it deserves. I smirk and start to clean my nails with the tip of the sword of Hell.
It takes a moment, but Mr Lee finally gets it into his soft head that I am not going to help him, so he approaches the clerk. The clerk puts his comic on the desk and stares at the mark on Mr Lee’s forehead.
Mr Lee bows. ‘This unkempt one borrows the light of the exalted King of Hell, and labours your procession to show this humble one where the joss money arrives and how it is kept and distributed.’
