I don’t answer, and instead navigate us through the narrow warren of streets, hemmed in either side by three-storey wooden buildings, painted red or brown, adorned with intricate carved beams and topped with traditional smiling eaves that curve upwards at the corners. This is where the immortals of yin Shanghai call home.
Mr Lee is still trying to engage me in conversation, and it’s making me irritable.
‘Where’s your favourite place to eat? Do you go out much? From what Big Wang told me, yin Shanghai is full of fun places to visit.’
I huff. ‘You are so nosy.’
Hurt flashes across the mortal’s face and I’m hit with that pang of guilt again. No matter, I let it roll off me. There’s a reason Horsey calls me a well-seasoned wok. Nothing sticks.
We turn a corner and arrive at a small single-storey dwelling, much less ornate than most of the buildings in the street. But what it lacks in size and adornment, it makes up with elegance and clean lines. The building is made of silkwood – much favoured by Celestials. The wood is honeyed and polished to a lacquered shine. Two red lanterns hang either side of the smooth wooden door.
I knock.
‘Come,’ calls a voice from inside.
Mr Lee grabs my sleeve. ‘Is it safe?’ he asks again.
‘Of course,’ I say, willing him to shut up.
His grip tightens. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Would I lie to you?’
‘Yes,’ he says simply.
I yank my arm away. ‘Quit being such a nuisance. We have Mafan and you have your stamp. No one is going to harm you.’
His cheeks are pink but he says no more. We enter a small courtyard of raked white pebbles. Flat stones mark a path to the inner rooms.
I leave my slippers on the ground and step up into the receiving hall. Mr Lee follows.
A huge loom sits in the middle of the room; wooden slats hold thousands of fine threads taut, and a young woman plays the contraption like a lute, her fingers dancing over the fine strings, manipulating them to the rhythmicclack clackof the shuttle sailing back and forth across the sea of threads.A large table behind her is piled high with rolls of embroidered silk, linens, and the finest cotton. She rises from her seat. Her dress is an exquisite shade of lilac, like summer wisteria, embroidered with delicate cranes and swirling clouds, all in subtle shades of purple. A long sheer sash wraps around her waist and her water sleeves trail on the floor. In the fashion favoured by most Celestials, her hair is set in a triple loop perched on the top of her head, each section pinned with an ornate hair comb, studded with coral and pearls. Additional ornaments of gold and silver filagree adorn her hair, flowers and butterflies flutter and dance with her every movement. She folds her hands at her waist, gaze demurely on the ground.
I bow. ‘Lady Gi.’
‘Lady Jing, what a surprise.’ Her voice is neither warm nor welcoming. Unsurprising given she lost her favourite jade hair comb to me in our last game of kanhoo.
‘I need a changpao,’ I say.
She spends some time smoothing out a non-existent crease in her dress, still not looking at me. ‘And why would I help you?’
‘I can pay,’ Mr Lee pipes up.
Rotted turds, I forgot to tell him to keep his mouth shut. Yang qi fills the room. Lady Gi’s head snaps up, her eyes blaze green. The skin on her face tightens dramatically, and her mouth stretches wide, wider than should be possible. The sash at her waist whips towards Mr Lee, and slithers around him, binding his arms and covering his nose and mouth. He struggles against his bindings, but the sash holds him tight.
I lean the blade of my sword against the sheer mauve fabric, with enough pressure to make Lady Gi look my way.
She frowns. ‘What is the meaning of this, Jing?’
‘Sorry, you can’t eat him. He’s Big Wang’s guest.’
‘And? What do I care of Big Wang?’ She tugs the sash, forcing me to either lessen the pressure or slice into the fabric. If I ruin her dress, I’ll never hear the end of it.
I lift the blade. ‘You live in Hell.’
‘I’m the Jade Emperor’s daughter. Big Wang is not the boss of me.’
‘Yeah, Gigi, but your daddy kicked you out of the Celestial realms. Until he forgives you, you’re stuck here. I wouldn’t piss off Big Wang. He might cut off your credit line at the Mahjong Hall.’
