I’m about to retort he shouldn’t have come to Hell, but the rawness in his gaze tempers my anger.
‘Why are you here, then?’ comes out instead.
His dark brows draw together and he looks so vulnerable I almost feel bad I’m using him for my own ends. But then his gaze goes glassy and hard.
He straightens. ‘I have my reasons.’ His tone makes it clear he will say no more.
I shrug, annoyed at myself for bothering to ask. I grab the thick iron ring hanging from the middle of the door and knock a little harder than I mean to.
The door opens with a soft whoosh. We enter a simple room. A plain hewn table sits in the centre, two drum stools either side. The walls of the room are lined floor to ceiling with narrow shelves divided further into small square compartments, each one holding a single teacup.
‘How—’ Mr Lee whispers as he cranes his neck upwards, trying to see all the cups. The walls inside rise as far as the eye can see, and then some.
‘Little Jing, what a pleasure. And you brought a guest. Welcome.’ Madame Meng’s voice sounds the way mulberry paper feels, soft and dry. She stands next to Mr Lee gazing upwards at her collection of teacups. There are cast iron cups, fine porcelain, glass, carved jade, ceramic, wood, bamboo, in all different shapes and colours.
Mr Lee remembers himself and bows hastily. ‘Venerable Madame Meng, ten thousand years of good health. I am Tony Lee.’
She inclines her head gracefully. ‘You were wondering about the space, were you not?’ She gestures upwards. ‘My teahouse straddles the Dark City and the Yellow Spring.’
At Mr Lee’s bewildered expression, she explains, ‘The Dark City is what we old timers call yin Shanghai. And the Yellow Spring is where the bridge takes the souls for reincarnation. In any case, the rules of physical space are different here.’
Mr Lee nods, though I’m not sure he understands. He’s still staring upwards, jaw slack.
‘Madame Meng, I thought you might like to chat with Mr Lee, since it’s rare we have a mortal visitor, while I ready Cutie and Puffy to meet him.’
Madame Meng claps her hands together. ‘Wonderful! I would love to hear all about you, Tony Lee. Why don’t you join me for a cup of tea?’
Mr Lee blanches. ‘I—’
‘Not that kind,’ she says, eyes crinkling. She flicks her gaze upwards to her wall of teacups. ‘Those are for my travellers, to prepare them for the Yellow Spring. When you are ready you too will drink from one of those cups. But it is not yet your time, young man.’ She glances at me. ‘Off you go, Little Jing. I’ll take good care of your mortal. Sit, sit.’ She gestures to the stool and shuffles to a cabinet against the wall.
I bow low. ‘Contain my rudeness, Madame Meng, I will be back very soon.’
Mr Lee looks nervous, but I ignore the pang of guilt that is becoming an unwelcome habit. Madame Meng will take good care of him, I tell myself. Though she’s a vicious kanhoo player, underneath it all she is really very sweet.
‘Take care of this for me,’ I say as I thrust Mafan into Mr Lee’s hands. I don’t want to risk hurting the pixiu and, though I wouldn’t admit this out loud, I feel better knowing Mr Lee has a means to protect himself if needed.
I hurry across the street towards the Treasury. It’s another fusion building, stone and columns on the outside, surrounded by sculpted greenery with an old well out front fed by an underground spring. The walls rise ten stories in height, sheer and windowless; but inside is a cosy siheyuan, four long pavilions surround a spacious courtyard for the pixiu to play and sleep.
Only two guards patrol the perimeter since Cutie and Puffy are enough to deter most would-be thieves. As soon as the guard turns the corner, I launch myself across the street and am halfway up the wall before he’s taken two strides. It’s nothing to slip over the wall and land lightly on the grey tiles of the southern pavilion.
Cutie stands on her hind legs, her white bearded chin resting on the roof tiles between huge paws, waiting for me. She chitters and wiggles her bottom so ferociously her entire body wags along, from her fur-tipped tail to her snowy feathered wings.
I run over to her, laughing. ‘Hello Cutie.’ I sink my fingers into the thick mane around her furry face, and scratch behind her ears. Her chittering slows into something almost like hiccups. ‘I’m happy to see you too, xiao baobao.’
I hug her tight, burying my face in her tawny fur. She’s warm and smells of dust and the faint fresh whiff of soap from the last time I bathed her. There’s a rhythmic thudding and I look up in time to see Puffy, an oversized, black, winged furball, bounding through the courtyard, chittering excitedly. I scramble back just as she knocks into Cutie, and they both tumble in a tangle of legs and tails and wings. Cutie growl-caws her irritation. But Puffy is oblivious, tail wagging so hard she keeps smacking Cutie in the face.
I hop down, and Puffy bowls into me, like she did as a cub. Except she doesn’t fit on my lap anymore. She’s twice my height, each paw bigger than my head. She pins me down, one of those huge paws on my chest – all black but for one white toe – while she methodically licks my face with her scratchy tongue.
Laughing, I try to block her tongue with my arms, but everything just gets slobbered on. ‘Okay, okay, Puffy, stop! I’m glad to see you too.’
She huffs that way she does when she’s laughing at me, a succession of quick bursts of breath – huh-huh-huh-huh, her tongue hanging out one side of her mouth. I kiss her cold, wet nose.
‘Any chance you’ve seen anyone poking around? Any hulijing by the name of Lady Soo?’
Puffy sits back on her haunches, and Cutie finally deigns to join her. They sit like statues as they consider my question. Then Puffy’s scratchy tongue smacks my face and I’m showered with more pixiu slobber and hot stinky breath.
Using my sleeve, I dry my face. ‘I guess not, huh?’
