His heartbeat tumbles in the space between us. As I listen to the reassuring whoosh of blood rushing through him, bit by bit, I am warmed.
I am safe.
Twenty-Two
I Like It
I leave Mr Lee snoring in bed, his arm thrown out to the side and one bare leg hiked over a tangle of blankets. He looks so relaxed I can’t bring myself to wake him. Instead, I go out in search of breakfast to thank him for his kindness.
The morning sun glazes the street as I cross the Bund to the riverfront. Having breathed Mr Lee’s yang and blood all night, I feel inured enough to wander mortal Shanghai for a little while on my own.
A group of elderly men in changpao, one of them a foreigner with thick blond hair and round glasses, stand chatting as they gaze up at the brilliant blue sky. They hold hand-cranked reels and I follow their gaze to a dozen or so kites – dragons and raptors and snakes painted with big expressive eyes – soaring and diving on the breeze. I imagine myself standing here, with Gigi, Ah Lang, and Mr Lee, our laughter flying the skies on the wings of our own kites. The thought makes me smile, fills me with anticipation, and then immediately with guilt. What about the hulijing? And the talisman? I feel conflicted – I want to do as Big Wang asks, have fun, forget about all that mafan. But... doing as Big Wang asks grates. Why should I let those bitches get away with their insults?
I hurry along, towards the tall white tower that marks the Great World Entertainment Hall, where the breakfast hawker the hotel recommended has her stand. I suppose, if I’m being honest, this whole thing with the hulijing also grates because Big Wang never takes my side when it comes to those vixens. If he really did stop the rain like Gigi says, if I’m really his ward, and not an indentured servant, surely it means he should care for me, care formyface. But he always panders to theirs. I’m always forced to apologise. It’s so humiliating.
A nightingale flits over my head and lands in a tree near the hawker, its yellow-and-orange throat puffing with song. With the kites dancing in the sky above, the smell of fried dough sticks, freshly steamed xiao long bao, and the warmth of the sun on my skin, for a moment every mafan is forgotten as I savour the simple pleasure of being here in the moment, listening to a nightingale sing.
I mull on my grudge. Am I sabotaging my own happiness by obsessing so much about the hulijing? What of honour and face? The nightingale flies away, drawing my gaze back to the kites. The kites weave and bob in the air. Closest to me are a phoenix and dragon dancing together, big eyes watching me from above, their rainbow tails fluttering madly in the wind. Their eyes seem to say,What of friendship and joy?
I pay the hawker for my food – rice rolls, hot soya milk, fried dough sticks, and a basket of bao for all four of us. As I head back to the hotel, the prickling at my neck starts up again. My carefree morning suddenly feels ominous. I casually glance around, trying to pinpoint the source. The unwanted gaze feels heavy and oily. I carefully sniff the air – there’s a faint whiff of ginger, and a harsher, bitter scent like burnt resin. A Celestial, but one I haven’t come across before. The sense I am being followed increases, the hairs on my arms stand on end and my breathing hitches. It’s the same feeling I had as a child if ever I wandered the halls of the court alone. Always, there were eyes on me, and I always could tell when those eyes wished me ill.
I glance behind and see three men following me. They each wear Peking opera masks, hiding their faces but I can tell they are Celestials. The way they move, the way they smell. I break into a run, the straining bags full of breakfast swinging from my hands. They give chase.
I’m fast, but, here in yang Shanghai, the distraction of yang qi puts me at a disadvantage. They’re faster. Ahead a cruise liner is in the midst of disembarking. The crowds from the dock flood across the street. I see my chance to escape.
I race towards the crowd. The yang qi and blood from the gathered mortals is overwhelming, but I focus on the threat behind me and getting to safety. The men gain on me. I stumble and drop my bag of xiao long bao. Whirling to face them, for a split second I am motionless. Then anger at their audacity ripples through me. How dare these faceless Celestials threaten me. I spring forward to grab the xiao long bao and they lunge, but I dodge and fingers graze my shirt. Then the crowd swells and swallows me, the number of mortals between me and the men surges from two to five to ten. I’m carried away by the tide, the masked men unable to reach me.
I make it back to my room, and debate calling Willie; but then it occurs to me he’ll call Big Wang, and we’ll probably be bundled back home. Gigi and Ah Lang are here, and with them I’m safe. Those men only follow me when they aren’t around.
Mr Lee is still asleep, so I lay breakfast on the table and then return to the bedroom. In the quiet of the room, with only Mr Lee’s soft breathing, I start to shake, my heart racing in a way it hadn’t when I was being chased. I crawl into bed and mould myself to Mr Lee’s side, letting his familiar scent comfort and calm. I watch him sleeping; his lashes flicker as he dreams. Bit by bit the shaking subsides. He murmurs something, then makes an appreciative sound, his lips curling into the sweetest smile. He nuzzles into me, sighing, those dimples winking at me in the morning light.
He shifts, then opens his eyes. The look he gives me is so unguarded, so pleased, a warmth spreads through me that sparkles and tingles not unlike the feeling of drinking that fresh blood yesterday. But then he gazes around us, frowning. And then he jerks away from me, yanking the covers to his chin and nearly upending me off the bed.
‘There’s no need to get violent,’ I say, half-joking, trying to cover the sting of his reaction. ‘Besides, I’ve seen everything. You were sprawled out like a shameless drunk.’
Mr Lee’s face pinches in horror. ‘When, how?’ He looks down at himself. ‘Did you—?’ He is properly panicking.
I can’t help laughing at his reaction, the fright from the morning a distant memory. ‘Did I what? Steal your virtue?’
A red tide rises up his throat. ‘That’s not— It’s not—’ he splutters. He frowns into the bed covers. ‘Are you well, Lady Jing? I was so worried, but I— I must have fallen asleep. I meant to leave as soon as you were warm again.’
‘I’m perfectly recovered, thank you kind sir.’ I kneel on the bed, fold my hands at my sides and offer him a dainty bow. ‘It was nice to sleep with you.’
‘Tian, Isleptwith you.’ He rubs his face hard like he’s trying to rub off his skin. ‘I slept with the ward of Yan Luo Wang. Lady Guan Ying Goddess of Mercy and Compassion contain my trespass.’ His voice has gone all pitchy.
‘Was sleeping with me that awful?’ I say, piqued at his obvious horror.
He pulls his knees up to his chest. ‘Could you turn around and let me dress?’
‘I’ve never slept with a man before,’ I say, watching him carefully.
He chokes, holds a hand up and shakes his head frantically. ‘I thought we— No, no— We can’t have.’
‘Are you saying we didn’t sleep?’
He splutters, unable to find words. ‘We did, sleeping, just sleeping.’
‘That’s right.’ I touch my lips. ‘When you sleep with a man, kissing is natural, isn’t it?’
