Chapter Twenty-Three
XIAN HURRIED along the corridor, his head bowed, the hem of his veil touching low on his chest. He’d thought to soothe himself on New Year’s Eve — whilst he was still allowed private time — with some time spent dancing, but after an hour he could bear it no longer.
‘Your highness.’ An attendant stepped from a room, carrying a tray stacked with empty bowls, and chopsticks that rolled as she leaned into a bow.
Xian pressed a hand to his ear with a grimace and wrinkled his nose against the strong waft of pork that came from the remnants in the bowls. He bobbed his head, moving on quickly, eager to get to his rooms; praying he could escape the onslaught against his senses there.
Something was terribly wrong with him. Aside from those things most obvious.
Xian moved on his tip-toes up the stairs, seeking to keep his footfalls light, lest the thump of his feet echo so loudly in his head, he feared his mind would bruise.
The strangeness had begun when he’d been at dance.
He had gathered no musicians, preferring solitude; the meticulous and calming sweep of his limbs timed to a music that existed only in his head.
A kindly attendant, a middle-aged woman with heavy brows and a gentle countenance, had shown him to the small room next to the Spirit Hall, and promised he’d be undisturbed.
Mostly true, she had returned after an hour passed, to ask if she could bring him something to eat.
‘Your highness could do with more congee,’ she’d said rather boldly.
He’d declined politely, and she had slid the panel closed to return him to privacy.
Xian had almost cried out at the sound, the harsh scrape of the wood leaving him covering his ears.
But he’d set the experience aside, blaming exhaustion.
He’d hardly slept since his encounter with the Englishman two nights ago; sleep was impossible when one lay there watching his aura seep gently from his skin.
The woman returned not half an hour later, bringing the bowl of congee he had refused. Again, the opening of the door had raked at his ears, sounds magnified as though he stood in a cave.
But this time it was worse. The waft of century eggs and warm rice hit his nose, and the pungency roiled his stomach; the scent clogging his nostrils, sitting heavy at the back of his throat.
‘Your highness?’ the woman had cried, in some alarm. ‘Are you alright?’
He certainly was not. His senses had gone mad.
Xian continued his tip-toed way down the corridor, his room in sight, and his muscles tensed by the fear he’d come across someone else whose innocent movement would claw at his ears.
Heaven forbid an attendant appeared with a tray of river snail rice noodles; a recipe that was favoured in Manhao.
Xian’s stomach turned now, just thinking on the stench of the dish.
A heavy thump came from somewhere further down the corridor. Xian braced a hand against the wall, closing his eyes while the sound reverberated through his skull.
To his mind, a giant had just dropped a boulder from heaven, but instinct told him it was far more likely the thump of mats being laid out as attendants prepared the rooms for the approaching evening.
He reached his room, and if anyone happened by they would think him strange for how carefully and slowly he drew the panelling back. But even in doing so slowly, the rasp of the wood along its fixtures made him grit his teeth.
When he was finally inside, Xian unfastened his veil and sank down onto the pile of cushions near the window; where the daphnes caught the afternoon light against their petals.
The flowers’ sweet but spicy aroma grabbed at him, shoving its citrus undertones down his throat; the hint of vanilla battling with all the rest.
Every note of the flowers’ perfume made itself known to him; lemon, ginger, orange blossom, even a touch of jasmine, all combined to create the daphnes unique scent.
Xian groaned, grabbing a cushion and pressing it to his nose.
‘What is wrong with me?’
Even the cushion did not truly shield him, for it had its own signature smell: wool and horsehair, though thankfully time had weakened the odour from both.
Laughter floated up from the garden beyond Xian’s window. Or rather, it flung itself at him; a slap against his ears. Xian cast the pillow aside.
He knew that laugh; with its careless and sensual nature.
Forgetting caution in his rush, Xian flinched at the sound of his own feet pounding on the floor. He drew back the curtain. The day, halfway through its afternoon, was pleasant, the sky clear, the sun a golden orb headed towards its horizon berth.
But Xian had eyes only for the garden below. And the daemon who walked within.
He searched for Sir William, certain it was that man’s laughter he’d heard. Every aspect of their encounter was scorched into Xian’s mind.
The mandarin’s inner courtyard held no plants capable of hiding a man completely, the landscaping done in such a way that whoever walked among the low shrubs and rockeries would be seen very well.
A chance to parade themselves, a pastime so many in the mandarin’s court seemed to enjoy.
Xian peeked from behind his curtain, holding the fabric as something of a shield against the life beyond his window. A useless shield, of course, but giving him something tangible to hold on to.
He needed that. His world was morphing before his eyes…and his nose…and his ears…all about him was unfamiliar.
Xian’s search for the Englishman was fruitless.
The courtyard was occupied only by a couple of officials; marked by their distinctive caps and the buzi embroidered on their surcoats.
Xian peered at the rank badges, and a quiet gasp slipped between his lips.
The details of the embroidery appeared so clear, easily distinguishable despite the distance between them.
Of course he might have recognised the Golden Pheasant on the second rank official’s chest from its distinct colours alone, but Xian could make out the subtle red of the bird’s eye and the hint of indigo the seamstress had laid at the wing.
If he squinted, he swore he could see each run of thread.
Xian blinked quickly, rubbing at his eyes. His tired, overwrought imagination must be fooling him.
When he looked again to the men, they had turned their backs, heads tilted close as they took the meandering pebbled path towards the west wing.
One of the mandarin’s many peacocks let out a cry, and Xian jerked so hard he almost tore the curtain from its hooks. He pressed a finger to his ear, trying to rub away the high whine left behind by the bird’s call.
First his hearing, then his sense of smell, now his vision appeared to have intensified; arriving unannounced and uncontrolled.
His senses were fine-tuned beyond those of any other man.
Xian let go of the curtain, pressing back into the room. A man could not claim these abilities…but what of a fox?
The vulpine’s ears were enlarged to enable acute hearing, its nose delicately made for testing the air, its eyes large and set forward, seeing in darkness and for great distances.
Xian’s pulse ran quick as a hare, his mouth dried by his thoughts.
‘Sir William, you will not leave me like this,’ he whispered.
He’d go mad before midnight.
Two days ago, the daemon had stripped Xian down to his true self, declaring the profound moment little more than amusement. Then he disappeared, talking of lust as if it were tangyuan he craved.
But syrup-drenched rice balls were not what he hungered for.
Xian shuddered, thinking on the Englishman’s lust for lust itself. He’d been quick to abandon Xian, eager to sate himself. And had remained out of sight ever since.
Surely he was satisfied by now? Feng’s was not a conservative court; if any such court existed.
Xian turned to leave his room once more.
If he must be assaulted by his senses, then he’d make use of them to track the Englishman down.
The man was brash, so he’d be loud enough, and his lavish clothing more lace-trimmed and vibrant than anyone else in the court; Xian wouldn’t need enhanced sight to spot him.
Purpose chased away trepidation. Xian moved with a lightness in his step now, ignoring the harsh clip of his cup against the water bowl as he filled it; drinking to ease the dryness in his throat.
His hands were clammy, his pulse reckless, but he’d not hide away in his room waiting for someone else to, yet again, decide his fate.
Xian fixed his hair, pulling back the strands that had loosened when he danced. He regarded himself in the bronze mirror above the water bowl.
Dark lines lay beneath his eyes, his scars a distorted smear in the reflection.
He looked no different. Perhaps more tired, his cheeks sunken from too many days with barely a meal eaten, his deep blue ruqun not fitting his shape so well as it once had; the tincture had given him relief, but it had stolen his appetite too well.
Xian re-affixed the loose bun at his nape with the bone clasp.
He let his arms fall to his side, staring at himself.
He’d not thought of the tincture since that night. Nor did the thought of the foul-tasting liquid stir in him a desire to reach for the bottle.
Every nerve simmered beneath his skin; he felt…alive. And frightened and exhilarated…and…disappointed.
Song Lim would never see this side of him. He’d only know the bruised man, so liable to panic, who’d stood with him in Heng’s kitchen.
He glanced away from the mirror, abashed by how readily his thoughts went to the shoemaker; the man’s steady hand upon his ankle, his quick wit and brazen manner.
But even a fearless man like Song Lim would surely balk at the changes in Xian. A good thing he was far from here. Xian would never have to explain himself to the man; never fear revulsion appearing in his deep brown eyes.
Xian stepped towards the door and then paused.
A compulsion drew him back to the window. The need to keep the shoe close swept through him like the heat of baijiu on the first sip. He glanced about, making sure he was unnoticed before reaching to retrieve the slipper from its hiding place.
The clunk of the pot on the floorboards and the scrape of the overturned box had Xian’s ears ringing, while the waft of the daphne caused his eyes to stream.
But he’d endure far worse so long as the slipper was with him. It was all he held now of the shoemaker. A talisman to carry as he found his true path.
He tucked the slipper into the hidden pocket in the wide drape of his crimson-edged sleeve; a pocket once intended to hold treats for an ever-hungry carp in a pond bulging already with decent things to eat.
He feared the shoe would prove too large and fall free once he moved.
But by the time he’d crossed the room, his worries had vanished.
The weight of the slipper was barely felt, the snugness of the fit holding it fast. He felt he could have danced an entire yayue, and he’d not have lost it.
Xian smiled, sending a silent thanks to Mercy and her insatiable hunger for treats. His grief was gentler now as he thought on the carp, with Song Lim’s slipper filling the space her loss had left behind.