Chapter Thirty-Three
XIAN EXHALED until his lungs were empty and stepped onto the simple stage. The crowd, boisterous after Mandarin Feng’s grandiose introduction, grew quiet, but not silent.
The whispers began before he’d taken the centre mark.
But Xian did just as time had taught him to do; he ignored them.
Allowing himself only a cursory glance over the gathering, searching out Sir William.
He found him easily, for he was the only one in the room who glowed.
He sat off to the right, lounging in the arms of a woman; a lady of the Middle Kingdom and not his English companion, who sat just behind, nibbling at a rice cake, looking straight over the couple. Her eyes were on Xian.
Sir William’s companion was scantily dressed, with the cut of her gown not intended for modesty.
He gazed up at her, tracing the line of her jaw with his finger, holding a cup of something strong, no doubt, in his free hand.
She smiled at his sordid whisper — the details of which Xian’s superlative hearing was unhappily privy to — and slapped at him in a playful show of coy disapproval.
Xian put away his hope that the Englishman, daemon, incubus and terrible fairy godmother might still aid him.
Liar. Liar. Liar.
His inner spirit stated the unfortunate truth.
Xian sighed and raised his arms, turning his palms to the ceiling and splaying his fingers. He was almost ready to gesture to the musicians when he decided on one last alteration. Xian unfastened the gold veil from the hooks that secured it to the headpiece.
If he were not to be Prince of the Cinders any longer, he’d not be the Veiled Prince either.
Gasps and excited whispering followed his move, but Xian had more for this ravenous crowd. He stepped his left leg forward, letting the fabric part high near the crease of his thigh, allowing a hint of the burns there to show, too.
Gasps became squeals of macabre delight.
Xian lifted the heel of the slipper, setting off a flash of light— the strike of the sun on a dragonfly’s wings. He set off an uproar. There were boisterous cries, a few high squeals, and someone clapping madly.
‘Are you hiding an African ship from us, Feng?’ A man bellowed. ‘So full of diamonds you can make your shoes from them?’
‘Would I do such a thing, Baron Zhen?’ The mandarin shouted back, raising his cup.
‘A thousand times over.’
Riotous laughter swept through the gathering. Xian raised his arms once more, lifting his palms to the sky, and signalled to the lead musician; one of the few in the room whose gaze had not moved to Xian’s feet.
The paixiao began the music, and the pan flute’s wistful note soon quietened the rowdy crowd. The brass bells followed, then the guqin with its warbling tune, and lastly the ban to mark the tempo.
Xian’s restlessness settled, the hum beneath his skin overcome by the vibration of the instruments; a fox spirit serenaded into stillness. Xian sank into the welcome embrace of sweet oblivion and danced.
His hips swayed, his joints turned to liquid by the only desires of which he was certain; that of melody and movement. The strict tempo of the music banished thought of the indignity of the gown.
Time moved differently for Xian when he danced; it held its breath and quietened its relentless drone.
The air became his partner, moving him about, as though he were the long lengths of a willow captured by the breeze.
The music was his heartbeat, and Mandarin Feng’s skilled musicians were attuned to the whims of a dancer who did not conform to ritual.
On the dance floor, Xian alone held court.
And they would remember this prince of the dance.
Xian forgot those who watched with dark eyes and black hearts, finding solace in the whining highs and lows of the banhu, an instrument he so rarely had the pleasure of accompanying; uncommon in most noble courts.
But Mandarin Feng held a noble court like no other, and Xian did not intend this to be a common performance.
His turns grew faster, more frequent. The sweep and dip of his arms were more vigorous. He took up the veil from where he’d dropped it to the floor, and brought it into play; an extension of his arm, leading the eye on a merry chase.
The tempo raced with him. He arched his back, letting the length of his hair dip towards the floor like a flow of black ink. His free hand took up his skirts, sweeping them back and forth, letting the gold overlay play with the light, challenging the slippers for brilliance.
Free. Free. Free.
The energetic movement stirred the fox spirit, waking it from the quiet place where it had drifted.
Xian whirled and swayed, and felt his heart gallop to keep up with the punishing pace.
The golden chains on his costume whipped about, wrapping at his waist one moment, threatening to catch at his sleeves the next.
His calf muscles ached, unused to dancing with the subtle heels.
Lim had been right to warn him. To ease the pain, he spent more and more time upon his toes; now they too complained at their treatment.
Run. Run. Run.
His spirit grew restless once more.
‘Yes,’ Xian breathed. ‘Patience.’
Each twang of the jinghu, every pluck of the strings on the yueqin, ran through him like tiny strikes of lightning. Yearning played through his reverie. He longed to have Song Lim here, watching this dance that poured from Xian’s heart.
Sweat dampened his skin, and Xian panted with the exertion. He’d never been so lost in the music, in the way it took hold of his body and shaped it.
Time. Time. Time.
The last note played.
Xian’s knees buckled, landing him amid a pond of gold and white; his skirts spreading out dangerously close to where the lanterns flickered.
‘Brava! Brava!’
Sweat stung his eyes, and his ribs ached with the need to breathe.
He’d landed facing towards the musicians on the side of the stage.
He was not the only one breathing hard, worked ragged by the vigour of the dance.
Their faces were masks of astonishment and confusion, as though they too had been swept away by the perfect unity of melody and dance.
Xian turned his head towards the growing swell of applause. Sir William led the cheer, rising to his feet, assisted by his companion, who giggled as she held him steady. Many of the Westerners joined him, along with a few from the Middle Kingdom, where such displays were rare.
All stared at Xian as though he were the emperor himself.
Mandarin Feng stood to the side of the stage, his jaw working but his expression dazed. For once, he had little to say. He joined Sir William in clapping, which enticed more in the gathering to show their appreciation in a distinctly foreign way.
Xian bowed his head, though it was less a gesture of humility and more to do with being drained.
He’d given his all, and the dance had taken everything he offered.
Determined to get to his feet before the mandarin made a show of assisting him, Xian rose shakily.
With his head still lowered, he caught sight of the toe of the left slipper; the shimmer there was no longer crystalline and pure, but carmine.
Xian bled into Song Lim’s masterpiece; turning diamond to ruby.
The applause grew. Some knocked their cups against the floor, beating the wood as a sign of their appreciation. There were shouts for him to continue, which caused one musician to sob, and a stone chime to clatter to the floor.
He understood the man’s anguish. Neither he nor they could have performed again if Longwang, the King of Dragons, had demanded it.
‘My honoured guests, my friends.’ Mandarin Feng stepped onto the stage, waving his hands to herald quiet. ‘Did I not promise you a spectacle?’
Xian stood with every joint aching.
‘All the gold in my mines for a private dance with the prince,’ came a bawdy cry, a roar of approval following.
More offers were thrown towards the stage, each more outrageous than the other. And Mandarin Feng simply laughed, goading his visitors on, asking for chocolate and saffron and opals, never once declaring that Xian could not be bought — only that he was not yet for sale.
Xian edged back, looking to Sir William, seeking…what? He knew now that the man would not aid him.
The Englishman raised his glass, a dark liquid spilling over the edges. ‘To an auspicious start to the New Year.’
Somehow his voice carried above the din, and the manic attention shifted from Xian, cornered on the stage like a trapped animal, to where the Englishman leaned against his grinning companion.
‘To a momentous year,’ he called into the quietening room. ‘And if it is only half as thrilling as watching a near-naked prince weave us all into a rapture with his spellbinding skills, then I declare it shall be a good one!’
His sentences were clumsy, his usual adeptness for Mandarin sloshing about like the liquid in his cup. Another great cheer went up.
Mandarin Feng regarded his feverish crowd with smug satisfaction. An attendant, the dour fellow who’d escorted Xian earlier, rushed up to him, whispering urgently in his master’s ear. Mandarin Feng’s eyes bulged.
‘The New Year! It is almost upon us! Outside, everyone, outside. We have barely a moment to assemble before the fireworks will begin.’
The atmosphere shifted from one of happy indulgence to mild chaos as the gathering of drunken guests hurried to their feet.
Tripping over their gowns and each other.
A glass shattered, a table tipped, and attendants were shouted at to clean up the mess.
But were also expected to be at the door with their master or mistress’s shoes at the ready; so no one would face the tedious task of bending over themselves to collect them.
Everyone raced against time itself.