Chapter 8 #2
‘With the authority vested in me by the sword of Hell, I, Lady Jing, bid you bring this to the Cathay Hotel reception.’
The ghost bows low. Clutching the holster, she backs away.
When she is a good distance from us, she turns and runs.
I watch her to see whether she does as I ask.
Huh. She does indeed turn into Cathay Hotel.
I grin with all my teeth. The flames licking the blade flare sky-high before settling back to a gentle flicker.
With this kind of Please-Fuck-Off energy, I could absolutely get used to carrying the sword on a permanent basis.
Mr Lee runs a hand through his hair, making his thick locks stick up at all angles. Looking at him, I realise why the ghost didn’t see Big Wang’s warning mark.
‘You need to keep your hair off your forehead,’ I tell him. ‘Otherwise it hides the protective stamp. Big Wang should have stamped your whole face.’
He gingerly touches his forehead. He looks at me, really looks at me. The intensity of his gaze makes me squirm, like he’s somehow exposing my deepest secrets. I’m about to bring up some hork to spit in his eye, when he holds his elbow out to me.
‘Shall we?’
I stare at his arm.
‘It’s how Western gentlemen walk with ladies.’
‘They hold their elbows out?’ I frown. ‘It seems quite an uncomfortable way to walk.’
He smiles gently. ‘Ah no, the lady holds the gentleman’s arm.’
‘They touch?’
‘Very lightly.’
‘Why?’
‘I suppose the lady holds the man’s arm for balance. Shoes with elevated heels are very popular in the West. It’s considered good etiquette for a gentleman to offer his arm to a lady. I often saw this when I walked in the parks of New York.’
I’ve heard of New York, and the famous goddess of Liberty. Patron saint of doing whatever the Tian we wished. For that alone, I would love to visit the new world.
I eye his outstretched arm. Denizens of Shanghai did not walk in this manner – ladies linking arms with strange men.
Horsey would faint if he saw me pawing a man like this.
I consider the scandalous outcry; it gives me a gleeful rush, and then I’m annoyed.
Because the outcry is such an overreaction.
It’s not like the mortal hasn’t already been up close and personal with me all over – I’ve carried him on my back.
Over my shoulder like a sack of rice. I mean, he’s technically kissed my ass, though I still had my silk tap pants between him and bare skin.
He’s seen both my bare legs and most, if not all, of my butt. Stupid, hypocritical propriety.
I sneer at him. ‘I am perfectly capable of walking without assistance,’ I say, and stride towards the Custom House, leaving him behind me, scrambling to keep up.
We pass a few more early risers. Another white-robed ghost passes us, eyeing Mr Lee.
I’m full of prickly fire, bursting for a reason to unsheathe my sword, but the ghost bows her head and gives us no trouble.
I swing the sword around my head. The hilt and blade are perfectly balanced and it makes a satisfying whistle as it slices through air.
‘You seem to have really taken to that sword,’ Mr Lee says.
‘I named it Mafan,’ I say.
He huffs a quiet laugh. ‘In that the sword is troublesome to you, or that it makes trouble for others?’
‘Mafan for others, of course. I’m gonna use it to scare Lady Soo.’
The smile drops from his face. The glare he gives me reminds me strongly of Horsey. ‘You aren’t supposed to go near the hulijing. You promised Big Wang.’
‘What’s it to you? She’s a creep and deserves what’s coming to her.’
‘One should not lie.’
I don’t like the tone he takes. I press Mafan’s hilt to his chest. ‘Even the fuddy-duddy Confucius had no issue with falsehoods in the face of justice. Who are you to lecture me?’
‘I do not like liars.’ The look he gives me is so defiant I’m momentarily befuddled.
Where is the cowardly mortal from before?
And then my temper rises. How dare this mortal challenge me?
I snarl and am about to forget all my promises to Big Wang when I see Madame Meng shuffling towards us.
The ferries are coming. The fight in me deflates. I forgot all about the time.
Madame Meng wears her usual silver robes and sensible black fabric shoes.
A blood-jade hair pin holds her tidy silver topknot in place.
A train of attendants follow close behind, each pushing a trolley laden with candied haw on sticks.
The small red fruit glisten even in the low light, like lacquered prayer beads.
So many. There was a time when she only needed one trolly of the candied haws.
I bow deeply, and when Mr Lee doesn’t, I grab his sleeve and yank him down. He doesn’t fight me, but he still gives me the stink eye.
‘Virtuous Madame Meng,’ I say. ‘Ten thousand years of good health.’
Madame Meng smiles, wide and toothless, and her eyes disappear into half-moon creases. Despite all she’s seen, she continues to emanate warmth and kindness. I don’t know how she does it.
‘This one of the teahouse arrives before Little Jing unharmed,’ she says, with a slight incline of her head, then continues on her way, her retinue following her.
Their trolley wheels squeak as they pass, the candied haw jiggling like spirit bells.
She crosses the Bund and heads to the docks where the first ferry is already berthing.
I don’t want to see the passengers disembark, but I can’t look away.
Mr Lee clears his throat. ‘Yan Luo Wang told me most ghosts spend quite a long time in Shanghai before they are called to Madame Meng’s teahouse,’ Tony Lee says with forced cheer.
I want to clamp his jaw shut to spare me his drivel.
‘It’s very interesting that she meets the ferries personally.
’ He pauses, and I ignore him, hoping he will stop speaking.
No such luck. He continues, ‘I wonder if they get a chance to look around Shanghai, there must be many fascinating things to see . . .’ He trails off.
Then rallies. ‘Don’t you think, Lady Jing? ’
‘I am not your tour guide,’ I snap.
A hurt look crosses his face and I feel an unfamiliar sour pang in my gut.
Guilt? I ignore him and my misguided senses.
My gaze goes back to Madame Meng. She stands next to her helpers who wear matching silver robes, albeit less ornate than Madame Meng’s, each holding a handful of candied haws.
The gangplank lowers from the ferry and connects with the wooden dock with a soft thunk that makes me flinch.
A young boy, no more than three, in a long, dirt-encrusted tunic, toddles from the boat holding a little girl’s hand.
She can’t be more than six or seven, and her clothes, a pair of too short trousers and too tight shirt, are hardly more than rags.
They look around, nervous and curious as they step off the gangplank.
Madame Meng hands each child a stick of candied hawthorn.
They hesitate, but after a moment, they take the candied haw with bright, eager eyes.
As soon as the children take the candy, a strand of red beads wraps around their wrists and links the boy to the girl.
One of Madame Meng’s helpers takes the little boy by the hand, and they walk up the planks back towards the Bund.
Madame Meng continues to hand out those sticks, one after another, each child linked to the next by a string of glistening crimson beads.
Children of all ages disembark from the ferry. Each takes a hawthorn stick; each receives a red bead bracelet. The oldest children disembark last, carrying the babies who cannot walk themselves.
The helper and the little boy pass us. I bow low.
The children giggle and point as they pass the roosters in the trees, the lady ghosts with their long hair.
A few cry but are comforted by the helpers.
Most, if not all, wear patched, frayed clothing.
Once they have the measure of yin Shanghai, they’ll be able to simply will their clothes new.
But they’ll likely not be here that long.
They are too young, too innocent; they deserve to move on, and Madame Meng will make sure they cross safely.
The procession snakes down the Bund towards the teahouse, while Madame Meng continues to hand out the hawthorn candies.
‘There are still trolleys on the pontoon,’ Mr Lee says, words hoarse. ‘How many more ferries to come?’
The tremor in his voice makes me answer him more fully than I might have otherwise. ‘There’s usually at least three or four these days. When the Japanese bombed Zhabei a few years ago, Madame Meng met a dozen ferries one morning.’ I nod at the river. ‘Here comes the second.’
He looks green, and the rims of his eyes have gone red, but to his credit he doesn’t once avert his gaze like a coward might. My estimation of Mr Lee grows a tiny bit.
The children keep coming. My stomach twists when I see a third ferry queuing to dock. I nudge Mr Lee.
‘C’mon. You wanted to see the Custom House.’
We trudge away in silence, each wrapped in our thoughts.
I refocus on my plan, if only to shake the gloom from the ferries and Madame Meng’s small charges.
The dragon pearl is probably being kept at the Treasury.
If I can find it and hide it somewhere else, then the Hulijing Court won’t be able to get it even if Big Wang agrees to give it to them.
I add to my list of tasks to ask Old Zao, the undisputed queen of Shanghai’s gossip, what they know about the dragon pearl and the Hulijing’s quest to get it. But first, the Custom House.