𖠳༻❁༺𖠳 Xiè Rú’ēn 𖠳༻❁༺𖠳

It was a dense and stifling dawn, heavy with the lingering sweetness of sandalwood incense and the muffled echoes of laughter long extinguished. Though the sky was still draped in shadows, in the Hóngméi Lǐ district the night never truly vanished. Silk lanterns, red as ripe fruit, hung from twisted branches, flickering in rhythm with the spring wind. That light—dim and trembling—seemed more like the dying breath of a dream than the promise of a new day.

The cobblestones were still damp from the night’s drizzle, and the air, thick as a held sigh, pressed against the lungs. Amid that gloom, a figure moved with uncertain steps: she wore a scarlet brocade cloak, its hem darkened by the moisture of dawn. When the wind, in a fleeting whim, lifted her hood, it revealed a face far too young to be awake at that hour… and eyes of an unnatural blue, like shattered porcelain beneath moonlight—brown hair and dark freckles scattered over pale skin.

Her gaze stopped before the grand house, its lacquered doors still gleaming with the varnish of luxury, though the brocade curtains already showed the wear of constant use. Around her, the walls seemed to hold the sighs of hundreds of nights, as if the very air remembered secrets no one dared to speak aloud.

In front of the entrance, the young woman paused. She clutched a willow-woven basket to her chest. Her fingers, reddened by the cold, trembled like plum blossoms in the eastern breeze. For a moment, she hesitated. Then she lifted her hand and knocked softly.

It didn’t take long before the door creaked open. The woman who appeared was tall and slender as a crane. She wore a deep red silk robe embroidered with open peonies—symbols of wealth and desire. Her hair, black as the bottom of a pond, was pinned with golden hairpieces that caught the lantern light like living embers. Between her fingers, she held a jade pipe, and her lips, painted crimson, curved with impatience.

—Ah… it’s you —she murmured, exhaling a trail of smoke that dissolved into the mist, bitter as an unspoken farewell.

The young woman lowered her gaze. The tremor in her hands made the basket creak against her arms.

—If you wish, I can take you back —said the woman, resting a hand on her hip with the poised grace of someone used to giving nothing more than necessary. Her voice was indifferent, but in her dark eyes flickered a spark of curiosity, almost annoyance.

—Shīshēng… —the young woman said, her voice barely a thread, like a kite about to break loose from the sky—. He… isn’t as you said.

The woman’s laughter was brief and dry, like the snap of a branch breaking under the weight of snow.

—Men rarely are.

Her gaze drifted lazily toward the basket.

—What do you have there? Is it for me?

The young woman pressed her lips together. A flash of anger and sorrow crossed her eyes. Then, with a sudden motion, she placed the basket on the ground, as if it burned her hands.

—Take it. I don’t want it… and if you’ve won the man of my dreams—

Shīshēng raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

—If you think I’ll go back to him… you’re wrong.

And without another word, she turned on her heels and vanished into the mist. Her figure melted into the alleys of the district like a night butterfly trapped in the glow of a lantern.

While her blue eyes watched the hope of a new day… one where she had nothing left.

Shīshēng stood alone. Only the muted murmur of the brothel, the distant steps of a drowsy merchant, and the faint rustle of silk against her skin reminded her that dawn had not yet conquered the night. She looked down at the basket and hesitated for a moment. Then, with the calm of someone who has seen too much, she opened it.

Wrapped in linen and ivory-threaded blankets, a baby girl slept. Her face, round and rosy as a spring peach, was a breath of stillness amid so much fatigue.

For the first time in a long while, Shīshēng’s face softened. Her lips, so accustomed to irony, curved into a brief smile, like a secret shared with the breeze.

—Well… —she whispered—. Seems you’ve left me a better gift than I expected.

With unusual gentleness, she lifted the basket in her arms and stepped inside.

From the upper floors came the fading laughter, mingled with the plucked notes of a lute and drunken sighs. Bare feet pattered down the stairs—several little girls in light robes ran toward her, their eyes bright with curiosity.

—māmā, māmā —they called, clutching at the folds of her dress as if seeking warmth.

She bent down, showing them the basket.

—You have a new little sister —she announced softly, as if afraid to disturb the slumber still lingering in the house.

The girls took the basket with small hands, whispering with excitement, and hurried upstairs, their laughter fading into hushed giggles.

Shīshēng watched them disappear behind the paper screens. Then, for a moment, she allowed herself to stand still, wrapped in the dim red glow of the lanterns.

Outside came the muffled sounds of carts, fish being unloaded, and the tofu seller’s call welcoming the day. But within that weary house of pleasure, the night still clung to the walls with invisible fingers.

—Never thought you’d return… much less like this —she murmured, barely audible, to the door closed behind her.

The echo of her voice faded among the folds of silk and the muted sighs of what remained of the past.

And so, while the world outside awakened, within that house, a new story began to take shape—woven from shadows, incense, and the dying glow of lanterns.

Page 19 of “The Book of Courtesans” — Chapter 1: “The Contract”

Signed by Yíluò Lán, the woman in the red hood.

> I did not sign with ink, nor chose my fate,

it was a bowl of rice, a roof, a gate.

They told me: “serve, learn, bloom, obey,”

and I said yes… for none could turn away.

Now every bow, each step I feign,

belongs to that paper, sealed with pain.

What price can bind a life once free,

when freedom itself costs no decree?

The Perfect Courtesan

In the grand hall of the pleasure pavilion, the warm glow of silk lanterns painted the air with a reddish hue, as if the night itself burned in a quiet flame of desire and memory.

Sandalwood incense, slowly dying in a bronze censer, wove lazy spirals that drifted among lacquered screens. Decorated with distant mountains and frost-covered plum blossoms, they seemed to guard an unreal world — where everything was beautiful… yet nothing was true.

At the center of the chamber, she stood with the stillness of a Guō Xī painting: suspended between the real and the dreamed, between art and flesh.

She was not merely a woman, but a carefully sculpted illusion — a poem everyone longed to read, but no one could ever possess.

Her eyes, deep and dark as freshly ground ink, held no words, only silences. Silences that spoke of moonless nights, of unspoken promises, of destinies that could never be chosen.

Each gaze of hers was a delicate brushstroke upon another man’s story.

Her skin, fine as porcelain from the Ru kilns, seemed untouched by the world’s harshness.

Under the reddish light, it did not shine — it breathed, as if her whole body carried an ancient soul.

Her hair, long as autumn’s sorrow, fell in a black cascade, gathered partly with golden lotus-shaped hairpins. No ornament was ostentatious; she needed nothing more than her own existence to command the room.

Discreet pearls gleamed here and there like dew caught on dark petals.

Every movement of hers carried the rhythm of a qín melody — fluid, precise, impossible to imitate.

From the subtle gesture of holding a cup of plum wine to the way she inclined her head when hearing a verse, it seemed even the air stopped, unwilling to disturb her presence.

She wore a robe of white silk, pure as untouched snow.

No lavish embroidery nor heavy jewels — in her, simplicity was royalty.

In a world of excess, her purity was a form of power.

Yet it was not her face that men feared to forget — it was her voice, her art, her soul poured into notes and words.

She was a master of the qín, and her fingers — slender, almost painfully delicate — could draw laments from the strings as though touching the heart of winter itself.

When she wrote, her brush danced with a precision that seemed beyond human.

Her poems, rare and fleeting like snowflakes on a mild night, left even the scholars in silence.

In the world of courtesans, where so many competed to please, she did not.

She never needed to bow.

She was destiny, disguised as a woman.

And yet, there was sorrow in her perfection.

For though her name was whispered in the halls of power, in the libraries of scholars, and in the most discreet conversations of the court — she was not free.

She was admired, desired, revered… but also owned.

Like a work of art behind glass, she could not choose whom to love, nor when to leave.

Many followed her with devotion, dreaming of purchasing even a single night by her side.

But no one, not even the wealthiest of men, could pay the price of her freedom.

For it was not only a matter of silver… but the weight of her story, the unwritten contract that bound her to the pavilion, the broken promise of a childhood lost in mist.

She was, without doubt, the most perfect flower in the garden.

But also, the most caged.

And like the plum blossoms that bloom within the fog — beautiful, solitary, and fleeting — she too shed her petals in silence, night after night, verse after verse.

(Page 20 of The Courtesans’ Book, Chapter 2: “Broken Reflection”)

Signed by Bai Ruì — The Perfect Courtesan

> In the mirror I see an ideal face,

yet behind it lies an unreal place.

The shining shell conceals the pain,

the sorrowed tale of a life in chain.

> I am the image all desire to touch,

yet none have known my tears as such.

The perfect courtesan, the dream they chase,

but within me — only emptiness has place.

The Girls of the Grandest House in the District

Dawn slid slowly across the gray-tiled rooftops, tinting the sky a muted blue — not yet day, but no longer night.

Inside the grand house of Guài Lì Zhai, the silk lamps still burned with silent stubbornness. The red glow of their lanterns bathed the walls in shades of crimson, as though the last sighs of the night clung desperately to every corner.

The girls of Pavilion Two stood in a line, hands crossed before their chests, eyes lowered, bare feet upon a carpet embroidered with peonies.

The air smelled of lotus incense and spilled tea, and though the warmth was gentle, a chill drifted through the room — as if something unseen had brushed through their bodies.

The woman before them seemed to have been born from smoke itself.

Her white silk robe brushed the floor like a tranquil wave, and her hair — black as ink — was gathered with golden hairpins shaped like blossoms.

Each word she spoke, each glance she gave, weighed heavier than a thousand warnings.

The apprentices looked at her with restrained longing. To be chosen to serve in the most distinguished halls of Hóngmèi Lǐ was the greatest of destinies.

Yet among them, one girl stood out — not for her voice, nor her beauty, but for the strangeness of her eyes: a pale, impossible blue, like ice floating upon clear water.

The girl did not look at the woman as the others did.

She observed her as one might watch a wounded bird that still dares to sing.

She noticed how, beneath her perfect elegance, the woman could barely walk without support.

She understood it in an instant — even the most admired flowers in the garden could be withered within.

She turned her gaze away, and what once had seemed a magical place now appeared vast and suffocating.

A golden palace built upon the lives of other girls like her.

In the district of Hóngmèi Lǐ, three houses ruled like constellations in a sky veiled with secrets:

Baiyun Zhai – The Residence of White Clouds

The oldest and most powerful house. More than twenty high-ranking courtesans adorned its halls, but only one reigned above them all — the flower who made coins and imperial favors rain wherever she went.

Her songs were murmured by academy students, her letters kept as talismans by bureaucrats of both North and South.

Guài Lì Zhai – The House of Strange Beauty

New to the district, yet fierce. Here, uniqueness was prized above convention.

The most celebrated courtesans were not always the most beautiful, but those whose singularity was impossible to forget.

It was a house for artists, for broken poets, for muses with scars.

Niǎo Yǔ Lóu – The Tower of Whispering Birds

Elegance, politics, and silence.

Its courtesans were refined — experts in conversation, calligraphy, and the delicate art of listening without speaking too much.

If one wished to win a minister’s heart or a diplomat’s trust, she had to train in Niǎo Yǔ Lóu.

Every word spoken there was worth more than any dance.

It was a family-run house, named after birds and emotions.

The hierarchy within each house was as strict as the imperial examinations.

A high-ranking courtesan could command anyone.

Those of middle rank still had to earn the public’s favor.

The common ones served in the halls — disposable, replaceable.

And the apprentices… were not even recorded by name.

The more one learned, the more debt she owed.

Talent meant little — one always owed more.

Only the exceptional could earn a sponsor.

This act was called “offering an orchid”, a gesture that granted a courtesan her name, her worth, and her assured destiny.

The sound of soft footsteps broke the silence.

A woman with a long, wax-pale face crossed the threshold, inhaling the air as if tasting it.

> “It is time to begin study,” she announced, her voice deep and melodic.

The girls bowed deeply and departed one by one.

Only Bai Ruì remained seated, her eyes lost in some broken memory. Her breathing was uneven; her lips trembled.

The woman known as Shīshēng watched her from the shadows.

In her hands she held a finely carved bamboo pipe. The jasmine smoke twined around her form, as though part of her were dissolving into the air.

> “Māmā… I… please…”

The young woman’s voice trembled, each word seeming to cost her more than pain itself.

She bowed her head. Silent tears ran down her cheeks. She clutched the floor with her nails until they left marks.

Shīshēng said nothing at first. Then, with the gentleness of a sad qín melody, she offered a silk handkerchief.

> “Don’t speak nonsense,” she whispered.

> “Māmā… I’m… not important to you…”

The smoke grew thicker, as if the air itself sought to hide what was about to be said.

> “You are important to me,” she replied — her tone hardened, yet tempered by tenderness.

“That is why you became the best of them all. Aren’t you happy?”

No one answered.

Only the echo of her voice lingered for an instant, before fading among the red wooden columns.

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(Page 21 of The Courtesans’ Book, Chapter 3: “The One Who Will Know No Autumn”)

Signed by Bai Ruì — The Perfect Courtesan

> I have watched fifteen springs go by,

in silk, in smoke, in false delight.

But autumn, the one who waits for me,

shall never reach my quiet night.

> No silver hair, no withered tree,

no children laughing on my balcony.

I’ll die young, with flawless skin,

and a ruined soul of sympathy.

> They’ll bury me without a prayer,

perhaps with laughter, or discreet despair.

No one will say, “How noble her story,”

only: “The flower has finished her glory.”