cap 1༺𖠳 Xiè Rú’ēn 𖠳༻

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?

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