The Girls of the Grandest House in the District

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.”

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