had been such a nag to Pearl. They were trailed by the burly Huibin, one of the fetch-and-carry attendants who helped with the market purchases and went wherever he was needed. They moved to the shade beneath the row of trees at the edge of the lane. The heat only faded slightly in the wane of the afternoon. She wore a simple robe today, though she would have considered the peach-coloured cotton an unimaginable luxury not a month ago. The fabric was light and more suitable for prolonged activity like the long stroll to the market.
‘Dao, do you have anyone?’ she asked.
‘Anyone?’
They were crowded close to one another so the shade of the bamboo parasol covered both of them.
‘Like a young handsome someone, you mean.’ Dao laughed.
There were two different Daos. In front of Fei Long, the master of the house, Dao was timid, respectful and chose her words with utter care. When the two of them were alone, Dao threw words about like a fisherman scattering rice.
Yan Ling lowered her voice. ‘Yes, so?’
Speaking about such a personal issue out in public made her nervous, but the crowded city seemed a more secure place for secret yearnings than the Chang family home.
‘Who would I possibly be fond of? Old Man Liang has hardly any teeth.’
Yan Ling stifled a laugh.
Dao went on. ‘Those boys in the kitchen and the stables? Or that mule Huibin over there? Worthless.’
Yan Ling cringed and didn’t dare look back to see if the manservant had overheard. ‘Huibin’s not so bad,’ she whispered.
Dao sniffed. ‘You’re right. He’s the best of them. So, no, I haven’t anyone.’
Yan Ling knew that the household adored Dao—adored her for her cleverness and feared her for her sharp tongue.
‘I was just trying to imagine what it must be like,’ Yan Ling said wistfully.
‘It must be the weather.’ Dao sighed.
‘What?’
‘When the spring turns to summer in this city, it does this to everyone. One becomes moody. Starts writing poems.’
Yan Ling smirked. ‘I don’t believe I’ve written any poems lately.’
She gave Dao a playful shove as they turned the corner. She could see the towering gate of the central market at the end of the street.
‘Well, you must not have a special yearning for someone either,’ Dao said.
Her heart skipped faster at just the empty thought, even before she filled it in with a name. With a face. ‘There’s no one.’
‘Otherwise you would have never agreed to come with Lord Chang to the city.’
‘Or agree to be married to a barbarian,’ she added absently.
‘It truly is a beautiful opportunity for you. A dream.’
‘Yes.’ Her voice trailed away. ‘Truly.’
The buzz of the East Market had reached them. They passed beneath the arch of the gates into a sprawl of shops and warehouses. Traffic flowed lazily today, indolent in the sun and slow sticky-syrup time of the afternoon.
The main market was comprised of a grid of two north-south lanes intersecting two east–west lanes. Yan Ling counted four times that she had visited the East Market, yet she hadn’t explored even half of the merchants. Dao would usually grab her hand and drag her along impatiently, bypass the sightseeing to go directly to her favourite spots. In contrast, Yan Ling wanted to see everything. She would spend hours going from one stand to another if left on her own.
Along with the permanent buildings, there were stalls set up within empty lots and draped with canopies to block the sun. Street pedlars also roamed the lanes, hauling a cart of sweet pastries here, a basket of salted eggs there. Every speck of the market was dedicated to commerce.
A display of painted jars at one stand caught Yan Ling’s eye. The small break in her stride was all it took for the grey-haired woman to waddle towards them.
‘Come in, come in, my beautiful ladies!’ The grandmother figure beckoned them closer with a wave. ‘We have perfumes, powders, paint of all colours.’
The shop was a wooden enclosure draped with a blue-cloth canopy overhead. Dao lowered the parasol as Yan Ling stepped inside. A collection of small jars and porcelain containers had been arranged on the counter. She ran her fingertip over the blue-glaze pattern on a round dish that fitted in the palm of her hand. It was so pretty for something so insignificant.
An elderly man, presumably the owner, sat in the corner of the shop, fanning himself. He apparently left the selling to his wife.
‘For your lips,’ the old woman cooed. She opened the lid to reveal the cinnabar