Page 21 of A Song to Drown Rivers
“That’s the real reason I came here earlier,” I said, a half lie. Hopefully it would help heal his first impression of me. “It looks very important, like—like something only the scholars or noblemen would read. May I see what it is?”
His expression cleared, all the impatience in his features melting away. “Aiya, you should’ve said so earlier.” He held the scroll out to me. “Can you read?”
I leaned closer, pretending to study the scroll, when really I was offering him a better view of my face. I recognized the moment he was made truly aware of me, my physical presence. His breath drew in, a soft quickening, and in my peripheral vision, I couldsense how his eyes lingered on the arch of my brows, the slope of my nose.Good.This was a beginning, at least.
“These are poems,” I mused, lowering my voice to offer the illusion of intimacy. Admittedly such tactics made me embarrassed, so basic and shameless they were, but perhaps it worked. The man’s gaze drew closer. “I’ve always loved poetry, though I don’t know many myself.” A lie. I had now memorized every poem there was worth knowing. I could have spent a day speaking in nothing but couplets, and I was certain that I knew more about poetry than the man sitting before me. “Do you… have a favorite among these?”
“I see you are quite well-read,” he said admiringly, though of course the emphasis was onquite.Well-read enough to make him feel smart and cultured, but not so well-read as to challenge his views on anything. “Well, sit down, sit down. Let me show you this ode—isn’t it beautiful, the imagery of the trilling geese?”
I sat, taking care to smooth my skirt, to tuck my ankles, my movements slowed so he could take in the full length of my figure. He was pretending not to watch, but when I looked over at him, our gazes collided. I shaped my lips into a small, demure smile, then averted my eyes again. “The imagery is beautiful indeed,” I said softly. “What does it all mean?”
“Oh, yes, well. It is perhaps too depressing for a young lady like you,” he said, his tone changing. It was deeper, deliberate, affecting the airs of a wise scholar. “See the repetition of the sinking sun, and the—the rising river? Everything is thrown into a state of despair. One can only watch, powerless to change anything. A tragedy through and through.”
I raised my sleeve to my lips with a muted gasp. “How terrible. And you can tell all that just from so few lines?”
He smiled, his chest puffing out. One of his front teeth was crooked. I tried not to stare at it. “It is nothing for someone likeme. When you’ve read as many poems as I, you start to sense a pattern in the imagery, and all the motifs.”
The urge to roll my eyes was overwhelming. I knew this poem already, and to read it as a tragedy was to misunderstand the poet’s intention entirely. The very heart of it lay in finding power in small and beautiful things. But of course I did not correct him. When men say they want a lover, what they often mean is they want a mirror; they wish to see themselves reflected back at them in the best light. “Why, I couldneverimagine being able to do that,” I marveled. “Still. Don’t you think there is something inherently romantic about tragedy?”
He blinked. “Romantic?”
I slid closer to him so my forearm was brushing against his. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched his cup of tea. He had not tried to refill it yet, and the steam had stopped rising. Only a little longer now. “Yes, romantic,” I said, rolling the word on my tongue like honey. His breathing was unsteady. “All those lost opportunities; everything gone and wilted and buried. Divided loves and shattered hearts. Devastating, but beautiful. Memorable. How deeply it stirs the soul.”
He did not say anything for a long while; he was too busy staring at me. A feeling expanded in my chest then, like an eagle spreading its wings for the first time.Power.I knew in that moment, with a cool, solid certainty, that if I were to rise, his eyes would follow. If I were to go home, he would trail after me. If I were to touch his neck, he would let me. I had him enraptured, the way a snake has its tail coiled around its prey. And yet a strange thought slithered into my mind:Would any of this work on Fanli?I remembered him from last night, standing with his back bared to me. If I ever used these tricks on him, would some part of him weaken too? Or would he remain as stony-faced as ever, remote and utterly unmoved?
Stop.I willed myself to pay attention to the person who actually mattered in this instance.
“Beautiful,” the man repeated in a murmur.
I smiled, still that faint, guarded smile, without revealing any teeth, and turned to face him fully. I saw my own reflection swimming in his widened eyes, his dark, dilated pupils. It was true: Iwasbeautiful, but it was less how I looked, and more what I felt.
“Would you mind me asking—what is your name, miss?” the man said. “And where are you from? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you around before. Trust me, I would remember.”
“Guess,” I said coyly, gazing up at him from under my lashes.
He laughed, the sound too eager, too strained. “Are you trying to make me curious? Because I must say you’ve already succeeded.”
No, I am simply trying to delay the time.I checked the tea again, touching the cup with the back of my hand in a quick movement. It was ice cold. A heady rush of triumph and relief swept through me. I had succeeded. Passed the test. Yet as soon as the thought crossed my mind, another realization settled into my skin like frostbite. This was it, then—the end of everything. My training was complete. From here, what awaited me was the Wu palace.
“Excuse me,” I said, with a shallow dip of my head. “There’s somewhere else I must be.”
“No, don’t go yet.” The words spilled from his lips. He pressed them together, as if to stop himself, then blurted out: “Is this because I was rude to you before? I apologize—I’m not usually very accepting of strangers; one must have standards, after all. But I can’t remember the last time I connected to someone so quickly…”
Perhaps because nobody has ever been so quick to flatter your mediocre literacy.“Consider it forgiven. Still, I really do have to go.”
I pushed my chair back, but he held up a hand. “Surely it’s nothing important. Not as important as me. What urgent matters dowomen really have anyway, other than the cooking and washing? Stay,” he said, with emphasis. “I insist.”
I let the smile melt off my face. Thank the heavens; my muscles were starting to ache. “I would really rather not,” I told him, no longer bothering to sweeten my tone. I rose just as abruptly, and saw the bewilderment flashing over his features. He looked as if someone had jolted him out of a pleasant dream.
“Wait—” The chair squeaked. He scrambled out of his seat. “You— You’re just leaving?”
“There are people waiting for me,” I said. “Thank you for your time.”
“No, wait.” He caught me by the arm. His hand was giant and callous, his grip hard. And tightening. I felt a frisson of panic through my pride. “What was that just now? A joke? You were—you’re interested in me, are you not?”
My heart pounded. Still, I tried to remain calm, to keep my voice down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, please, excuse me—”
He didn’t loosen his grip. “Youareinterested,” he insisted, splotchy color rising in his face. He leaned closer, uncomfortably close. “You must be. I saw the way you were looking at me earlier. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
