her hair—for him, he realized. “I see you are not a man to keep your word. I’ll bid you a peaceful evening then, Master Zhong.”
Suddenly he was no longer tired or interested in studying The Book of the Dead anymore that night. “Please stay. My apologies. I’ll ask the kitchen to send something.” A special feast he had wanted, and flowers to adorn the hall, to pin in her hair. Instead, he had nothing except the defiant tilt of her chin. “Sit.” He took her gently by the arm and persuaded her to sit back onto the plush brocaded cushion. “Just one moment.”
He hurried to the small chamber tucked behind his quarters. It was dark, and he banged the door panel open, eliciting a sharp cry and clatter from the corner. “Xiao Mao!”
The servant boy leaped to his feet. “Master Zhong! I didn’t realize you needed me.” No older than twelve years, he was going through a growth spurt, and histrousers barely reached past his knees. He was too thin. Zhong Ye would have to ask the kitchen to make sure the boy got his fair share at mealtimes.
“Silver Phoenix is in my reception hall.”
The boy’s eyes bugged out of his head like a toad’s. Zhong Ye almost laughed. “I delivered your message, mas—”
“Never mind. Go to the kitchen and ask for a meal to be prepared for us. Move!”
Xiao Mao returned within a quarter of an hour, bearing a lacquered tray laden with food. Another kitchen boy followed, also weighed down with dishes. Zhong Ye would have to remember to thank the chef tomorrow. The boys set the trays on a round table decorated with enameled orchids and scurried away without a word. Well done, he thought.
Zhong Ye set a ceramic cup in front of Silver Phoenix and filled it with rice wine, then poured some for himself. He raised his cup. “Thank you for staying.”
Her full lips curved into a smile, and he didn’t look away as she brought the cup to her mouth for a sip. “In truth, I wasn’t sure if I would.” She began pulling the lids off the dishes. “I considered slipping out when you went to speak with your servant boy.”
She picked up silver eating sticks and began filling her plate. He followed suit. “And what made you stay?” he asked.
“I wanted to see you…despite your rudeness.”
“I was a dolt,” he said. “Forgive me?”
“Perhaps I’ll let you make it up to me,” she replied with a glint in her dark eyes.
Before he came to the palace, Zhong Ye had had affairs with girls who meant nothing to him. Silver Phoenix was different. He needed to know everything he could about her. “How many years are you?” he asked.
“Seventeen.” She ate, taking small bites. “I’ve been on my own since twelve years. Being a song girl forces one to grow up fast.”
He leaned back, no longer hungry. He poured himself more wine.
“Twelve years. That’s so young.” He studied unabashedly the delicate arch of her brows, the curve of her cheek, and the line of her neck.
“No younger than some of the concubines who enter the palace. We’re deemed ready when we begin our monthly letting.” She met his eyes. “How many years are you?”
“I entered the palace at sixteen years. This is my second year.”
“Only eighteen?” she asked. “You act ten years older.”
He laughed. “My youth isn’t an advantage at the Emperor’s court. Better if I appear older than my true age.”
“What happened to your hands?” She touched one of his fingers. His knuckles were thick with scabs, and he flinched.
“Nothing.” He smiled.
Silver Phoenix considered him as if she could read his thoughts, then finally tapped her wine cup with the tip of her finger. He filled it for her. “Do you miss your family?” she asked.
The question surprised him. It had been seven years since he’d left their small farm. His father, muscular and stoic. His mother, looking older than her years from working day in and out, year round. From rearing five children. She had been the
Suddenly he was no longer tired or interested in studying The Book of the Dead anymore that night. “Please stay. My apologies. I’ll ask the kitchen to send something.” A special feast he had wanted, and flowers to adorn the hall, to pin in her hair. Instead, he had nothing except the defiant tilt of her chin. “Sit.” He took her gently by the arm and persuaded her to sit back onto the plush brocaded cushion. “Just one moment.”
He hurried to the small chamber tucked behind his quarters. It was dark, and he banged the door panel open, eliciting a sharp cry and clatter from the corner. “Xiao Mao!”
The servant boy leaped to his feet. “Master Zhong! I didn’t realize you needed me.” No older than twelve years, he was going through a growth spurt, and histrousers barely reached past his knees. He was too thin. Zhong Ye would have to ask the kitchen to make sure the boy got his fair share at mealtimes.
“Silver Phoenix is in my reception hall.”
The boy’s eyes bugged out of his head like a toad’s. Zhong Ye almost laughed. “I delivered your message, mas—”
“Never mind. Go to the kitchen and ask for a meal to be prepared for us. Move!”
Xiao Mao returned within a quarter of an hour, bearing a lacquered tray laden with food. Another kitchen boy followed, also weighed down with dishes. Zhong Ye would have to remember to thank the chef tomorrow. The boys set the trays on a round table decorated with enameled orchids and scurried away without a word. Well done, he thought.
Zhong Ye set a ceramic cup in front of Silver Phoenix and filled it with rice wine, then poured some for himself. He raised his cup. “Thank you for staying.”
Her full lips curved into a smile, and he didn’t look away as she brought the cup to her mouth for a sip. “In truth, I wasn’t sure if I would.” She began pulling the lids off the dishes. “I considered slipping out when you went to speak with your servant boy.”
She picked up silver eating sticks and began filling her plate. He followed suit. “And what made you stay?” he asked.
“I wanted to see you…despite your rudeness.”
“I was a dolt,” he said. “Forgive me?”
“Perhaps I’ll let you make it up to me,” she replied with a glint in her dark eyes.
Before he came to the palace, Zhong Ye had had affairs with girls who meant nothing to him. Silver Phoenix was different. He needed to know everything he could about her. “How many years are you?” he asked.
“Seventeen.” She ate, taking small bites. “I’ve been on my own since twelve years. Being a song girl forces one to grow up fast.”
He leaned back, no longer hungry. He poured himself more wine.
“Twelve years. That’s so young.” He studied unabashedly the delicate arch of her brows, the curve of her cheek, and the line of her neck.
“No younger than some of the concubines who enter the palace. We’re deemed ready when we begin our monthly letting.” She met his eyes. “How many years are you?”
“I entered the palace at sixteen years. This is my second year.”
“Only eighteen?” she asked. “You act ten years older.”
He laughed. “My youth isn’t an advantage at the Emperor’s court. Better if I appear older than my true age.”
“What happened to your hands?” She touched one of his fingers. His knuckles were thick with scabs, and he flinched.
“Nothing.” He smiled.
Silver Phoenix considered him as if she could read his thoughts, then finally tapped her wine cup with the tip of her finger. He filled it for her. “Do you miss your family?” she asked.
The question surprised him. It had been seven years since he’d left their small farm. His father, muscular and stoic. His mother, looking older than her years from working day in and out, year round. From rearing five children. She had been the
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