Lady Jia’s pacing was accompanied by a string of dialogue she seemed incapable of stopping. “You must paint so many beautiful women for the emperor, Master Yang,” she said. “It is such an important and honored task, to travel these provinces to find new brides for him. I mean, we rely on your skill to convey our daughter’s beauty. How can a man, even an emperor, not fall in love with such a perfect face?” Her mother swept a graceful arm toward Mei Feng, her dark brown eyes bright with pride.
Mei Feng winced inwardly. But she had been schooled too long in the art of being a proper young mistress to let it show in her features. Instead, she kept the same faint curve of a smile on her lips, letting her eyes gaze dreamily into an unseen distance.
“My daughter’s beauty is known throughout the province,” her mother prattled on. “But beyond that, she has been well taught in all the arts that will please our emperor: embroidering, singing, dancing, and playing the zither. Mei Feng can recite and write poetry, has been instructed on how to properly serve tea should the emperor desire it, and knows all the ways of pleasing him in the bedchamber.”
Mei Feng almost closed her eyes—but she had better control than that. Yet she couldn’t prevent the warm blush that spread from her face to her neck, until the tips of her ears felt on fire. Oh, how she wanted to leap from the chair and run back to her quarters, tear all the pins from her hair, carefully arranged in artful coils and plaits, laden with rubies and jade.
Horrifyingly, her mother did not stop. She did not even pause for breath.
“I personally taught her everything from The Book of Making myself.” Lady Jia dipped her chin coquettishly. “Mei Feng knows what she needs to do to quickly become with child—make healthy sons for the emperor.”
Mei Feng’s hands were folded in her lap, resting against her skirt, gorgeously paneled in pale green and pink silks, embroidered with delicate butterflies. Her fingers tightened, lacquered nails digging into the backs of her hands. How much longer?
“I am sure she is as fertile as a sow with nine pairs of teats—” Master Yang said.
Her mother drew a sharp intake of breath, covering her mouth with one sleeve.
Mei Feng blinked twice; she did not let the shock touch her composed face.
“But I do not choose the emperor’s imperial consorts for him,” the artist went on in a gruff voice. “What I do is try to paint the best representation that I can of the young women brought before me.” He flicked the ink from his brush with an annoyed turn of his wrist into a cerulean bowl filled with water. It rested on an enameled tea table that depicted pink peonies nestled within verdant leaves, one of Mei Feng’s favorite pieces in their grand main hall. “You are ruining my concentration, Lady Jia,” Master Yang went on. “If I make a mistake and blot the painting by accident, I will not be there to explain to His Majesty that the mark is not a giant wart or mole with a hair growing from it like a cat’s whisker.”
Lady Jia snapped her fan open, flapping it to give herself some air. She appeared ready to faint.
Mei Feng’s serene smile might have lifted a small fraction at the corners.
She loved her mother. She truly did. But Lady Jia could be a little willful and pushy when it came to arranging a betrothal for her youngest daughter.
“Well, then,” Lady Jia said. “You’ve made yourself clear, Master Yang. I’ll leave you in peace.” She turned in a flourish of silks and gardenia perfume and retreated down the wide steps into the courtyard below.
The artist dipped his brush into the inkwell, gathering the ink he needed on the brush head, before giving Mei Feng a playful wink.
“Shall we start over, then?” he asked.
Mei Feng wandered the lush grounds of the Jia manor trailed by her two handmaids, Ripple and Orchid, meandering through the estate’s magnificent courtyards. The royal portraitist had taken all morning to paint two likenesses of her. Lady Jia had exclaimed in pleasure when she saw the final pieces, praising the artist. But when the man offered to show Mei Feng, she had declined to see them. Her mother had tilted her chin in disapproval. Mei Feng knew she risked being rude, but she didn’t have the heart. Her fate now rested upon a stranger’s ink strokes on rice paper, and whether or not another stranger found her features pleasing. She wanted to marry well and make her parents proud, but a part of her hoped that the emperor would not like the look of her—for she was not yet ready to leave her family forever.
Spring was in full splendor, and the gardens were a riot of fragrance and color. She passed peach trees, their branches laden with deep pink blossoms, stopping in front of a clear pond; water trickled from the rock-work built above. The two handmaids chatted behind her as Mei Feng fed the orange and silver-speckled fish. A large toad she had named Grouch because of his wide, frowning mouth plopped loudly into the water, in hopes of finding something he could eat, too.
She laughed at the sight of him kicking his fat legs and continued on to her favorite spot among all the courtyards—the Pavilion of Quiet Contemplation. Lifting her emerald skirt, she climbed the stone steps and settled onto a bench, one that offered her a view of the crabapple trees. Wisteria wound their way up the columns of the pavilion in bursts of lavender and periwinkle, dousing the air with its sweet, peppery scent.
Grouch the toad croaked from the pond, deep and satisfied, the noise carrying to her on a soft breeze. Birds hidden overhead twittered and argued. Mei Feng leaned back, releasing a long breath, letting her arms rest heavy at her sides. She was never alone, but at least she was not being presented or observed for a small time—she treasured these rare moments of peace.
A hush blanketed the garden, so subtle that she didn’t notice at first. But suddenly, the sounds of the courtyard had fallen away until even the rustling of leaves had disappeared. Mei Feng froze, the flesh on her arms pimpling. Where had her handmaids gone? Searching the tranquil surroundings with a sweeping glance revealed nothing. The two girls were nowhere to be seen. Ripple was prone to playing jokes, and Mei Feng almost rose, determined to find the errant handmaids, when the appearance of a figure farther down a stone-paved path stopped her.
A young man approached—a stranger—and her pulse quickened. Mei Feng clutched her skirt between damp fingers, not knowing what to do. The Jia estate was immense, and she resided within the inner quarters, where men were not allowed. As an unwed girl, she was meant to be safe here, sequestered, hidden away from prying eyes.
“Ripple?” Mei Feng called out, hoping the handmaid would appear from behind a tree trunk, or from where she had been crouched behind the rocks. “Orchid?”
“They are dozing for a while,” the stranger said. He climbed the steps of the pavilion, stopping at the entrance.
“Dozing?” she whispered.
He smiled at her and bowed formally, elegant and assured. “Do not worry for them.”
“Who are you?” she asked.