by Jade Lee
The life he painted seemed too real to be a lie. Indeed, Max had once written of the poor fates of men and women who became addicted to the opium the Chinese adored. And if Lydia doubted, she needed only remember the time she had spent in that other awful place. As bad as her treatment here was, her injuries were all a result of her own actions. Her many indignities were nowhere near what she had experienced in her moments of lucidity at the whorehouse.
She could not go back there. She would not! Which meant she had to stay here. With the dragon. Until she could find a way to escape.
She did not want to stay and please this monster. She did not want any of this, but God had long since turned a deaf ear. She would have to make her own plans, her own bargains. And yet, she had no strength to begin. She simply lay on her side and sobbed loud, messy tears of the truly wretched.
In time, the dragon stood up and stared at her, seemingly unmoved by pity or remorse. "I give you one day, ghost woman. One day to present yourself to me in such a way as to prove you are worthy of my attention. Fight Fu De in the least, and I will chain your hands and feet together and toss you back into the cesspool from which you came."
He meant it. Every evil word. He would toss her back and she would die. This she knew.
And yet, long after he left, she could not stir herself to care. She longed for death. Prayed for it. Desperately she needed an end.
But there was nothing in the room with which to harm herself. Even the iron bars that provided the framework for the bed could not be used. She had tried. At the time she had been looking for a weapon against the servant—what was his name? Fu De. The frame was solid and unwieldy for any purpose except as a bed. Even her gown was not long enough to create a noose from which to hang herself. In short, she would have to make a bargain with the dragon, and pray for a time when she could find an escape.
As morning at last lightened the room, she made her choice. She got up from her bed and presented herself for cleaning. Apparently there was little time, and she was the one who would have to perform most of the tasks.
The first thing Fu De did was to bring her a mop and bucket. While he stripped and changed the linens of her bed, she was to clean every inch of her tiny bedroom. Then, when that was finished, he dragged in a large tub which he filled with tepid water. He handed her a soft, scented soap, then bowed himself out. One English word lingered in the air behind him:
"Hurry."
She stripped quickly, settling into the tub with a sigh of pleasure. Immersed in the water, planning to wash her hair, the thought of drowning came to her. She could do it. She need only hold her breath until she became unconscious. Then she would drown. Quietly. Quickly, even. If she was strong enough.
If Fu De had brought her the water yesterday, she probably would have done it. Or at least she could have tried. But the work—the mopping and the cleaning—had done her good. It had brought life and strength back into her body, and she found herself unwilling to embrace death so easily.
It was a difficult choice. After all, good Englishwomen were taught that death was preferable to dishonor. And she had no doubt that whatever fiendishness the Dragon intended, it would certainly dishonor her.
If she were a proper Englishwoman, she would attempt to kill herself right away. But she didn't want to die—certainly not before she knew exactly what type of dishonor the dragon intended. After all, he was a strange man from a strange country. What if all he wanted was to drink her tears? She could handle that. She could cry buckets for him. And, eventually, some opportunity for escape would present itself.
She would not drown today, she decided. She would clean herself and wait. She would learn what her captor wanted and then reevaluate her choices. After all, she could always drown herself at some later date.
Having decided, she threw herself into the task of bathing, making sure she appeared as clean and respectable as possible. And when Fu De brought her an elegant blue silk robe, she pulled it on, wrapping it around herself in the most modest but pleasing manner. She even took pains with her hair, knotting it loosely atop her head.
When the dragon arrived—a bare ten breaths after she had finished fussing with her hair—she was prepared to face whatever came. With dignity and with good English courage.
From the letters of Mei Lan Cheng
4 August, 1857
Dearest Li Hua—
I hear you are to be married to an honorable gentleman. How fortunate, and my best wishes for double happiness on your house. I know you have long hoped for such a thing, and I know, too, that you are as nervous and scared as I was.
Do not be afraid of what is to come, Li Hua. How strange to think that our old teacher was right: do not fear the man as much as the mother-in-law. Have you met her? Is she kind? She is the one who can make your life miserable. If she is lazy, she will order you to do her work. If she is greedy, she will take all of your things.
Your husband's attention takes only a moment at night. But the mother-in-law is at you from before the sun comes up to long after it goes down. Truthfully, Li Hua, I like my Sheng Fu's attentions. It gives me an excuse to leave his mother. Otherwise she would pick at me all night as well.
But I do not wish to make you sad in this time of joy. Write to me soon and tell me of your new family. I regret that I will not be at your wedding. It seems my father's predictions were true. The Cheng shop has become very prosperous in Shanghai. We see my embroidery everywhere now. Or I would if I were ever out to see it. I spend my dawns with my sketches, my days supervising the dyeing of threads and cloth, and my evenings in chores.
At least we now understand why I am so ugly. My mother-in-law says it is because Heaven does not give such wealth to one woman. All my beauty has gone into my designs, leaving none left over for my face. It was only my father-in-law's great wisdom that brought me to their family where the entire clan could make money from my ugliness.
At first I cried greatly at her words. I thought her very cruel, and no doubt you do, too. But Li Hua, she is right. I am never more content than in those early hours before everyone wakes when I can paint as my mind wills, as my beauty decrees. It is a great gift from Heaven, and the one that fills my heart with fivefold happiness.
If only I could conceive a son. Then, my joy would be complete.
—Mei Lan
Thy breasts are like the seeds in a newly opened lotus.
—Ming Huang compliments Yang Guifei somewhat naughtily in the Tang Dynasty
~
Chapter 3
He was wearing something different today, though the effect was still the same. A gray silk tunic over loose black pants. But this time the gray was embroidered with dark blue threads in the shape of clouds. And if one looked closely—which Lydia did—she could see the tail of a dragon here, the curve of a fin there. Wherever she looked, she found the hint of a dragon slipping through the clouds—a four-toed foot just around a button, and there, on his right breast, the circle of a single dragon eye watching her as intently as she watched it.
It was powerful and unsettling. It took everything within her not to shrink away as he stepped into her room.
She was sitting on her bed, her blue silk robe knotted tightly around her. It was the only thing she wore, and so she was excruciatingly aware of her state of undress, of the feel of shimmery smooth silk against her skin, especially whenever she moved. But she wasn't moving now. She was sitting on the bed, her legs tucked beneath her, the fabric of the robe covering every hint of skin. She appeared, to the best of her ability, a proper Englishwoman.
"Your hair is restrained," he said, the harsh growl of his voice making her jump. "Release it."
She did as she was bid, her hands shaking as she unwound the knot. It tumbled down in an unruly mass, but the more she tried to smooth it, the more it became tangled. In the end he stepped forward, his hands surprisingly warm as he stopped her movements. Gently pushing her arms down, he untangled her hair. And, of course, Fu De was on hand to give
him a comb. Soon he was straightening out her hair with long, gentle strokes.
She ought to be grateful, she told herself, that he was doing no more than brushing her hair. And yet, his every touch made her more anxious, and every moment he worked, her chest tightened even more as panic threatened to overwhelm her.
"You have metal in you," he said. "A gold that flows from you almost as freely as the water."
"My hair is not gold," she said firmly—almost primly. "That is merely the color of my hair. It is not metal."
He stepped back, his eyes narrowing, and she silently cursed her unruly tongue. She should not have corrected him. But really, he was savage indeed if he didn't understand something so basic. Then he was speaking, his voice as perplexed as it was harsh.
"Do you seek to annoy me? Or do your people truly know nothing?"
She looked up at him, startled by his statement. "My hair is not metal."
"Of course it is not metal," he snapped. "But it shimmers like gold, and your complexion is more ivory than ruddy. That indicates metal in your..." His voice trailed away as he struggled for the word.
"Personality," offered Fu De, in a low voice from just outside the room.
The dragon dipped his head in agreement. "Yes, personality."
"But that is ridiculous. My hair and my skin do not dictate my personality."
"Of course they do not dictate," he snapped. "It is a reflection."
"But—"
"Do you wish to challenge me?" he asked, and though his tone was matter-of-fact, she felt anger boiling beneath his surface. So Lydia dipped her head, looking to her hands as he eventually spoke. "I do not know if you can understand such things, but do not try to correct your betters."
Her head would have snapped up then, if she had not exercised rigid control. The thought that this Chinese heathen considered himself her better was flatly preposterous. But, for the moment at least, he was stronger and had the keys to her jail cell. And so she would have to swallow her pride and keep silent, allowing him the illusion of dominance.
"Because I am a generous man," he continued, "I will instruct you as I can. Learn, and you will profit. Ignore me, and remain a stupid animal. It is your choice."
Her tongue got the better of her. Her head shot up and her hands clenched. "I am no animal! I am an Englishwoman, and you have no right to speak to me that way!"
He shook his head, his grimace almost mournful. "No constancy."
Fu De offered something from the background, his voice a quick-running river of Chinese sound, and once again the dragon nodded.
"Yes. It is the fault of all water souls. No constancy." He reached out, lifting her chin so that he could study her face. Despite her best efforts, tears were already flowing down her cheeks. And still he continued. "You are a water soul, prone to washing from one thing to the next. The moment you resolve to be strong, your will washes away and you speak and say things you do not want to. Is this not so?"
She tried to look away but could not. His eyes were too piercing, his words too true.
"Answer me!" he snapped. "Is that not so?"
"Yes," she finally ground out. "But if I am water, then you must be fire, for you snap and growl and burn!"
She had meant to insult him, to strike out in the only way she knew how—with her mind and her words. But instead of the flash of fury she expected, the dragon pulled back, his eyes wide with stunned surprise.
"You understand," he murmured. Then he glanced over at Fu De, who stood equally amazed in his spot in the doorway. She could not follow the Chinese they exchanged, but she understood the meaning. They could not believe she comprehended their primitive concepts.
She didn't know whether to be amused or angry at their reactions, but either way she had momentarily gained the advantage. So she pressed her point, shifting to her feet to stand before the dragon.
"So, now you know I am not a fool. Therefore it is wrong to keep me like an animal. It is wrong to hold me against my will." She hesitated, mortified that she needed to resort to pleading. But she did it anyway. And hoped. "Will you not release me? Please?"
She didn't know what she expected. Certainly she could not expect such an intellectual appeal to hold sway with a barbarian. Still, disappointment cut deeply into her heart when the monster's face hardened, and he roughly shoved her back on the bed.
"You are not completely stupid. But you are still a woman, and nine virtuous Chinese women are not the equal of even one lame boy. You, ghost woman, are worth even less than a Chinese woman. So you will obey me. And you will learn to the best of your ability. And perhaps when this is done, you will have profited more than you can imagine."
Truly angry now, she straightened as much as she could. "I imagine freedom. Will you give me that?"
She hadn't expected him to consider her request. But nothing in China went as she expected. She was stunned when he at last nodded.
"When this is done, I will consider releasing you."
She stared, hating the hope that sparked within her. It had already been extinguished so many times. "You will release me?"
"If you give me what I want."
Her blood chilled, but she forced herself to ask the obvious question. "Wh-what do you want?"
"Yin." And when she did not understand, he tried to explain. "Your water. Your womanly water to balance out my yang. My fire."
She swallowed, terribly afraid of what he meant. "My tears? You wish my tears?"
"I need a great deal more than that." Then he glanced out the window. "And it is time we began. Arrange yourself on the bed. Seated. Facing me."
She knew better than to refuse, but she moved as slowly as possible, terrible images forming in her mind. Did he mean to stab her? To bleed her as a means of getting her water? "If you hurt me, I could bleed. And if I bleed, I will die and you will get no water."
He started, his body jerking slightly as he settled on the bed. "I have no intention of bleeding you!" He sounded insulted. "I am an honorable man."
"Who keeps a female slave!"
He blinked, obviously not understanding. "Yes?"
And at that moment, she saw the truth in his eyes. "This is commonplace, isn't it? Many men keep women here." Her voice was a mere whisper, but he understood anyway.
"Of course. Such is the way with men and women."
She stiffened. "Such is not the way with men and women in England!"
"Then you should have stayed in England."
And right there was the crux of her problem. She had left England, left the safety and security of her home to come to China, a land where one woman was not more than a ninth the value of a single lame boy. And now...
She had no more thoughts as a hand reached out to untie her robe.
She scrambled backward, instinct taking control. From the doorway, Fu De sighed in frustration, and she saw fury build within the dragon. His face hardened, and the embroidered eye of his robe seemed to narrow in hatred.
"Return to your position," he said—not in a bellow, but a low hiss of controlled rage.
She swallowed, but could not otherwise make herself move.
"I have told you that my patience is at an end. If you will not present yourself for training, then Fu De shall make arrangements immediately for your return to the Garden of Perfumed Flowers."
The whorehouse. The terrible place where...
No, she resolved. No, she would not go back there. So she would have to do as she was ordered.
She moved slowly, but as she did, her thoughts kept returning to one question. How was this any better than that? How was the dragon any easier a taskmaster? After all, perhaps there she would have better opportunity to escape.
But in her heart, she knew that was not true. At least here she wasn't shackled or drugged. And yet that did not make obeying the monster's commands any easier. Nor any less humiliating.
Still, she knew she had pushed her luck too far. She returned to her place, kneeling in front of the dragon on t
he bed. And when he reached for the tie of her robe, she merely closed her eyes and tried not to breathe. Or sob. Or even to remain conscious.
He loosened the tie and pushed the robe off her shoulders. The silk slipped free to pool around her hips, covering everything from her waist down but leaving her entire upper body exposed.
Unbidden, tears began to flow from beneath her closed eyelids. Then she felt his hand, a brief touch on her left shoulder, and she flinched.
She could get through this, she repeated silently to herself. No matter what happened, she could survive. Eventually, she would find Maxwell again and everything would be all right. She would become his wife, they would have happy children, and everything would be all right. It would be all right.
Finally, she heard the monster sigh. It was such a strange, unexpected sound, that she opened her eyes in confusion, having to blink several times to clear her vision.
He was looking at her, his Chinese face unreadable, but his sagging shoulders told her that he was disappointed. He even pulled her robe back around her, his movements reluctant and heavy.
Anger flashed within her. Well, what did he expect? That she would rush gleefully into ravishment? She reached up, gripping the fabric closed between her breasts.
"What is your name?" he asked, his voice abrupt but not hard with fury.
"I-I beg your pardon?" she stammered.
"Your name," he snapped. "What is your name?"