Chapter 13 — The Music at Anxiang Pavilion (Part One)

　　They entered Anxiang Pavilion, and the room was a riot of silk and flower hairpins — women dressed loud and bright, making eyes and fanning themselves.

　　Ruoshui stared, oddly feeling a flicker of recognition at the familiar gestures. Feng Xinzi assumed she was frightened. He knew this was not the best place for a sheltered girl, but he needed information: “Don’t judge—this is where gossip gathers. The girls hear everything.”

　　A peony-dressed hostess slid up and cooed, “Oh ho — first time here, gentlemen?” and reached for Feng Xinzi’s arm. The women there did a living trade; anyone who could look like a promising customer got fussed over.

　　Compared to Ruoshui, Feng Xinzi was mildly handsome. The peony woman leaned in and he instinctively recoiled — he’d not been in such a place before. The heavy scent of rouge made him sneeze; he muttered that herbs smelled better.

　　“Maybe we should go somewhere else,” he whispered to Ruoshui.

　　“Why? We’re here — let’s look around.” She marched in confidently, like she belonged, and he had to follow.

　　In a private room a girl named Qin Yin was plucking a zither. Yu Furong, an ex-celebrated courtesan now reduced to serving in the pavilion, fussed over Ruoshui with tea and shoulder rubs. A seasoned courtesan reads people at a glance; she noticed Feng Xinzi had earlobe piercings and that Ruoshui’s skin was extraordinarily soft — a giveaway of a pampered upbringing. Yu Furong treated her gently, like a wealthy patron’s daughter who’d come for amusement.

　　The hostess — the peony woman — was disappointed when Feng Xinzi turned away; she’d hoped to charm him. Ruoshui laughed and teased Feng Xinzi about his “allergy to perfume,” then asked the hostess to excuse him. The peony woman left, annoyed.

　　Ruoshui stretched luxuriously across Yu Furong’s lap to listen to the zither, and after a while she drifted off to sleep. Feng Xinzi bent over and asked, “Is she asleep?”

　　“Seems so,” Yu Furong whispered.

　　“You have a real gift — your melody calms people,” he complimented. “My… ward has been haunted by nightmares for months. He’s slept soundly under your hands.”

　　Yu Furong demurred modestly. “The zither soothes, not I,” she said.

　　Feng Xinzi turned to the safe question. “What was the girl’s name?”

　　“Yu Furong,” she answered. “Call me Furong.”

　　“Furong — can I ask you something? It’s delicate,” he said. She tensed a little and tightened her shoulder rub.

　　He asked if any rich household had lost a daughter around the time of the flood half a year ago. Yu Furong paused.

　　“No,” she said at once.

　　“You’re sure?” Feng Xinzi pressed. “You don’t even have to think?”

　　“If you ask generally, I’d consider it. But for that flood — no. The flood didn’t take people. It washed away houses and damaged property, but nobody disappeared or died. Don’t you know?” she asked.

　　Feng Xinzi was surprised. He’d heard the storm came out of nowhere and people were unprepared.

　　Yu Furong explained: on the night before the deluge, many people dreamt of a beautiful immortal warning them. They took the dream as a sign and got to higher ground. People in town had such dreams; some even built a little shrine to the “goddess of the dream.” The more Feng Xinzi asked around, the more the same story came back: dreams of a spirit who told them to flee.

　　Feng Xinzi hesitated between skepticism and curiosity — he’d lived long but had not seen such a consistent mass dream. He dug into his coin purse, put a piece of silver on the table, and asked Furong to watch over Ruoshui while he went to ask more people.

　　She agreed, and he left by the window, grimacing at the perfume and bustle, and actually jumped down to the street.

　　He asked people across town and heard the same thing: that before the flood a spirit in people’s dreams warned them, so nobody was lost. They even built a shrine to the spirit, and every day people made offerings.