1
THE RENT WAS DUE, RODENTS HAD GOTTEN into the rice, and Zhara had just dumped a bag of salt into the custard filling.
“Mother of Demons!” she swore, trying in vain to scoop the excess out of the mixing bowl with her fingers. Bits of beaten egg and flour spattered an open book propped up on the counter and Zhara yelped, frantically wiping at the mess with her sleeve. “No, no, no, no, no, no,” she moaned, dabbing at the stains. “Master Cao is going to kill me.”
On the pantry shelves above her, a small, scruffy ginger cat gave an amused snort from his perch.
“Hush, Sajah,” Zhara said irritably, struggling to get the page to lie flat. Over the years, the little bookseller down in the Pits had allowed Zhara to borrow as many titles from him as she liked, providing she returned them all in perfect condition. “The Maiden Who Was Loved by Death,” she said mournfully, smoothing down the cover. “And the next volume comes out today.”
The Maiden Who Was Loved by Death was the most popular romance serial in the Morning Realms—so popular that Master Cao and his scriveners could scarcely keep up with demand each time an installment was released. There were only so many copies a person could write out by hand, so each little paperback volume was worth a premium. One Zhara could not afford.
Prrrrt, said the cat, the tiny bell about his neck jingling as he jumped from his perch to nose at the coin purse tied at her waist.
“I know, I know.” Zhara weighed the purse in her palm. Their coffers were rather empty of late, with every spare coin going to the astrologer, the aesthetician, the dressmaker, and the matchmaker in the hopes of securing a good marriage for her little sister, Suzhan. Nearly all the wages Zhara earned as an apothecary’s assistant disappeared into their ever-growing pile of debts, but every month she managed to save a few coins for herself and her small but growing collection of secondhand romance novels. Just enough for a harmless little treat every now and again.
Not enough to make her stepmother suspicious.
Zhara counted the coins, glancing at her threadbare slippers beside the kitchen threshold. She desperately needed a new pair, but she figured she could fix the stitching herself and pay Master Cao back. A new book cost more than two pairs of shoes from the cobbler down by the docks. Reading was a luxury, and one she could not often afford.
Miaow, Sajah said, batting at the bowl of salted custard filling.
“Blast.” Zhara winced. “The custard buns.” She had hoped she could tempt Suzhan into eating something—anything—before meeting her future husband at the matchmaker’s later that morning. Nerves dwindled her sister’s appetite to nothing, and Suzhan needed all the strength she could get.
They needed all the strength Suzhan could get.
“Maybe it’s salvageable.” Zhara dipped a finger into the mixture for a quick taste. She gagged. “Never mind.” She choked.
Niang, said the cat, primly washing his whiskers.
Zhara cast a desperate eye over the paltry contents of their pantry. It was too early for the shops to open, and all they had left were two shriveled onions, a bunch of dried hot peppers, a vase of cooking oil, a jar of fermented black-bean paste, and a leaking crock of soy sauce. While Zhara was well acquainted with the alchemy of stretching one meal into two or three or five, even her creativity had limits. “I can work magic,” she muttered. “Not miracles. Although…” She trailed off, looking to the wooden plaque on the wall above the stove. It bore the name Jin Zhanlong.
Miaow, Sajah cautioned.
A faint glow glimmered where Zhara’s skin met the smooth curve of the bowl. She could hear her father’s warning voice at the back of her mind. Be good, little magpie girl. Be good, and be true.
“Small magic, baba,” she said to Jin Zhanlong’s death tablet. “Too small to be of any notice.”
Miaow, Sajah said again, but Zhara ignored him, closing her eyes and finding the light inside. She had always imagined her magic as a steady flame within her, and the world around her as her kitchen. Elements were ingredients to be played with, like dough beneath her fingers. Zhara held her breath and concentrated, applying her magic to the mixture in her hands like heat to a pot of water.
A sudden, bright burst of light nearly startled her into dropping the bowl, but Zhara managed to catch it and set it gently on the counter. Dipping her finger into the mixture once more, she took a tentative lick.
Sweet.
“Well,” she murmured with a satisfied smile. “Maybe I can work a little miracle every once in a while.”
The cat sniffed.
“Yah,” Zhara protested. “Considering I have no idea how magic even works, I think that was pretty impressive.” She finished making the custard buns, tempering the beaten eggs, milk, sugar, and rice starch over the stove. “Like cooking without a recipe!”
There had been recipes—spell books—in the Morning Realms once, but they—like her father, like every other magician in the land—had been destroyed in the purges following the Just War. It was not only rare to be a magician; it was dangerous. Not only because someone might turn her over to the Falconer for treason, but because of the harm she could accidentally cause with her power.
Had accidentally caused.
Once the custard had thickened, Zhara took the pot off the heat and reached for the ball of dough she had set aside earlier, dividing it into palm-sized balls and rolling them out into thin discs. Sajah butted her arm with his head, purring suggestively.
“Not for you,” she said, adding a dollop of custard in the center of each disc. “We can barely feed ourselves, let alone a stray.”
The cat scowled and gave a spiteful swipe at her knuckles.
“Aiyo!” she hissed. With a deft twist of her fingers, Zhara sealed the buns shut and set them in a steamer basket. “At least you have somewhere else to go.” Cats were sacred to Zanhei’s guardian beast, the Lion of the South, and it was unlucky to turn one away. “Unlike the rest of us,” she said quietly, studying her father’s death tablet.
“Sajah’s not a stray, nene,” said a voice behind her. “He’s part of the family.”
Zhara turned to find her stepsister standing at the kitchen threshold. “Suzhan!” she said, leaping forward to take the girl’s hand. “I didn’t hear you come down.”
“I left my cane upstairs,” Suzhan said wryly. “I didn’t want to wake Mama with the tapping.” Her eyes wavered. “You know how she gets after a late night at the tavern.”
Zhara did know. The two of them had woken up with the bruises to show for it often enough. “You’re up early, mimi,” she said instead, fetching the low stool from the corner and setting it down before her sister. “Dawn’s not for an hour yet.”
“Couldn’t sleep. Too nervous.” Suzhan felt for the seat and missed, knocking over the stack of paperbacks by Zhara’s bedside. “What’s this?”
“N-nothing,” Zhara said quickly, shoving the books beneath her pallet. “Just some notes for Teacher Hu.”
Her sister gave a little smirk as she settled onto the stool. “You mean The Girl Whose Lover Died, nene?”
“The Maiden Who Was Loved by Death,” Zhara corrected, a trifle defensively. “I mean,” she said, panicking a little, “I d-don’t know what you’re t-talking about.”
Suzhan laughed. “You’re a terrible liar,” she said. “Your tongue betrays you whenever you try.”
A flush of shame heated Zhara’s cheeks. “Don’t tell Madame,” she said, stacking the books back into a neat little pile. “Please.”
Suzhan looked hurt. “I wouldn’t tell Mama,” she said. “You know I wouldn’t.”
Zhara’s gaze fell to the constellation of fading welts on her sister’s calves and shins, twins to the welts on her own legs. “I know,” she said softly, but secrets were hard to keep in the face of the Second Wife’s capricious cruelty. Zhara cleared her throat and opened the steamer basket to check on the custard buns. “Anyway,” she said, “I’ve made breakfast. Are you hungry?”
Suzhan shook her head. “I’m not sure I can eat anything,” she said, rubbing her hands over her belly. “My stomach’s all tangled up in knots.”
“You should try to have a bite anyway,” Zhara urged. “Bad luck starting a new venture on an empty stomach, lah?”
“True.” Suzhan wrapped her arms tighter about her middle. “It’s just that I can’t stop thinking about what would happen if Lord Chan decides not to go through with the marriage.”
Several other offers for Suzhan’s hand had fallen through before. “I’m sure it will be fine,” Zhara said with a confidence she did not quite feel.
“Will it?” Suzhan raised her gaze to her sister’s face, pupils flickering across Zhara’s features as though trying to find purchase. “What if Lord Chan meets me and decides I’m”—she gestured toward her eyes—“damaged goods?”
Shame swept over Zhara like wildfire. Her little sister had always been nearsighted, but no spectacles—no matter how strong—could improve the dimness of her vision. Not anymore. Not after what Zhara had done. Magic lit her hands with a faint glow, as though the memory of her mistake still lingered in her skin. “Th-that’s not your fault, mimi,” she said, hiding her hands behind her back. “You’re not flawed.”
Suzhan’s lips thinned. “That’s not what the others said.”
Even though her sister couldn’t see her expression, Zhara still looked away. “Lord Chan knows about your blindness and still wishes to marry you,” she said quietly, taking the steamer basket off the heat and setting the buns on a plate to cool. “Surely you can take comfort in that.”
“Can I?” Suzhan nervously picked at her lower lip, her eyes twitching back and forth even faster than before. “What sort of man settles for a girl like me, especially a man so rich and powerful?”
Zhara cringed, hearing the echo of her stepmother’s acid judgment in her sister’s tone. “A good man,” she said, wanting her words to be true. “A kind man.”
“Do you truly believe that?” Suzhan sounded skeptical.
“Of course I do.” Zhara brought the plate of custard buns to her sister. “Here, mimi. Your favorite.”
Suzhan sniffed appreciatively. “Ooh, nene,” she said, face brightening. “Custard buns?”
“Yes.” Zhara smiled. “Eat up.”
Her sister needed no further encouragement. Suzhan picked up the first bun and took an enormous bite, closing her eyes to savor the taste before immediately devouring the rest. The first was gone in three bites, and the next disappeared even faster. “These are amazing,” she said through squirrel cheeks.
It warmed Zhara’s heart to watch her sister eat with such gusto. “Slow down, mimi,” she laughed. “You’ll give yourself the hiccoughs.”
Suzhan paused halfway through chewing. “Oh,” she said, swallowing and setting down her half-eaten custard bun. “Maybe I shouldn’t finish them then.”
“What?” Zhara was startled. “Why?”
Suzhan hunched her shoulders. “Mama says I should be mindful of what I eat,” she said, her voice scarcely audible. “No man wants an oafish giant of a wife.”
Sudden, sweeping indignation stoked the furnace at Zhara’s core. “You are neither oafish nor a giant,” she said fiercely. If anything, her sister was far too thin, her bony wrists and ankles on painful display beneath the hems of her too-short clothes. At thirteen, Suzhan was growing faster than a bamboo shoot during monsoon season and suffered terribly from both muscle and hunger pangs. “You’re just tall, mimi,” she said.
“Yes, well.” Suzhan picked at her lip again. “She also says no man wants to marry a girl twice his height.”
“Bog rubbish,” Zhara scoffed. “Madame is tall and she’s been married. Twice.”
“Yes, but Mama is beautiful,” Suzhan said glumly. “And I’m—well, I’m not.” As the plain daughter of a pretty mother, Suzhan was painfully and acutely aware of her less than perfect appearance. The Second Wife had once been considered one of the Five Great Southern Beauties in her youth, praised by painters and poets alike for the symmetry of her face.
Zhara took in several deep breaths to calm the rage—the magic—within her. Her palms itched with power, and the desire to just do something with her gift was overwhelming. What was the point in having magical abilities if she could do nothing to help those she loved? Then she remembered the last time she had tried to help Suzhan with her power. It had not turned out well.
“Yah,” Suzhan said suddenly, squinting in Zhara’s direction. “What’s that light over there?”
Looking down, Zhara saw that her hands were bathed in a rosy luminescence. That light—that glow—was one of the few signs of her magic she could not hide. “Oh,” she said, tucking them into her apron. “Probably the rising sun. I should probably get to work soon.”
“But the drums haven’t sounded the daybreak hour yet.” Suzhan frowned, her unfocused eyes fixed on the muffled glimmer in Zhara’s pocket. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” Sweat broke out along Zhara’s hairline, although the late-spring morning was still pleasant and cool. “Eat up, mimi,” she said, pressing a custard bun against her sister’s lips. “I’ve got to go.”
“But I—aiyo!” Suzhan snapped her head back in surprise. A glowing red mark lingered on the edge of her bottom lip, almost like a burn, where Zhara’s fingers had brushed her skin. “Something stung me!”
For one heart-stopping moment, Zhara thought she had done it again, that she had somehow hurt her sister, but the burn on Suzhan’s lip soon faded away. “Oh,” she said, hastily setting the custard bun back on the plate. That sting—her magic touch—was the other sign she could not hide. “M-maybe you should w-wait until the others cool before eating the rest.”
Her sister narrowed her eyes. “Your tongue betrays you again, nene. Is something the matter?”
Just then, a persistent drumming sounded from the city watchtowers, signaling the daybreak hour. “I’m s-sorry, mimi,” she said hurriedly. “I h-have to go. You’ll be all right getting upstairs on your own?”
“Yes.” Suzhan tilted her head. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Of course,” she said, wrangling her words into obedience. “I’ll see you tonight, lah?” Zhara stuffed her copy of The Maiden Who Was Loved by Death into her work satchel and slung it over her shoulder. “Good luck, mimi. Eat up.”
She could feel her sister’s worried, unseeing gaze on her back as she hurried across the courtyard. “There aren’t enough custard buns in the world for all the luck we’ll need,” Suzhan murmured. “Is there, Sajah?”
The cat did not reply.
Copyright © 2023 by S. Jae-Jones