The Secrets of Jin-Shei. Alma Alexander

that she was falling in love until it was done, and sealed, and irrevocable. And then Meilin had come to her, and Rimshi had known from the expression on her face that she had come with a hard thing to say. And it had been hard. It had almost been more than Rimshi could bear.

      ‘Tsexai …; his family owns a business like to our own,’ Meilin had said. ‘So do two other families, but none have heirs of marriageable age. Like me. Like him. My family is all set to approach his, to ask for his hand, for me. Rimshi, if this does not happen, my family is going to be ruined – we are the smallest of the silk mills, and we cannot survive – and it is up to me – and I have to do this, this marriage has to happen. I know he wants to wed you. Has he approached you yet?’

      Rimshi had shaken her head mutely.

      ‘Then if he does …; when he does …; will you refuse him? I know what I ask, but I ask it for my family, for my ancestors. I’m sorry, Rimshi, I’m sorry, but I am asking you, in the name of jin-shei – I have no choice.’

      And neither had Rimshi.

      Tsexai had asked; Rimshi had refused the marriage token; Tsexai had married Meilin. They were, as far as Rimshi knew, happy together – they had a large family, and the combined business of both families was thriving.

      For a long time Rimshi had mourned, and when Gan had come for her she had accepted him, although he was much older than her and she was not in love with him. But he had been a good man, a caring husband, and a doting father for Tai, their only daughter. When Gan had died, Rimshi had honestly mourned him – and it had taken Tai a year to smile again.

      What will jin-shei give you, my daughter? What will it ask of you?

      From Rimshi it had taken joy, but it had returned contentment, and a good life. And a daughter she loved fiercely. A daughter she would never have had with Tsexai. Oh, children, probably – but not Tai, not the Tai with whom the Gods in Cahan had graced Rimshi’s life.

      She gazed on that daughter now with a strange premonitory dread, a heavy, sure knowledge that Tai’s fragile shoulders would have to bear the responsibilities of an Empire before this particular jin-shei binding was played out to its end. She had said to Tai that she was only just stepping out on this path, that the jin-shei was in its infancy, and this was true – she would only wake to its first morning on the next day. But where, oh where, was it taking her?

      Tai woke early, fretful, on the next morning. Her mother was still asleep on her matting, mouth slightly open, revealing the gap in her teeth. It was far too early for breakfast, it was barely dawn outside, the sky still dark and glimmering with stars. But Tai knew that she would not sleep again – she was fully awake, and all that this day was still to bring was quivering in her already. She got dressed very quietly, trying not to disturb her mother, thrust her feet into her sandals and slipped out of the room. She had meant to go into the garden for a while, but found herself angling for the balcony instead, the one where she had met with Antian on another early morning. For the first time since she had started spending her summers here in the Summer Palace Tai saw the sun rise over the mountains, painting distant snowy peaks first pale pink and then gold as the orb of the sun rose higher and spilled down the steep mountainsides. She watched the stars going out over her head, one by one, smaller and more fragile spirits extinguished by the blaze of the royal sun in the heavens. It was a thing of beauty and sadness and immense expectation, like waiting for something to be born.

      She had brought her journal along, the new red one that Antian had sent her, and sat down on the cold stone slabs of the terrace which the sun hadn’t warmed yet, with the journal in her lap, her little inkpot beside her, her jin-ashu letters as tiny and neat and meticulous as her embroidery.

      Saw the sun rise. Mother talked about liu-kala last night, and she was right, I feel something new beginning all around me. But nothing begins except that something else has ended, and I wonder what has ended for me this day. Like one of the stars in the sky this morning, I am gone – gone, but there is something else now where that which I was used to be – something greater than I was. Just like the stars vanish into the morning, and the sun appears, and all is light.

      ‘I didn’t think I’d find you here so early,’ a soft voice interrupted her thoughts.

      Tai’s head came up. It was Antian, her hair in two plain long plaits again, looking much younger than her fourteen years, smiling.

      ‘I came because you told me mornings were beautiful here too,’ Tai said. ‘And …; I could not sleep.’

      ‘I was eager for the day, too,’ said Antian. She inclined her head a fraction at the red book Tai held, her smile broadening. ‘I am glad to see it is useful.’

      ‘It is beautiful,’ Tai said, her fingers caressing the soft leather where they held the notebook. ‘I have never owned anything so precious.’

      ‘Then I will have to see that you get another just like it when you finish it,’ said Antian, sounding genuinely delighted. ‘And then another, every year, my gift. Perhaps you’ll share some of its contents with me some time.’

      ‘Thank you,’ whispered Tai. It was not a specific thanks she was expressing, not just for the notebook or the promise of its eternal replenishment; she was thanking Antian for opening the world to her a little, for sharing a wider sphere than Tai could ever have aspired to on her own.

      Antian understood, and reached out a hand. ‘Walk with me,’ she said.

      Tai closed the journal notebook, folded the lid down firmly onto her inkpot, tucked everything into a pocket of her tunic, and reached out her own trembling fingers. Antian took her hand, tucked it under her arm, and led the way. Side by side like that, with the same dark hair braided in the same long plaits with Tai’s only a little more untidy than Antian’s, they really did look like sisters. Real sisters, sharing the same blood and kin.

      But this is better, thought Tai, her heart beating very fast. We are jin-shei. We are sisters of the heart.

      They left the balcony arm in arm and crossed over into the garden where the butterflies were waking, the flowers were beginning to open and the air was heady with scent. For the time being they did not talk; they exchanged a word here and there, when one of them would point to a hummingbird or a bumble-bee as if neither had seen them before and whisper, ‘Look!’ For the time being, that was enough. They had to learn to share time, to meld two different lives which had been running in two different streams until last night and had now merged into something bigger, deeper, stronger.

      ‘Look,’ said Tai, yet again, pointing to something that had caught her eye in the garden. But she was also pointing at the pillars of the shaded cloister where the garden merged into the first open pavilions of the Summer Palace, and as she pointed a thin, fox-faced girl maybe a year or so younger than Antian peeled her back off a pillar on which she had been leaning, gave the two walking girls in the garden a smouldering look, and turned away sharply as though she had been stung by the sight of them.

      Tai snatched her arm back, embarrassed. The girl had been wearing turquoise silk, and her hair was dressed formally, with silk flowers and pearls.

      ‘Who was that?’ she asked, cowed. The look that had whipped her had not been friendly.

      ‘That?’ Antian said, smiling sadly. ‘That was my sister. My angry sister. That is Liudan.’

      But the look on Liudan’s face had not been anger. It had been a recoil born of fear. And pain. And loss.

       Part 2

       ‘From mother’s arms to cradles

       to cribs we grow, and rise

       to our feet and walk; and when they lay the first milk tooth

       of Lan into a silk