My Fair Concubine. Jeannie Lin

in her slippers, the feeling wouldn’t quite return to them. The clang from the kitchen meant that the cook and his boy were cleaning their pots. A mountain of cups and bowls and little plates would be waiting for her.

      Cook tried to get her to pry information from the man, but of course she wouldn’t do such a thing. He’d suffered enough public scrutiny that day to deserve some privacy. She guessed him to be twenty-five years, with a slight crease between his eyes that she imagined came more from deep contemplation than age.

      Gingerly, she approached the table. ‘Does the honoured guest need anything?’

      She reached for the clay teapot, only to have him wave her back with an irritated scowl. For a gentleman, he was uncommonly rude, but she supposed wearing silk and jade gave him that privilege. He propped his elbows onto the table, shoulders hunched, to return to his vigil. From the emptiness of his stare, the young woman had to have been someone close to him. His wife? But no man would let his wife escape with a lover after catching them together.

      Yan Ling turned to wipe down her already-cleaned table once more when the stranger spoke.

      ‘I need a woman,’ he mumbled. ‘Any woman would do.’

      Her stomach dropped. She swung around, her mouth open in shock. The stranger raised his head. For the first time, his eyes focused on her, looking her up and down.

      ‘Perhaps even you.’

      Any sympathy she might have had for him withered away. If his tone had been leering, or his look more appraising, it might have been less offensive. But the coldly pensive way he’d said it along with the addition of ‘perhaps’, as if to plunge her worth even further—Yan Ling grabbed the teapot and flung the contents at the scoundrel.

      The stranger shot to his feet with a curse. With a choked cry, her master jumped up from his table and his wife soared like a windstorm from the kitchen, apologising profusely. Even the cook and his boy were gawking through the curtained doorway.

      ‘Get out!’ the master’s wife shrieked at Yan Ling before turning to fuss at their precious patron. The front of his expensive robe was stained dark with a splatter of tea.

      ‘We are so sorry, my lord,’ she crooned. ‘So sorry.’

      Yan Ling clutched the teapot between both her hands while she stared.

      The nobleman swiped the tea leaves away in one angry motion while his eyes remained fixed on her. He had lost that distant, brooding expression he’d worn all day. The look he gave her was possibly worse than the one she’d seen as he’d charged up the stairs. Heat rose up her neck as she stumbled back.

      What had she done?

      ‘That know-nothing, good-for-nothing girl,’ her master railed.

      Her ears rang as she ducked into the kitchen through the beaded curtain. Steam enclosed her, but the clang of the pots couldn’t block the sounds of her master and his wife apologising profusely to the nobleman.

      It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been taunted before, but over the last years the teasing had taken on a different tone as her bone-thin figure had curved its way into womanhood. She’d learned to deafen her ears and stare ahead, never meeting any of the not-so-subtle glances thrown her way. Yet to suffer such insult from someone who appeared so refined—it was unbearable.

      Ignoring the curious stares from cook and the kitchen boy, she slipped through the back door. Her palms were damp and she wiped them restlessly against the sides of her grey tunic. Fear set her heart skittering.

      The teahouse was where she’d lived all her life, but it was not home. The proprietor and his wife were not her father and mother. This had always been clear to her and she’d had to earn her bed, this roof and every meal with service and obedience.

      One moment of hot-headedness. She’d lashed out at a well-dressed nobleman, of all people. She wasn’t even a servant when it came to this man. She was the humble servant of humble servants. Who was she to be outraged?

      She would certainly be scolded by both master and mistress, each separately and then together. Yan Ling could hear them already. She had become too much of a burden to feed, to clothe. She wasn’t even pretty enough to bring in more customers. They might even be angry enough to take a bamboo switch to her.

      A beating was all she’d have to suffer, if she was lucky.

      Fei Long rose after no more than three hours of sleep in the very same sparse boarding room where he’d found Pearl, above the cursed teahouse. There weren’t any other lodgings in this small town. To add to his shame, he’d needed to leave a promissory note with the proprietor affixed with his family seal in return for his stay. All of his money had gone with his sister.

      The morning sun streaming through the shutters didn’t bring any more clarity. Brooding over the situation hadn’t given him any solutions either. Once he returned to the capital, he’d have to face the consequences of letting Pearl go. He tied back his hair and dressed himself, attaching his sword at his belt. The robe had dried from the tea that the she-demon had thrown at him. It was a minor mishap in an epic tale of disaster. The tragic tale had started with the unexpected news of his father’s death and would likely end with him throwing himself on the imperial court’s mercy.

      A stretch of dirt road separated the inn from the town centre, which was a cluster of wooden buildings overlooking the market area. Beyond this road, the cities would shrink to the tiny villages and settlements barely known to the heart of the empire.

      Pearl’s future was left to the open road and to fate now. Perhaps it was a better situation than his. His sister was free without the weight of the family name bearing down on her. As eldest son, as only son, preserving their honour was his burden.

      An attendant brought his horse from the stable. As he headed toward the animal, a small, grey figure shot out into the street.

      ‘My lord!’

      A quick glance revealed the teahouse girl scurrying in his direction. He turned his back on her as he took the reins from the attendant.

      ‘My lord, please wait.’ She sounded harried and out of breath behind him. He didn’t answer as he faced the horse to the street, leading him by the bridle.

      ‘I must beg your pardon,’ she continued, her footsteps trailing behind his.

      So, none of the impudence she’d shown the previous night. He could be generous. It was a small insult considering, and not worth the trouble.

      ‘Granted.’

      He braced his foot in the stirrup to prepare to mount, when a tug at his sleeve stopped him.

      The young woman recoiled as he turned to her. ‘Please. Forgive my intrusion, honourable sir. My lord …’

      The list of courtesies made him impatient. He frowned as he waited for her to finish. She clasped her hands together nervously and spoke faster.

      ‘I’ve been thrown out by the teahouse owner!’

      Her bottom lip trembled and she looked away, trying to hide the unsightly outburst of emotion. Her hair was tied in a simple fashion and allowed to sweep down over one shoulder. For the first time, he noticed that her eyes were red and slightly swollen.

      ‘That was not my intention,’ he replied gravely.

      Once again, he tried to mount. Again, she reached for him. This time, he stopped before she needed to tug at him. She took two steps away instead of one when he swung around. Did propriety mean nothing to her?

      ‘I am truly sorry for ruining your robe. I’ll wash it myself,’ she promised. ‘If you can just speak to the proprietor and his wife.’

      The horse tossed his head, agitated with the delay. Fei Long felt the same agitation growing within him.

      ‘This matter is not my concern.’

      ‘I’m being punished—’

      ‘As