Capturing the Silken Thief. Jeannie Lin

owe us cash.”

      She counted out the coins from her purse and slapped them into his outstretched hand. In the same movement, she grabbed the pack.

      Before she reached her door, she was already working at the knots. She’d missed out on a night’s wages by passing up the chance to entertain at a court official’s banquet. Another fifty in cash she’d given to the dogs in the courtyard for waylaying Cheng, but the journal was worth a hundred times that.

      She slipped into her room and closed the door before loosening the last knot. Her hands shook with excitement as she lit the oil candle. There were several bound books in the pack. She flipped through the first one, searching for the precious lines of poetry that would signal her freedom.

      It was a treatise on the history of the later Han dynasty. She cast the book aside and flipped through the smaller notebook. The cover was plain, with none of the adornment she’d expected.

      She scanned through the pages, her chest growing tighter with each column of neat black characters. Page after page, backwards then forwards, the characters didn’t change. There was no poetry there. No words of wit and genius worth thousands in cash. She could feel the coins slipping through her fingers like desert sand.

      This was going to be the death of her. She was already headed to the afterlife. How had this gone so wrong?

      She could storm back to the courtyard and demand her money back, but that would only get her ridiculed. Somehow this was the scholar’s doing. Luo Cheng had what she wanted, and she was going to get it even if she had to search heaven above and earth below.

      Chapter Two

      The note told him to meet her at the park on Longevity Street. It had to have been from the intriguing Rose. He could almost smell her perfume on the folded scrap of paper that had been tucked beneath his door.

      The street was crowded with the midday traffic. It was the busiest lane in the ward, leading from the bustling East Market to cut through the heart of the North Hamlet. Cheng pushed past the basket-laden carts and street vendors toward the grey brick divider that bordered the park.

      He had stayed up all night, grinding through an entire ink stick to try to recapture the words of that cursed essay. The examiners would accept such offerings of poetry and short writings, through a so-called “passing of scrolls,” before the official exam as an informal introduction. With his uncultured upbringing, Cheng had failed to recognize such traditions during the previous examination period. He’d been completely overlooked as a nobody during the oral inquiry.

      Most of the fresh-faced scholars who crowded the city wards had fathers and grandfathers of notable birth and name. They were practically assured a passing mark. Cheng was only allowed within the academic halls by recommendation. Their local official had spoken of him to Minister Lo, who’d then sponsored his excursion to the imperial capital for the exams. This was his last chance to rise above his birth and bring honour to his family and hometown. He would follow every rule and custom if that’s what was required.

      Yet the words wouldn’t come, no matter how much he willed them to. He needed inspiration and it had sadly abandoned him. Rose had been the one bright glimmer in an otherwise dim evening. He paused to smooth a hand over the front of his tunic at the park entrance.

      She was inside the gate, standing at the edge of the grass with her back to him. Unlike the previous night, she wore a long grey tunic over trousers. With those colours, she could almost disappear against the grey brick structures of the ward. It wasn’t quite what he’d expected. Not that he knew what to expect, but he’d allowed himself a few whimsical fantasies.

      “Rose!”

      She didn’t answer. Cheng had to call her name again. He was nearly upon her by the time she swung around, startled.

      “You scared me,” she accused.

      “I was calling for you.”

      In the close quarters of his chamber, she’d seemed so tempting. In the sunlit park, she took on a different appeal. Her skin was pale and radiant, her lips unpainted. He’d been thinking of her face all night in between verses about civic duty. Rose was more intriguing than immediately noticeable as pretty. Her almond eyes seemed too large for her face and her chin narrowed to a point like a cat’s.

      Once again he was caught with his tongue stiff, his words tangled. “You sent me a message.”

      She glanced over her shoulder once before whipping those deep eyes back to him. “Have you been to the Lotus Pavilion?”

      The pagoda stood high just beyond the line of shops. The green tiled roof made it an easily identifiable landmark of the district. At night, the eaves would be hung with a cascade of lanterns. Even in the drunkest of stupors, one could tell where he was by the pavilion’s radiance.

      “I can’t afford to drink at the Lotus Pavilion,” he said with a smirk. “Is that where you entertain?”

      “Of course not,” she snapped, with the same force of denial he’d affected. She waved her hand about for effect. “If I did work at the Lotus Pavilion, would I be out here? I would be sleeping off the night beneath silken covers.”

      The Lotus Pavilion employed the most sought-after courtesans and entertainers. Noblemen and ministers of the highest ranks hosted lavish gatherings there. Only the most fortunate of scholars were ever invited: ones with the right name or connections. Never him.

      Rose shook her head, agitated. “What a mess.”

      “Is there trouble?”

      “A mess,” she muttered again, for dramatic effect. She fixed her hands onto her hips, perplexed.

      Cheng was quickly reminded of why he’d ventured there, despite the crumpled draft of his essay that he’d fed into the fire for warmth. He liked mysteries. He also liked her impossibly slender waist and the flare of her hips beneath it. She was much nicer to look at than a blank page.

      She looked him up and down. “I don’t understand. The description fit perfectly; tall, shoulders like an ox. Down to that prominent, jutting brow.”

      “Really?” His hand flew self-consciously to his forehead.

      He was trying to discern whether the description was unflattering when Rose snatched his hand away. Her long, delicate fingers circled his wrist. They were the only thing delicate about her.

      “There was a large banquet at the Lotus Pavilion a week ago,” she said impatiently. “One of the attendees looked like you. Another scholar. Do you know him?”

      Rose hadn’t been searching for him last night at all. He couldn’t help but be a bit disappointed. “What were you doing sneaking into a man’s bedchamber anyway?” he asked, leveling his gaze to hers.

      She realized she was still holding onto him and let go abruptly. “He took something that belongs to me. Something valuable.”

      With an impatient huff, she turned away, staring at the narrow width of the park while dropping deep into her own thoughts. Something about her impetuousness fascinated him. She was bold, single-minded, and very much a riddle—like the ones hidden in lanterns for lovers to solve.

      “So you’re not a courtesan,” he said.

      She made a disgruntled sound in response that was answer enough, but he already sensed she wasn’t one of the peach-blossom beauties that enchanted men to their chambers. Rose was a good name for her. She definitely had more than a few thorns to her.

      Her gaze narrowed. “You’re going to help me,” she declared.

      “What?”

      “Yes.” She straightened to square off against him, which still left her a head shorter. Still she had the look of a marauding barbarian. “I have your books.”