She had slept little, going over every last event in her mind, trying to establish just what had sparked his anger, but still she was no wiser. He had simply snapped, as if something deep within him—something dark and hidden from her—had surfaced, like a carp going for a fly.
She shivered, then got up from her chair, making her way to the far side of the room. A massive silver mirror, its mahogany frame embellished with peacocks and dragons, stood there between two pillars.
She stood there awhile, studying herself, knowing there was no way to change the image that the glass returned to her. Plain she was, and old—eighteen years older than her husband, Yuan. It was little wonder that he chose to spend his nights with serving maids. Besides, it had been a condition of their marriage—that there were to be no heirs to the union, no physical side to their relationship. At the time it had seemed a small price to pay, but now . . .
There was a knock. She turned, setting her thoughts aside. Slowly, measuring her pace, she returned to her desk and sat. Then, after a calming breath, she turned to face the door.
"Enter."
The maid came in slowly, her eyes averted, her chin tucked in to her neck, her whole body hunched forward as she pigeon-stepped toward the huge desk. It was clear that she found the great study—and Pei K'ung at the center of it—immensely daunting. And so she should, thought Pei K'ung, for she had power of life or death over the girclass="underline" a power her husband had granted her on the day of their wedding.
"Stand before me, girl. I want to see you clearly when you answer me."
"Mistress!"
The girl shuffled forward, out of the shadows that obscured the far side of the room and into the sunlight that spilled in from the open garden windows. A pattern of cranes and lilies, white, yellow, and black, skirted the edge of the turquoise-blue carpet on which she stood.
Pei K'ung studied her, coldly, clinically almost, as a horse trader might study a horse, searching it carefully for flaws. She was pretty, of course—they were all pretty—but it was something else that marked her out. Not her age, for they were all much the same—fifteen, sixteen, never older—nor her figure, which was petite but well rounded, but something in the way she stood.
"My husband . . . was he pleased with you last night?"
"I ... I think so, Mistress."
"You think so?"
"He . . ." She hesitated, a faint color appearing at her neck. Pei K'ung noted it. A strong neck she had, and strong bones. Peasant bones. But pretty, nonetheless. Very pretty indeed.
"Well, girl?"
The maid swallowed. One hand smoothed the pale lemon silk of her chi poo. "He seemed . . . agitated at first. Angry about something. I had to soothe him. I ..."
Pei K'ung waited, sparing the girl nothing.
"I kissed him," she said finally.
Pe( K'ung's eyes were like an eagle's, piercing the girl. "Kissed him? Where? On the mouth?"
The girl's head dipped an inch or two lower. "No, Mistress. Lower than that. . . . You know."
She almost laughed. How in hell would she know? She had never even seen her husband naked, let alone . . .
"You kissed his penis, you mean?"
The girl nodded.
"And you liked that?"
"I ... I didn't mind. If it gave him pleasure."
"And did it?"
The girl's discomfort was quite evident now. "He seemed . . ."
"Did he reach his climax that way?"
The girl looked up, her eyes wide open. "Mistress?"
"The moment of clouds and rain. Did it happen while he was still in your mouth?"
The girl looked down, the color spreading to her cheeks. "Only the first time, Mistress."
"Ah . . . and the second?"
Her answer was almost a whisper. "That was much later."
"And between times, did you sleep?"
She shook her head.
"Not at all?"
"He . . . would not let me, Mistress. He was . . ."
Pei K'ung stiffened slightly, waiting to see how the girl would finish the sentence. Insatiable? Like a tiger? Tireless?
The girl looked up again, a surprising tenderness in her eyes. "Very gentle."
Pei K'ung felt something strange happen deep within her. It was almost physical, yet she knew it wasn't. It was to do with those last two words, with how the girl had looked back at her when she had said them, her dark eyes sparkling with an inner light. Gentle. She had heard Yuan called many things, but never gentle. Not even with his son.
She forced herself to speak, to keep on asking questions. "How do you mean, gentle?"
The girl's smile, like her words, made her feel something new— something she had never felt before. She did not recognize it at once, but then, with the suddenness of shock, she understood. Envy. For the first time since she'd married him, she felt envy.
The girl's eyes seemed to drift back to the night before; to widen with pleasure at the memory of it.
"I felt . . . well, I felt he only really got pleasure when he was giving pleasure to me. At first I was uncomfortable. I pleaded with him to relax and let me see to his needs, but he would not have it, Mistress. He"—again, there was that flush at neck and cheek, that same strange smile of inner satisfaction—"he said he wanted to make me happy, to make me cry out, to—"
She stopped, as if she sensed some change in the woman facing her. Her head went down, the chin tucked in tightly, the eyes averted.
"And did you cry out?"
The girl nodded.
"Ah . . ." Her mouth was dry, her heart beating strangely. Even so, she had to know. "What . . . what did he do?"
The maid glanced up, as if to gauge her Mistress's mood, then spoke again. "He kissed me, Mistress."
"Kissed you?"
Even as she said it, she heard the echo of her earlier words. How often had she sat here going through this obscene litany? Eight, nine hundred times? And never—never, until this moment, had it meant anything to her. She shivered, only half listening as the girl spelled out just how thoroughly Li Yuan had pleasured her. And as the words went on, she closed her eyes, imagining him doing that to her—for the first time allowing herself to surrender to the thought.
"Mistress?"
She opened her eyes. The girl was watching her, surprised, her mouth open like a fish.
"Forgive me," Pei K'ung said, angry with herself; conscious that she had let her guard slip. "I am tired. If you would go now."
"Mistress!"
The girl knelt, touching her head to the floor, then backed away.
Anger, she told herself. It was all connected with his anger. But how? And why had he not been cruel to the girl? Why had he not taken out his anger on her? Or was that the way of it? Was something always converted into its opposite? Was his strange tenderness a product of that anger?
She shuddered, then stood, going across to the window. He was out there, standing beside the carp pond, talking to two of his advisors. She could go to him right now if she wanted and ask him—ask him how it had felt and why last night, of all nights, he had been different. Yet she knew it was impossible. As impossible to ask as to put herself there in his bed beside him.
Beneath him, she thought, and was surprised by the silent words.
Do I want him? Is that it? For if it was, she had best banish the thought, for it was—it truly was—impossible. Had she not, after all, put her name to the contract they had made? Even so, the suddenness, the strength, of that new-discovered need surprised her.
She had thought herself safe: had thought her plainness, her age, precluded her from such feelings. But drip by drip these interviews had worn her down, until two words and a tender smile had breached her.