The Walled City

DAI

I don’t believe in ghosts. Not like my grandmother, who knelt at our ancestral shrine every dawn with smoking sticks of incense folded in her palms and offerings of rice liquor and oranges tucked in her pockets. I always thought it was stupid, wasting fruit and good booze on the dead. Those who were long silent and gone.

He haunts me anyway.

My brother comes to me in dreams. It’s the same nightmare I have every time I shut my eyes. The “night that changed everything” loops on repeat. My brother’s voice rattles and stings, unchanged through all these years of death.

“Don’t do this, Dai. This isn’t you.” He’s always reaching out, clawing the edge of my hoodie. Trying to stop me. “You’re a good person.”

Then comes the blood.

There’s always so much of it. On my arm. On him. It pours and gushes in an unreal way. Like the old cartoons we used to watch where the red spurted out like a fountain. I try to stop it, holding his hand as he slips away. His final breath curls out into the winter night like an English question mark. Bad punctuation. It should’ve been a period. A solid end. Not like this…

I wake up, heart gasping and chest aching. There’s no blood on the dingy white tiles of my apartment. Just the marks I drew — charcoal and straight. The marks I’ve been erasing, day by day, with a smudge of my thumb.

I sit up, blink the terror of sleep from my eyes.

The world is unchanged. My scar is still here. My brother is still dead. I’m still trapped in Hak Nam, and there are sixteen lines on my wall. Telling me that soon — oh-too-soon — my time will be up.

Half of me doesn’t really expect the kid to show up. I lean against a wall across the street from Longwai’s brothel, counting the seconds with twitchy fingers. A yeti-size guard hulks by the entrance, watching me with slits of eyes.

I try to ignore him, focus instead on the paper lanterns over the brothel’s entrance. Their scarlet light melts into the dragon etched on the door. It’s the Brotherhood’s symbol: a beast the color of luck and blood inked on the walls of every building in Hak Nam. A reminder that they own everything here. And almost everyone.

The minutes stretch on, and I begin to think the kid I picked is too smart. He must’ve smelled trouble. My fingers are twitching faster than festival drums by the time Jin dashes out of the shadows.

Maybe it’s the bluish quiver of the streetlight hanging from the overhead pipes. Or the pieces of nightmare still crusting my eyes. Whatever it is, the kid’s face jars me. It’s so full of anxiety and angles. The perfect mix of worry and fierce.

Just like my brother’s.

“Something wrong?” Jin steps into the lonely slant of light, and the moment passes. My brother’s likeness slips, yanked off like a transparency sheet. It’s just this street kid in front of me now. Eyes hard with distrust. Arms crossed tight over his chest.

“Nothing.” I swallow back memories (I’m on a steady diet of force-fed amnesia) and push off the wall. “Let’s go. We shouldn’t be late.”

Yeti-guard steps aside, and the door to the dragon’s den yawns open. Traces of opium smoke — sweet, earthy, tart, and choking — roll down the hall, past rows and rows of shut doors.

I hold my breath and shuck off my boots, adding them to the neat line of slippers and leather loafers in the marble entranceway. Jin stops behind me, his mouth grim as he looks down at his own boots.

“Nothing will happen to them. If it does, I’ll get you new ones with my cut.” Promises spill out of my mouth just to get the kid moving. We’re already almost late, and I can’t afford Longwai getting suspicious. “Ones that actually fit.”

In the end, he takes them off. We move down the hall to the lounge.

The smoke is thicker here. Long couches form a ring around a rug. They’re full of Seng Ngoi’s finest businessmen, suits wrinkled and arms dragged to the floor by invisible opium weights. The place isn’t quite as fancy as I’m sure Longwai wants it to be. There’s a poseur quality to it, a faded-ness. One corner of the rug is frayed. There are smoke stains in the couches’ fabric. The red-gold wall tapestries all have loose threads. Before the night that changed everything, I would’ve called this place a dump. After two years of giant rats and streets paved with human shit, it looks like an emperor’s palace.

One of the men studies us with quick eyes. He’s wearing a silk lounging jacket, embroidered with scarlet thread, a dragon snaking up and down his sleeve. A puckered purple scar runs down his jaw. There’s a slight bulge of his belly — soft from years of ordering others around.

This is Longwai: leader of the Brotherhood, god of knives and needles, king of this little hell.

“This is the boy you brought to do the job?” The drug lord’s voice is like a junkyard dog’s. Throaty. Growling. “Doesn’t look like much.”

I throw another glance at the kid. He’s all eyes, shoulders hunched and arms still crossed as he takes in the opium smokers. The crimson light of the brothel’s lanterns hollows out Jin’s face. Shows just how many meals he’s missed. One gust of wind could probably knock him flat.

There’s a cramp in my stomach, but I push it down, ignore it. I don’t have the luxury of doubt and second guesses. It’s this or the chopping block.

“He’s the best,” I tell the drug lord. “I give you my word.”

“No need.” Longwai’s grin couldn’t be more like a dragon’s: predatory and sharp. Capped off with false golden teeth. “I’ll take your life instead.”

The burn in my gut turns into a broil. But then I think of the boots that sit just down the hall. I look back at the dead-coal fierceness of the kid’s eyes.

I should be okay.

Longwai nods over to the far corner. A man dressed in a nice black suit appears at Longwai’s shoulder. He holds a bag of white powder wrapped in the shape of a brick.

Longwai takes the package and weighs it in his hands. “Do you know where the night market is, boy?”

“In City Beyond?” Jin manages to hide most of the shake in his voice, but it’s still in his shoulders.

“Yes. Seng Ngoi.” He scowls at the kid’s slang. “Take the package to the last stall on the west corner. There’s an old man there selling jade carvings. Deliver this to him, take what he gives you, and return here. My man will be watching to make sure that the exchange occurs as planned. Your partner will stay here until your return. And if you don’t, then he’ll have a nice, long appointment with my knife.”

The kid’s face goes a shade paler. My fingers start twitching again. They’re tapping a frenzied, double-time staccato while I watch Jin tuck the package into his tunic and sprint for the door.

“Have a seat.” Longwai’s gold teeth flash again as he gestures to an empty couch.

I suck in a deep breath and flop down on the sagging cushion.

Time to get to work.

JIN LING

Runs into City Beyond are dangerous. The police don’t come into the Walled City. But they’re always outside. Waiting. More than a few vagrants have ended up in jail for doing outside runs.

There are no police now as I jog through the wide, clean streets. Just flaring neon signs, the slick shine of cars, and an open sky, dark and pouring rain. All of me is soaked when I reach the night market — my clothes, my hair. The only thing that isn’t wet is the package. It lies snug between the bindings on my chest and my shirt.

The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can get back to the brothel. Keep searching all those painted faces for the only one that matters.

The man with the jade carvings makes a point not to stare when I scuttle toward his stall. He busies himself polishing a long line of tiny animal figurines.

“Put it there,” the stall-keeper whispers, and nudges the basket by his feet. It lies under his table of merchandise, easily ignored.

I look around. There aren’t many shoppers here in the far corner of the market. A young couple stands by the stall next to us, looking at jewelry while the vendor punches numbers into his calculator. The boy has his arm around the girl’s shoulder. They’re laughing. Together. It’s a strange, happy sound. Reminding me of how much I don’t have.

My hand slips into my tunic and leaves the brick at the bottom of a shabby, splintering basket. I stay close to the table, close enough to grab the bundle back if I need to.

“Where’s my package?” I ask.

For the first time, the jade dealer actually glances at me. I realize how ratty I must look — thin like bamboo, dripping and streaked with mud. I don’t belong here. With these happy, laughing people — these crummy, overpriced statues and scarves.

“Tell your… friend… that there’s been a slight delay. I’ll make up the payment in a few days. Tell him I’ll send a boy of my own.”

I don’t move. This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. I’m supposed to get the package… the money… to bring back. If I don’t do that, I don’t complete my mission. I fail and Dai dies.

This last thought catches me. Sharper than a fisherman’s hook. Why am I worried about Dai? He’s not the reason I’m running and fighting. If he gets knifed, it’s his own fault. He knew exactly what he was getting into when he crossed the threshold of Longwai’s brothel.

I tell myself this, but I can’t shake this feeling. The crush of this older boy’s life on my chest.

“You look like a smart boy.” The stall-keeper smiles, flashing a row of crooked yellow teeth. “Your friend will understand, I’m sure. We go a long way back, him and me. My word’s good with him.”

He’s right. I am smart. Smart enough to have rules. Smart enough to survive.

Trust no one. The second rule flashes through my head, wailing and police-siren bright. Maybe this man is telling the truth, but there’s no way I’m going back to Longwai’s brothel empty-handed.

“My friend will understand?” I ask. It’s a trick I learned early on in the streets — if you act stupid, people don’t pay attention. They don’t expect anything.

“Oh, yes.” The man’s grin splits wider. “He knows where to find me. No?”

“I guess so…”

When the moment is right, I lunge. Throw my body under the table with blind effort. The basket falls over in my rush; the brick spills out. I reach for it, only to have my hand caught by the stall-keeper’s fingers. He swears at me, trying to pull me out from under the table. The man’s grip is strong. His fingers dig into my wrist so hard that tears blur my eyes.

My knife is under my tunic, easy to reach. I grab it and aim the blade straight into my captor’s arm.

His scream is awful. He jerks back. Blood, red and thick, pours everywhere. I grab the brick and do what I do best. Run.

DAI

Longwai hasn’t paid much attention to me since the kid left. He’s slouched in his chair, taking long draws from his pipe. Opium smoke spills into the air like ink, making a ghost ring around his head. I watch it, trying to look listless while my mind is racing. From the corner of my eye, I see the guards, black-clad and hulking by the hall.

What I need isn’t here in the lounge. Not like I actually expected it to be. Most men don’t keep their prized possession lying in the middle of an opium den.

There are four entrances to the lounge. All of them are wide and arched, stretching into dark halls. Four possibilities. My eyes dart among them, trying to get glimpses into the shadows for any hints.

But hints won’t help. Not if I can’t find a way off this couch.

I look at Longwai. His eyes are closed, face slack like a cat in a patch of warm sun.

“I need to piss.” I make my voice hard, matter-of-fact.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even open his eyes. But I still know he heard me because of the way his lips thin and twitch.

“You got a bathroom I can use?” I ask, this time louder.

His eyes stay shut. I feel like a kid with a stick, poking not-so-tenderly at a snoozing dragon. It would be stupid to push harder, but today’s number burns in the back of my mind. Sixteen days.

I think of it, swallow, and make one more prod. “You got anything? A can?”

“Hold it,” he growls.

“Can’t.” I poke back.

One eye opens, dark and webbed with tiny red veins.

“You’re awfully demanding for a vagrant.” His words all slur together when he says this. “Well-dressed, too.”

My chest feels tight, like an empty cola can being crushed under someone’s knuckles. I try to breathe long and slow — the way my English tutor used to make me do whenever I panicked over my lessons — but there’s too much smoke in the air.

I’ve never claimed to be a vagrant. It’s just an assumption people make. I always let them, because it’s better than explaining the truth. Who I am. What I’ve done. Facts that would change Longwai’s attitude toward me very quickly.

“I get by.” I shrug.

If he’s disappointed with my answer, then he doesn’t show it. He shuts his eye again and waves a hand toward the closest man in black. “Fung will show you where it is.”

Fung, a surly man with a nasty red facial tattoo, doesn’t look too pleased with this task. He glares and shuffles down the west hall, always keeping me in arm’s reach. I walk slow, take in as much detail as I can. Every door we pass is shut, locks on the outside. There are placards in the center, names etched in red paint. These characters blend with the scarlet lanterns that hover over our heads. From some angles they’re invisible.

“Here.” Fung throws his shoulder against a sliver of door. It’s barely wider than my chest, cracking open to reveal a dark, musty space. “Hurry your ass up.”

I don’t waste time in the filth closet. The only thing I’ve accomplished on this venture is figuring out that what I’m looking for isn’t down this hall. Only girls’ rooms and a putrid, open sewer pipe.

My hands shove deep into my hoodie’s pockets as I trail Fung back to the lounge. No more using the bathroom as an excuse to look around. I’ll have to find some other way. Build up trust and feign interest in the Brotherhood. Create some sort of diversion.

Voices, sharp and sparring, like fencing swords, jerk me out of my plotting. They’re so loud they even make Fung stop. He hovers at the end of the hall with me behind him, listening.

“No one else sees her, do they?” a man asks. Something about his voice is familiar, makes me twitchy. It has a foreign sound to it, like a knife chopping liver. The same way my mother speaks. His syllables stab me with homesickness.

Longwai’s voice is easy to recognize. “Of course not. You bought out her time long ago. I’m a man of my word. I thought you knew that, Osamu.”

My arm hair prickles. That voice. That name… Osamu. I do know him. I know how he gets drunk on bottles of imported sake and sweet-talks women at his fancy embassy parties. I remember his face perfectly.

He probably won’t remember mine — it’s been a long time since I’ve been to any parties or embassies. But I can’t take the risk. Not here. I bring my hands out of my pockets and yank my hood up, in case Fung decides we can interrupt.

“If I find out you’ve been cheating me…” the politician growls. “If I find out she’s been with others, I’ll—"

“I’d think long and hard before making any threats, Osamu.” Longwai’s voice is unbending, set in stone. “You might have power in Seng Ngoi, but this is my territory. My rules. Your diplomatic immunity means shit here.”

“You aren’t as untouchable as you think you are,” Osamu rumbles.

No, he’s not. Not if I can find what I’m looking for and do what needs to be done.

My heart claws even higher in my chest, up my throat. So many people, so many officials went to great lengths to keep “the day” shielded from Longwai’s wide infrastructure of knowledge. They rooted out moles with lie detectors and double agents. Kept all the details on the strictest security level and their one loophole: me.

And now Osamu’s here running his mouth, threatening to expose it all.

But Osamu wouldn’t know… would he? He’s a foreign diplomat, with no interest in Seng Ngoi’s city politics. I’m probably just reading into his words. Sliding my own fears between the syllables.

Longwai laughs. “I’m glad we understand each other. Did you only drop in for a chat or were you planning to cash in on your interests?”

“I was on my way to see her, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten my bouquet. The woman who usually sells them on the street wasn’t there this evening. I’ll have to find another vendor.”

The drug lord’s laughter continues, gaining speed and volume like an avalanche. “You don’t need flowers to get bedded, Osamu. Your coin is good enough there.”

“No, I don’t suppose a man like you would appreciate subtleties.” Osamu says this without fear. “I need the flowers. I’ll be back.”

I hold my breath and listen, but all I hear are footsteps in the other direction. Osamu is gone. Good.

When Fung leads me back in, the men are laid out on the couches, stoned and still, like nothing ever happened. Only Longwai is visibly awake, his normally lazy eyes bulging and agitated.

“Can you believe it?” He seems to be talking to no one in particular, but his eyes are quick to find me. “Threatening me? Over something as trivial as that girl… Fool’s obsessed with her. He brings her flowers and gifts like an actual lover. He even paid for a whole extra month of services so I’d move her into the only room with a window.”

Window. My mind snags on the word. If there’s a window, then there’s another way in.

The shine of ranting slips out of Longwai’s black eyes. He studies me, intent, and I realize my hood is still up. “How old are you, boy?”

For a brief moment I consider lying, but that would be unnecessary. Not to mention stupid. “Eighteen.”

“And you haven’t joined any of those ragtag groups that fancy themselves gangs? Most boys your age were snatched up long ago. Unless you’ve been holding out for an invitation…”

It’s not hard to guess what he’s hinting at — an invitation to be inducted into the Brotherhood. To officially join the ranks of murderers, thieves, and drug addicts. To organize my crimes. In a completely different life, I might’ve leaped at the invitation. If I were starving, living day to day like Jin or Kuen or so many of the other vagrants here, I would have screamed yes. Begged it.

But Longwai’s not offering. And even if he were, I wouldn’t take it. While it would be a surefire way of gaining his trust, joining the Brotherhood as I am now — going through its elaborate, invasive rites of passage — will expose me. Get me knifed into little pieces and killed. My secrets would not keep if Longwai looks close enough.

It’s not worth the risk. Not yet.

“I prefer to be on my own. Fewer complications.” Because this is true, I have little trouble saying it.

“What about the other boy? Jin?”

Shit. The old man doesn’t miss much. I manage to keep my face straight. “You said this job took two, so I brought two. He’s disposable.”

“And yet you’re the one facing the knife if he doesn’t come back with what I want The disposable one.” His last sentence hangs in the air like bait, begging me to bite, wrestle, fight.

I stare down at my toes. They remind me of the freshwater eels in the tanks of the seafood restaurants, alive but cramped, stacked on top of one another until I don’t see how there’s any room for them to move at all.

Don’t fight him. It’s not why you’re here.

I look at my toes and think of the window. My next move in this intricate game of escape.

“Kid’s back,” a guard calls from the front hall.

“Is that so?” Longwai settles back in his chair, resumes his sleepy-cat-king position. “Well, boy, we’ll see if you made the right choice, trusting that kid.”

Trust. The word buzzes funny in my head, like a hangover. I guess that is what I had to do. Trust him to come back. Trust him to spare me Longwai’s knife. We’ll see if I was right.

Even though my hoodie is thick and almost too warm, I can’t help but shiver.

JIN LING

Longwai’s brothel is a lot warmer than my tarp camp. I’m shaking anyway. The stall-keeper’s blood is gone, washed clean by the downpour. But his screams cling to my ears. Grow louder with every step I take. Longwai’s man is behind me. He’s been there ever since I ran from the market.

I hug the brick of drugs to my chest. The same way I hold Chma when the nights dip into cold. Shiver, shake, scream. The hallway stretches on and on. Door after door after door. But finally I reach the end: Longwai’s couch. The leader of the Brotherhood opens his bloodshot eyes. They narrow at the package in my arms. My failure.

I never should’ve taken this job.

Dai’s on the edge of his couch. The confident, smirking mask he wore in my alley is gone. There’s a green tinge to his face. Sprouting like moss. He looks as sick as I feel.

I shouldn’t worry about him. I can’t. But the weight of his life keeps crushing. Pressing into my ribs and lungs. Reminds me that I still have a heart.

I can stab a man, but I can’t let one die. Not on my watch.

“Problem?” Longwai growls.

My mouth is as dry as a field in a drought. It takes me a few tries to form the right words. “I–I wasn’t able to finish the trade, s-sir. I found the man who sold the jade carvings. I delivered the package, just like you told me to.”

“And?” His question is severe. Chilling. It takes every piece of my courage to keep talking.

“He didn’t want to give me the money. He said he would pay later. He told me you would understand.”

“And you didn’t believe him?”

I shake my head. What if the jade dealer really is one of Longwai’s close friends? The molding orange half I ate before I came twists in my stomach. All citrus and churn.

Longwai points at the block in my damp hands. “So you took back the package? Just like that?”

“He tried to stop me and I stabbed him. Then I ran.”

Dai’s breath pulls fast into his body. A sharp noise. His left foot bounces on the floor. A nervous beat. Tapping at the same speed as my heart.

“Is this true?” Longwai isn’t talking to me. Instead, his very dark eyes drift over me. Behind me.

The man in black — my temporary shadow — shrugs. “He squealed like a stuck pig.”

The leader of the Brotherhood laughs so hard his whole body shakes. The red dragon on his sleeve shivers, as if it’s about to burst into flame. He laughs and I know the stories are true. All of them.

When the noise dies, I realize the room is completely silent. The girl in the corner has stopped plucking her stringed instrument. Dai’s foot is flat on the rug.

“I wish I’d been there to see it.” Longwai wipes the corner of his eye. “Bring me the package.”

I hold the brick as far away from me as possible. He takes the block and studies it for a minute.

“All there,” he says. “I’m not surprised this happened. He was a new client. He’s given others trouble before.”

Stale breath stutters out of my lungs. I look over at Dai, expecting the older boy to be happy. Or at least not so green.

“It was a setup, then?” Dai’s voice is cool, but his foot is tapping again. Faster than ever.

“More or less.” Longwai shrugs, unconcerned. “I’ve been looking for some good street boys. Runners I can trust aren’t easy to come by.

“But you’ve proven yourself today. How would you feel about becoming my personal runner for my more… discreet jobs? I pay well. Both you and your friend here will get a cut. He’ll need to stay here during the runs. As continued insurance, you understand.”

It’s strange, almost eerie, that Longwai thinks human collateral will work. That he thinks we’re capable of trusting each other. I wonder if he would’ve done the same with other vagrants, or if he looked at me with those black scalpel eyes and cut straight to my weakness. My need to protect.

I say nothing. The third rule burns in my calves. All I want to do is run. Far, far away from this place of stinking smoke, filthy money, and fear.

A sharp snap fills the air — Longwai’s fingers striking together. “More wine! And a light!” he calls over his shoulder.

I’m about to tell him no when a woman edges into the room. Wait. Not a woman. A girl dressed in women’s clothing. Her face is caked in makeup. Just like the girl in the alley. The sight of her — tight red serving dress, tray balanced perfectly in her hands — chokes off my answer. I remember why I’m here.

This girl. I know her. She’s from my province. From the farm four li west of ours. Her name was — is Yin Yu. I saw her face in the back of the van that took Mei Yee away. She was taken the same night.

“Have a fancy for flesh?” Longwai laughs as more wine is poured into his cup. It smells disgusting. Like alcohol and sappy, sweet plums. “Got plenty of that around here. If you’re willing to pay.”

I shake my head. The girl — Yin Yu — walks away. Her silk dress flashes red before it disappears back into the shadows.

If Yin Yu is here, Mei Yee could be, too. It’s not much to hold on to. It’s nothing at all, really. But right now, it’s all I have.

I have to accept Longwai’s offer. I have to keep looking.

“Yes.” I say the word with dry lips, knowing I can never take it back. “I’ll be your runner if Dai wants to sit.”

If he’s willing to risk his life every time I go out into the streets. If he thinks he can actually trust me. “I’ll sit.”

Apparently he is. He does.

Longwai doesn’t even smile. He takes a long drink of wine. Some of it spills onto his hand. The trailing, deep red streams remind me of the jade dealer’s blood. “Come back at sunset tomorrow. I’ll have another job for you then. My man will give you your payment at the door,” he continues with a wave of his free hand. A sign for us to go.

We follow Longwai’s man to the entrance, where he hands us an orange envelope. Stuffed full of cash. All the doors along the hallway are still closed when we pass. I can’t help but wonder if my sister is behind one of them. Waiting.

MEI YEE

There’s a single window in my room. It’s a strange gap, the only one in the whole building. Six cinder blocks forgotten by the construction workers — filled in with afterthoughts of metal bars and glass. It hides behind a bright scarlet cloth, blocking my view of the outside. There isn’t much to see there. It isn’t even a proper alleyway — just a gap between buildings used by street children and cats. The ghost lights that shine from the main street don’t make much of a difference here… only enough to see forgotten piles of trash.

It’s a disgusting sight — all gray and rot. I never understood why Sing loved it so much. During the early-morning hours, when our clients were elsewhere, she sat on my bed, shoved the red curtain aside, and stared through the metal lattice. There was always a glaze in her eyes that made me wonder if she was really seeing the view in front of her.

After two days alone, when the walls start to close and choke, I pull back the tapestry and look out the window. At mildewed cinder block, snack wrappers, and shattered liquor bottles. I stare at the sight and try to see what Sing saw.

Something moves on the other side of the window. I can’t see much, only the reflection of the latticed metal and fragments of my face. Maybe I just imagined the movement.

But then the glass rattles. A spread palm, white and startling, swallows the space where my face just was.

My heart shudders as much as the window. I blink — again and again — but the hand doesn’t leave. It’s still there — five fingers, palm creased like a cobweb. The lines are deep and tangled, with just a hint of dirt in them.

I’m just wondering what to do — if I should draw the curtain or scream out to Mama-san — when a voice speaks, too strong for the thin glass to hold back. “Hello.”

I lick my lips, trying to think of something to say. “Who… who are you?”

The hand pulls away so the window is all darkness again. And then, a face. At first it’s just traces, collections of light and shadow curving and colliding to show the person on the other side of the glass. But then my eyes adjust to the streetlamp’s damp glow.

He’s young. I can see the strength of his arms even through his hooded sweatshirt. There’s no bulge where his belly should be. He looks as men should — active and fighting. Not made pasty fat by cakes and lazy with smoke.

And his eyes — they’re as clear as a night over the mountains. They stare hard at me, outside looking in.

“You… you’re one of Longwai’s girls,” he says finally.

I nod. I know the boy sees me. It would be impossible not to, with the light of so many paper lanterns rising up behind me.

He stays quiet. Those sharp eyes keep staring. They make the insides of my stomach lurch and flutter in a way I’ve never known before.

I don’t know what to say or what to ask. My mind is blank. All I can hear is the flow of water, the tik-tik-tik of drips that means somewhere, far above us, it’s raining.

I shouldn’t be asking anything at all. If I were a good girl — an exemplary girl — if I knew what was best for me, I would drop the curtain. I would forget about the boy, roll over, and gaze at my painted stars. I would wait for the ambassador to come with a new bouquet of flowers.

But the rain. The dirt. His eyes. The flutter in my stomach. Things both forgotten and new. They keep me at the edge of the window, make me lace my fingers through the lattice.

“What’s your name?” the boy finally asks.

My name. Mei Yee. It was my mother’s choice. I remember her telling me about the moment. She was standing outside, letting the early-night breezes tangle her hair. Her face was turned to the setting sun, cast entirely in gold. It was strange seeing her so clearly. The house, the kitchen where she spent most of her living hours, was so dark.

We stood together under the fanning yellowed leaves of a ginkgo tree, watching as the mountains grew purple and ragged, like the back of a sleeping dragon.

“It’s so beautiful,” my mother said, “just like you.”

I felt my cheeks grow hot, turn into the color of not-so-ripe plums.

“I knew you would be a beauty as soon as the midwife placed you in my arms.” Mother’s throat caught, as if she was getting ready to cry. “You made my life bright and new. That’s why I gave you your name. Mei Yee.”

Mei Yee. Refreshing beauty.

I don’t want to tell this boy my name. Too many people have stolen it, used it in ways I never intended. You never know what a fragile thing a name is until it’s used as a weapon, screamed like a curse.

“What’s yours?” I ask through the glass.

He ignores my question. “What’s it like in there?”

I look back at the room. Nothing is new. It’s what I’ve seen every day after day after day. A bed. A washstand and a tin chamber pot. Crimson drapes and paper lanterns. The shelf with the golden cat. My rainbow row of silk gowns. Violet flowers, now wilting. Dying petals, withered leaves: the only things that ever change.

Even when the door is unlocked, I can’t go far. Just my hall and the other girls’ rooms. Sometimes the lounge, if the ambassador wants to smoke and chat at the same time. He usually doesn’t.

It’s a small world.

“What’s it like out there?” I ask instead.

It seems all we want from each other is answers.

“Cold. Wet,” he says.

Beads of rain gather like crystal ladybugs on the end of the boy’s nose. I find myself staring at how they glint and shimmer against the street’s dim light. I can’t remember the last time I felt the hush of rain on my skin.

“Your turn.” The boy nods and the drops fall, glimmering bursts of silver light. Like wishing stars.

“Warm. Smoky.”

“What else?”

“It’s your turn,” I point out.

“What do you want to know?”

What do I want to know? Why am I even here, face pressed anxious against the grating? Why am I tormenting myself with tastes of a life I’ll never have again? I should pull back, let the curtain fall.

But the boy… he’s looking at me in a way I’ve never been looked at before. It’s a stare that turns my cheeks the color of plums again. What started as a flutter in my stomach is now a burn.

What do I want to know? What did Sing want to know? Outside. No more walls. I think of Jin Ling leaning against our window, hungry, so hungry, for the secrets of stars. Watching to catch them and pull them inside. I lean against my own window, feel the same stir, the same want and sick storm cloud in my chest.

“Anything,” I tell him. “Everything.”

“That’s a lot of things.” The boy frowns and his arms cross over his chest. For a moment I fear our game is over. That he’ll vanish down the alley to the song of bottle shards and dented cans. “Maybe we can arrange a trade.”

“A trade?”

“Yeah, a trade. My information for yours.”

“My information?”

“Stuff about the brothel. Do you… see them? Longwai and the other Brotherhood members?”

“Sometimes.” My mouth is dry — the same way it was when the Reapers gagged me with a cotton kerchief for the pitch-black van drive from our province to the city. What started off as a game is quickly becoming dangerous. To talk of the Brotherhood, to share the things I’ve seen, could end very badly for me.

“Don’t ever order shrimp from Mr. Lau’s booth. He keeps them out far too long. It’s a surefire way to get sick. Last time I got a dish there, I couldn’t eat again for about three days.”

“W-what?” My tongue still stumbles from the dry, feels as if it’s tied up in knots.

“We’re trading. Remember?” the boy reminds me. “You answer, I answer.”

“Oh.” Anything. Everything. Spoiled shrimp sold by a Mr. Lau. It wasn’t what I was expecting, but it’s something. I never knew there were shrimp booths so close.

“They hold their meetings in there, yeah?” His question is so quick and intentional that I suddenly don’t believe his appearance at my window was an accident. All our words and pauses have been dancing up to this: The boy wants something in here. Something he can’t reach.

And I want to know what it is. What can he want so badly in this place of smoke and locks? There’s a gleam in his eyes that reminds me of Sing’s fire. But while she was looking out, he’s staring in.

There’s the slick sound of metal sliding against itself. Behind me. I hardly have time to piece the two together. I jerk the tapestry back over the window and dive into bed.

The first thing I see are his flowers. A dozen white chrysanthemums burst through the door, and the ambassador follows. He’s a big man, and his steps shake the room. I smell the wet on his coat as he sheds it, but I can’t see any drops. He must have used an umbrella.

My pulse is all race and beat when he comes to my bed. There’s something in his hands: a gleaming gold box with a ribbon. The ambassador sets it in my lap.

“I brought you chocolates.” His voice is calm. Steady. Just the sound of it reminds me of how flustered I am.

I smile and say thank you. I untie the ribbon slowly. All I can think about is the window at my back. Is the boy still behind it, waiting for me? The burn of his eyes stays in my stomach. I pray to the gods that my cheeks aren’t flushed.

None of the lace-cupped chocolates are the same — they aren’t circles or squares, but strange shapes I’ve never seen before.

“Seashells,” the ambassador offers when he sees the bewilderment on my face. “What clams and oysters come from.”

“Seashells.” I trace the edge of one. “From the sea?”

“Yes.”

Wen Kei always loved to describe the sea. She could talk about it for hours. How it rose and fell with the size of the moon. How it gnashed like an angry cat on windy days. How its waters gleamed like fire against the sunrise. It was always impossible for me to imagine that there was so much water in the world. Sing even said there were mountains underneath — something she’d learned in school long ago. None of us believed her. “Have you ever been to the sea?”

“Many times.” He smiles. “I grew up on an island. I couldn’t go anywhere without crossing water.”

I know I’ll never be able to imagine so much water until I actually see it with my own eyes. “Do you think, maybe one day, you could take me to see the sea?”

The smile vanishes. “That’s not a good idea.”

Normally I wouldn’t push — I would stay demure and quiet, the way he likes, follow our unspoken rules — but my heart is full and thrumming from my meeting at the window. “Why?”

“You’re my princess. This is your ivory tower. You have to be protected. People outside… they wouldn’t understand us. It’s best if you stay here.”

These walls are made of cinder block. Not ivory.

I’m not sure I understand us, either.

But I’m not brave enough to tell him these things.

We go through our ritual. Our dance. By the end, my cheeks are hot. This time, instead of gazing at the stars, I look at the window and its crimson curtain. I think of the night behind it. The sharp dark of the boy’s eyes.

Maybe it wasn’t the cinder block and trash Sing loved. Maybe it was the possibility, the knowledge that the universe isn’t all opium smoke and cross, sweating men. There is a world outside, with shrimp restaurants and star secrets. A place where it rains and handsome boys get dirt wedged into their palms. A place where the sea stretches all the way out to the sky.