Shanghai Immortal

Book 0: Shanghai Immortal

by A. Y. Chao

Genres: Fantasy action & adventure; Dragons & Mythical Creatures; Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology

Synopsis

Half vampire. Half fox-spirit. All trouble.

Pawned by her mother to the King of Hell as a child, Lady Jing is half-vampire, half-hulijing fox-spirit and all sasshole. As the King's ward, she has spent the past ninety years running errands, dodging the taunts of the spiteful hulijing courtiers, and trying to control her explosive temper - with varying levels of success.

So when Jing overhears the courtiers plotting to steal a priceless dragon pearl from the King, she seizes her chance to expose them, once and for all.

With the help of a gentle mortal tasked with setting up the Central Bank of Hell, Jing embarks on a wild chase for intel, first through Hell and then mortal Shanghai. But when her hijinks put the mortal in danger, she must decide which is more important: avenging her loss of face, or letting go of her half-empty approach to life for a chance to experience tenderness - and maybe even love.

This richly told adult fantasy debut teems with Chinese deities and demons cavorting in jazz age Shanghai.

'The must-read debut of 2023' Tasha Suri

'Bursting with personality' Xiran Jay Zhao

'Absolutely rooting for Lady Jing forever' Hannah Kaner

'A delightfully wild ride' Chelsea Abdullah

'A gritty, glittering tale' Saara El-Arifi

'A love letter to Chinese mythology' Tanvi Berwah

'Outstanding' T.L. Huchu

'Absolutely delightful' Judy I. Lin

(P) 2023 Hodder & Stoughton Limited

Release date: June 1, 2023

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

Acknowledgements

 

First and foremost, to you, dear Reader, this humble one offers manifold gratitude for your borrowed light. You are the magic that makes stories transcend the page and come to life. Thank you for picking up this book. Thank you for reading to the end! And if you took the time to write a positive review or tell a friend how much you enjoyed it, your efforts contribute directly to the success of this book. Thank you from the bottom of my xiao long bao loving heart.

Abundant cornucopia of gratitude to my ever unflappable and most honourable agent Jamie Cowen, and to the exalted glory of my editor extraordinaire Molly Powell. I could not ask for more excellent, or kinder, champions.

Bringing this book bb into the world wouldn’t have been half as much fun without the enthusiasm and creativity of the Hodderscape team: Molly, Sophie Judge, Kate Keehan, Callie Robertson, Laura Bartholomew, Natasha Qureshi, Fran Fabriczki, and Sasha Baker. I adored the Shanghai Immortal themed Vampire’s Kiss cocktails dreamt up by Kate; though I drank too many and felt terrible the next day, it was totally worth it. The cherry on top of my sundae of happy screams (and happy crying) is the beautiful cover designed by Natalie Chen and illustrated by Weitong Mai. You made my heart flutter.

Ah, where would Lady Jing be if not for my amazing CPs and writing buds? I was meant to be writing something else, well, actually two other something elses, when Lady Jing parked herself in my brain and demanded to be heard. Venetia Constantine, Rhee Joseph, Christy Hovland, Chris Grissom, & Patty Hoffman read the first glimmers of Lady Jing, and their responses paved the way for Shanghai Immortal. When your trusted CPs respond with ‘Damn! Write fast, Alice!’ you don’t look back.

Some days are bones days, some days are no bones days (RIP Noodle). Whatever the kind of day, my Forkfam ride or dies never fail to step up. They are the margarita to my salt rim, the tequila to my lime, the last caramel vodka shot of a randomly chaotic night, tossed back to a Rickroll. Shout out to Kate Dylan for saving me from myself and for paving the way as a fellow chaos gremlin, Gigi Griffis and Sarah Mughal for their thoughtful comments on early drafts of Shanghai Immortal, Emily Varga for the great meals, Chandra Fisher for your indefatigable Leo spirit, Angel di Zhang for being an ancient being of ancient wisdom, Lani Frank for your excellent eye, and the whole crew for the hugs, the talking ups, the talking downs, the chats and memes and laughs.

Melissa Than, thank you for keeping me in Keanu during the revising and editing stages.

My undying gratitude to Lia Ryerson, my Author Mentor Match mentor who helped me get Lady Jing scrubbed up and polished for querying. You made jumping back into the query trenches – dare I say it? – actually fun and not overly traumatic!

Faber peeps: Venetia, Rhee, Vendela, Sylee, Steph, Linton, Tom, thank you for keeping me accountable and writing when crawling into bed and staying there forever was looking like a reasonable option.

Emma, Sam, Jak, Susan, Angela, Alison, Georgie, Christie, Michelle, you are a force of nature and an inspiration. Our Thursday catch-ups gave those years of pandemic structure and got me out of pjs at least once a week. Both my husband and my postman thank you.

Bubblies: this is gonna be a bit emo and gushy but seriously I am so happy to have found you. Maisie Chan you are the mama hen I never knew I needed. Mina, thank you for the gem that is Dick Fight Island. The gift that keeps giving. I am thrilled for more ESEA books to hit the shelves. Thrilled to be joining the growing number of diverse authors telling diverse stories. Thrilled to just hang out with y’all. May we eat often and prosper.

Shout out to Jenni Howell and the MSMF happy space. One of my favourite places to scream and nerd out.

From my earliest forays into writing contests, the Golden Heart cohort taught me so much about the industry, about taking myself seriously as a writer, about generosity and lifting each other up. Both the Rebelles and the Omegas were instrumental in helping me find my voice. Romance writers are the bomb, my friends.

Special thanks to Xueting Ni for her insight on Chinese mythology, Hui Qing Ang for their incredible character art, and the late 金沙老師 for his beautiful calligraphy that adorns the title page.

To my Kickstarter patrons – a huge thank you for believing in me, for going on this journey with me, and for being part of the release of this long anticipated book. We took a different train than expected, but I think we still arrived at the right destination. Y’all have my undying love! Agnes Chi-Lan Tung, Alan M, Aleisha Saer, Alice Chan, Alicja, Andrew Godecke, Andromeda Taylor-Wallace, Angela Lee, Arisa Belkheir, Arthur Lau, Barbara Penner, Beata Henderson, Becky Rawnsley, Caitlyn Hunt, Carole Ogram, Cavan Gilley, Charmaine, Chris, Christie Hampton, CJ Connor, Clare Weaver, Cookie A, Courtney Maguire, Ellen Goldberg, Emery Redman, Emily Sullivan, Emma Dorreen, Esther O. Lee, Fallon Smith, Francesca Villani, G K  Sihat, Gena Cheng, Git Lim, Hannah Schaefer, James Lucas, Jeanne Squillante, Jennifer Koo, Jenny Chao, Jenny Flemming, Joy Shaw, Kai Chao, Karina Johansen, Karina Nordbustad, Kathryn Di Giacinto Morris, Kathryn Stallings, Katia Righetti, Katy James, Kelly Sutliff, Kerstin Bodenstedt, Keyana S, Kim Kyuyoung, Lark Cunningham, Laura Waggoner, Linda Alexander, Lynn Synotte, Mark Stay, May Chao, Meera, Melonie Johnson, Michelle Johnston, Morgan Hazelwood, Natasja Fourie, Nicky Pope, Olivia, Ping & Amy Chao, Samantha Lee, Sarah Bang, Sebastian Larsson, Sheri Kamvari, Sheryl Slater, Sissel K. H. Rasmussen, Sonu Natt, Sophia Sutliff, Sophie Sofer, Susan McCreery, Susannah Erwin, The Gordshees, Tina Koo, Tineka Lo, Tracey Burley, Venetia Constantine & William Kao. Special shout out to the England Peakers: Adele Coulter, Alison Jill Gaskell, Cheryl O’Brien, Christine Coombs, Elizabeth Arris, Helen Clancy, Helen Winship, Jess Moylan, Kathryn Clayton, Lilian Nyamwaro, Lisa Sharman, Penny Marsden, Rachel Clare McDonald, Sarah Hocquigny, Sandy Kweder, Sophie A Lunt, Sue Wheeler & Valerie Pain.

I wrote Shanghai Immortal to the snuffles and snores of my dog Deuce. Miss you every day, little man. While Obi will warm my feet as he always does, writing the next two in the series won’t be the same without you.

Barbara Penner, thank you for being the best cheerleader and for putting your very excellent eyeballs on pretty much everything I have ever written. You are the GOAT.

我父母親等待著我寫的書出版已好幾年了，一直問我書那時寫完。很高興終於有書給他們看了。顧奶奶,慧芳阿姨,林日文叔叔,董繼欖阿姨,龐國玲阿姨,高頌涵,老舅,舅媽,小舅,小舅媽,還有我親愛的爸爸媽媽: 非常感謝大家堅定不移的支持與耐心。

To my dear hubs David and darling little kraken Amie, I could not have lasted those days in the revision cave without your support: meals, treats, coffee, and so many hugs. ILYSM! Hope you’re ready… cuz we got two more books to go!

And finally, I want to recognize the vital role government funding for the arts has in nourishing community and culture. I am proud and grateful to acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts.

 

 

 



Author’s Note

 

Lady Jing made me do it.

She’d probably spit on me if she saw this and gripe about always getting the blame! But it’s true – Lady Jing demanded I write her story and I am so glad I did.

When I was growing up there were few books which reflected my identity as a Chinese Canadian teenager. Characters who embraced an appreciation of Saturday Night Live’s Church Lady and of Shanghainese breakfast treats by way of Taiwan were non-existent. Amy Tan’s Joy Luck Club was the first time I remember seeing a sliver of my diaspora experience reflected in a book. Mulan, the animated Disney film, was the first time I actually felt seen (let’s ignore for a moment its cultural inaccuracies and rejection of femininity). The film laid bare things I had felt all my life – of not fitting an expected mould, of deeply rejecting the ‘only boys do that’ binary. It was an epiphany to realise I was not alone in my feels.

A brief aside on Jing’s world in Shanghai Immortal. While this is a work of fiction, many of the events and places mentioned in the book are based on real life counterparts. The Cathay Hotel (now known as the Fairmont Peace Hotel) was a marvel in its day and hosted Charlie Chaplin and Noel Coward among many others. Unit 731, which Willie alludes to when he mentions Japanese activities up north, was Imperial Japan’s covert biological and chemical warfare research facility – the local Manchurian population was used for chilling and gruesome human experimentation. Master Chu is named after the late Chu Hongsheng, Shanghai’s maestro tailor of qipao. The books and magazines Jing buys existed in her day, as did the poems she and Tony recite by Lu You and Shao Xunmei. For further reading on 1930s Shanghai, Ruth Day’s travel diary Shanghai 1935: An American lady’s account of the city and its high society and Emily Hahn’s China to Me are both fascinating accounts of expat life in Shanghai of the 1930s, while Mao Dun’s Midnight offers a Chinese perspective of the same period.

I am honoured and grateful for the chance to add Shanghai Immortal to the ever growing chorus of marginalised voices. More stories mean more facets of representation, which means a better reflection of the myriad of intersectional experiences. We all want to see ourselves, our experiences, in stories, but having only a few representative stories means the burden of representation on the author becomes unreasonable and unfair. No one story can be, nor should be, an absolute reflection of the whole.

Lady Jing answers my inner child’s need for an irreverent character with familial and societal values close to my diaspora heart. I hope she entertains and lifts you as she did me.

Eight

Same but Different

I step from the Cathay Hotel’s revolving doors onto the wide pavement of the Bund. The sword sheath catches my qipao’s side slit and I nearly topple into Mr Lee, who doesn’t notice since he’s nose-deep in a small leather-bound notebook.

‘Could Lady Jing show this humble—’

I suck my teeth, fighting the heavy silver pommel and my temper. ‘Speak plain or don’t speak at all.’ Already my mahjong face is cracking; I’m not sure I can manage an entire day of playing nice with the idiot mortal.

Mr Lee clears his throat. ‘Could Lady Jing show me where joss money arrives into Hell?’

I turn without speaking and begin walking down the Bund, planning where I need to go and how to do it without raising Mr Lee’s suspicions. He looks like the type who would tattle. As if he can sense me thinking about him, he hustles to my side, gazing around him in awe.

‘I am astounded at how similar Hell looks to Shanghai.’

‘This is Shanghai.’ My voice is flat. My Shanghai has been in existence for longer than his Shanghai.

‘I mean, how similar immortal Shanghai looks to mortal Shanghai.’ He gestures to the imposing stone buildings that line the Bund, oblivious to my pique. ‘These, for example, are all the same as what we have on the Bund. That one – he points at the one with the clock tower – was only built in 1927. Eight years ago. The King of Hell has kept up with the changes sweeping mortal Shanghai.’ He cranes his neck to see further down the road. ‘They’re all here. Half of them are banks.’ He pauses. ‘Why, if you already have so many banks, does the King of Hell wish to build another one?’

‘They’re not banks, they’re mahjong halls.’

‘All of them?’

‘Not all.’ I point to the building we’re passing, right next to Cathay Hotel, forgetting about the rotted sword. It swings down and catches my heel. I lose my balance, but strong hands grip my waist, holding me tight.

Mr Lee’s face hovers over mine, his gaze soft, concerned. His scent – an unnerving melange of Big Wang’s hair pomade, snowflakes, and the velvet sweetness pulsing in his veins – overwhelms everything. The world constricts until there is only him and me. His breath tickles my skin, his arms solid yet warm. It occurs to me I have not been held like this, ever.

I am confused by how I feel about that. His lips part slightly and his yang halos around him, bright as sunshine. A responding burn, urgent and sharp, unsheathes inside me. My fangs extend and a deep snarl erupts from my throat. Mr Lee’s eyes widen. He drops me at the same time I jerk from his grasp. Judging by his expression, he’s as shocked as I am by my reaction. His gaze unsettles me. I fidget with my hair, tuck it behind my ears. My face burns.

Grasping for something to redirect his attention, I prattle about the buildings, walking quickly. ‘That one is Big Wang’s amusement hall,’ I say. ‘There are acrobats and opera, mostly shenqu, though they perform jing and yue operas too. The next two are theatre halls, also owned by Big Wang. One is for yaojing, the other for ghosts. Those three’ – I keep hold of the sword pommel with one hand while I point at the three short buildings, careful to keep two arms’ lengths between us – ‘are a dance hall, a massage hall, and a singing hall. Others are restaurants and bars, catering to the different denizens of Hell. That one’ – I point to the one with the clock tower – ‘is where we’re going now.’

Mr Lee stops, his hands clasped behind him, forcing me to stop as well. I eye him warily.

He raises his chin to gaze at the clock tower. ‘You looked like you wanted to take a bite of me,’ he says. There’s no accusation in his tone. But when he turns those soft brown eyes on me, like a rotted puppy, unease knots the muscles between my shoulders.

‘I’ve never been that close to a mortal before. You startled me, that’s all.’

He gives me an odd look. ‘I was draped over your shoulders last night and hung off your back. I think I have been that close to you before. Closer in fact.’

My cheeks go hot again. I stare at my slippers, dust already shading the pale blue silk a dark grey. ‘That was different.’

‘How? I want to know what made you react like that, so I don’t make you uncomfortable again.’

I snap my gaze to his, offended. Who is he to coddle me, a yaojing? And yet, his gaze is clear and earnest. Free of arrogance. And foolishly, also free of fear. Having Big Wang’s calling card stamped into his forehead has clearly addled his mind.

‘Me? Uncomfortable? Now listen here, mortal: you are in my territory. Your face was in my space, breathing your qi all over me. Of course I’m going to react. Never forget, not only can I drink you dry of blood, but I can also drain you of every last drop of yang qi. You’d be nothing more than a desiccated husk.’

‘But you wouldn’t.’ It’s not a question.

‘Don’t be naïve.’

He bows his head and when he raises it to me, his eyes are gooey. I shudder.

‘I don’t believe you would ever hurt me,’ he says like the fool he is.

‘Are you kidding me? I want to crush your brains into porridge. I want to slap you so hard you go flying back through the veil.’

I stride away, well, try to, but the damn sword trips me again. Mr Lee reaches for me, but I jump clear of his helpful hands.

I snarl. ‘Did you not hear a single word I said?’

He bows low. ‘This worthless one bears a karmic debt from your benevolence. Without your help I would not have made it safely to Yan Luo Wang. I must do everything in my power to prevent harm from befalling you or I would bring dishonour on my ancestors.’

‘Your ancestors crossed the Naihe Bridge long ago. They won’t know and they won’t care.’

‘I will know. I will care.’ There’s an edge of steel in his voice now.

I give him a once-over. He’s standing straighter, nostrils flaring righteously. I shake my head in disgust. ‘You have fermented tofu for brains.’

That gooey gaze drips all over me and makes me feel odd. He nods solemnly but as he turns away I see his cheek lift. He is laughing at me. I roll my shoulders. Yi, er, san, I count, working through my embarrassment and irritation. I need to deal with the rotted sword. I will not trip on it again or give the mortal the satisfaction of catching me. I am yaojing. He should not forget that.

It occurs to me it may be easier to simply abandon the mortal. I have a feeling he will only cause me mafan. But if Big Wang finds out I directly disobeyed him . . . I wrinkle my nose, remembering the awful itch of garlic and refocus on the sword.

I’m messing with the holster and the leather contraption wrapped around my waist, trying to get it off, when a lady ghost, with the tell-tale unkempt long hair and flowing white robes denoting wrongful death, wafts towards us, her dark tresses swaying in a non-existent breeze. She pauses beside Mr Lee, inhaling deeply. I am torn between leaving the mortal to her tender mercies or slapping the bitch out of my sight. Instead, mindful of my temper, I count to ten slowly and watch to see how far she will go.

‘Master,’ she says to Mr Lee, her voice breathy and high. A gentle gust parts her hair to reveal her face: rosebud lips, dainty sloping eyebrows, and a small, pointed chin. She is beautiful, but not very observant. She hasn’t at all noticed me standing right next to her target.

The mortal sidles closer to me, fear rolling off him. I sneer, insulted anew. I’m ten times more deadly than the ghost, yet he fears her? The ghost’s nostrils flare, no doubt sensing the vigour of his yang qi. Her filmy gaze travels up his body as if already savouring him. As she reaches an anaemic, thin hand towards him, I slide out my sword and block her hand with its pole.

‘Na-ah. Look, but don’t touch,’ I say and give the sword a shake so blue flames erupt all over the blade. A warning.

The ghost finally clocks my presence. Her soft expression contorts into something ugly. Black shadows pool around her eyes and mouth, spreading outwards like spidery veins. She bares her teeth, and I nearly laugh out loud.

‘You wanna compare teeth?’ I extend my fangs fully and smile nice and wide. A deep growl rumbles in my throat.

She blinks. Her gaze darts between me and the sword of Hell, then at Mr Lee. The black veins fade and she’s once more pale as soya milk. She drops to her knees and kowtows, her hair falling in silky black rivulets around her. ‘This unworthy one—’

I groan. Not that ceremonial drivel. I put the weighted end of the sword on her back and hold her to the ground. ‘If you keep your maw shut, I won’t tell Big Wang you tried to eat his guest.’

‘B-b-big Wang? You mean, Yan Luo Wang?’

I press harder between her shoulders. ‘The very one.’

The ghost lies unmoving at my feet, finally silent.

‘Good. You’re learning nicely. Now get up.’

She rises from her knees, head bowed, trembling like a wet mouse. One slice of the blade is enough to end her existence. No reincarnation, no Madame Meng tea to wipe away her mortal memories, no Naihe Bridge to take her on to whatever new life awaits her. Everything she is, everything she could be, finished, with one clean swipe. The power is intoxicating.

‘Hold this.’ I shove the sword at Mr Lee as I need both my hands. He takes it and holds it like I’ve given him a firecracker with the fuse already lit. ‘It’s fine. Just don’t drop it.’

The mortal stays as still as the ghost.

I focus on the leather holster, and finally untangle it from my waist, before handing the thing to the waiting ghost. Mr Lee is only too happy to relinquish the sword back to me.

‘With the authority vested in me by the sword of Hell, I, Lady Jing, bid you bring this to the Cathay Hotel reception.’

The ghost bows low. Clutching the holster, she backs away. When she is a good distance from us, she turns and runs. I watch her to see whether she does as I ask. Huh. She does indeed turn into Cathay Hotel. I grin with all my teeth. The flames licking the blade flare sky-high before settling back to a gentle flicker. With this kind of Please-Fuck-Off energy, I could absolutely get used to carrying the sword on a permanent basis.

Mr Lee runs a hand through his hair, making his thick locks stick up at all angles. Looking at him, I realise why the ghost didn’t see Big Wang’s warning mark.

‘You need to keep your hair off your forehead,’ I tell him. ‘Otherwise it hides the protective stamp. Big Wang should have stamped your whole face.’

He gingerly touches his forehead. He looks at me, really looks at me. The intensity of his gaze makes me squirm, like he’s somehow exposing my deepest secrets. I’m about to bring up some hork to spit in his eye, when he holds his elbow out to me.

‘Shall we?’

I stare at his arm.

‘It’s how Western gentlemen walk with ladies.’

‘They hold their elbows out?’ I frown. ‘It seems quite an uncomfortable way to walk.’

He smiles gently. ‘Ah no, the lady holds the gentleman’s arm.’

‘They touch?’

‘Very lightly.’

‘Why?’

‘I suppose the lady holds the man’s arm for balance. Shoes with elevated heels are very popular in the West. It’s considered good etiquette for a gentleman to offer his arm to a lady. I often saw this when I walked in the parks of New York.’

I’ve heard of New York, and the famous goddess of Liberty. Patron saint of doing whatever the Tian we wished. For that alone, I would love to visit the new world.

I eye his outstretched arm. Denizens of Shanghai did not walk in this manner – ladies linking arms with strange men. Horsey would faint if he saw me pawing a man like this. I consider the scandalous outcry; it gives me a gleeful rush, and then I’m annoyed. Because the outcry is such an overreaction. It’s not like the mortal hasn’t already been up close and personal with me all over – I’ve carried him on my back. Over my shoulder like a sack of rice. I mean, he’s technically kissed my ass, though I still had my silk tap pants between him and bare skin. He’s seen both my bare legs and most, if not all, of my butt. Stupid, hypocritical propriety.

I sneer at him. ‘I am perfectly capable of walking without assistance,’ I say, and stride towards the Custom House, leaving him behind me, scrambling to keep up.

We pass a few more early risers. Another white-robed ghost passes us, eyeing Mr Lee. I’m full of prickly fire, bursting for a reason to unsheathe my sword, but the ghost bows her head and gives us no trouble. I swing the sword around my head. The hilt and blade are perfectly balanced and it makes a satisfying whistle as it slices through air.

‘You seem to have really taken to that sword,’ Mr Lee says.

‘I named it Mafan,’ I say.

He huffs a quiet laugh. ‘In that the sword is troublesome to you, or that it makes trouble for others?’

‘Mafan for others, of course. I’m gonna use it to scare Lady Soo.’

The smile drops from his face. The glare he gives me reminds me strongly of Horsey. ‘You aren’t supposed to go near the hulijing. You promised Big Wang.’

‘What’s it to you? She’s a creep and deserves what’s coming to her.’

‘One should not lie.’

I don’t like the tone he takes. I press Mafan’s hilt to his chest. ‘Even the fuddy-duddy Confucius had no issue with falsehoods in the face of justice. Who are you to lecture me?’

‘I do not like liars.’ The look he gives me is so defiant I’m momentarily befuddled. Where is the cowardly mortal from before? And then my temper rises. How dare this mortal challenge me? I snarl and am about to forget all my promises to Big Wang when I see Madame Meng shuffling towards us. The ferries are coming. The fight in me deflates. I forgot all about the time.

Madame Meng wears her usual silver robes and sensible black fabric shoes. A blood-jade hair pin holds her tidy silver topknot in place. A train of attendants follow close behind, each pushing a trolley laden with candied haw on sticks. The small red fruit glisten even in the low light, like lacquered prayer beads. So many. There was a time when she only needed one trolly of the candied haws.

I bow deeply, and when Mr Lee doesn’t, I grab his sleeve and yank him down. He doesn’t fight me, but he still gives me the stink eye.

‘Virtuous Madame Meng,’ I say. ‘Ten thousand years of good health.’

Madame Meng smiles, wide and toothless, and her eyes disappear into half-moon creases. Despite all she’s seen, she continues to emanate warmth and kindness. I don’t know how she does it.

‘This one of the teahouse arrives before Little Jing unharmed,’ she says, with a slight incline of her head, then continues on her way, her retinue following her. Their trolley wheels squeak as they pass, the candied haw jiggling like spirit bells. She crosses the Bund and heads to the docks where the first ferry is already berthing. I don’t want to see the passengers disembark, but I can’t look away.

Mr Lee clears his throat. ‘Yan Luo Wang told me most ghosts spend quite a long time in Shanghai before they are called to Madame Meng’s teahouse,’ Tony Lee says with forced cheer. I want to clamp his jaw shut to spare me his drivel. ‘It’s very interesting that she meets the ferries personally.’ He pauses, and I ignore him, hoping he will stop speaking. No such luck. He continues, ‘I wonder if they get a chance to look around Shanghai, there must be many fascinating things to see . . .’ He trails off. Then rallies. ‘Don’t you think, Lady Jing?’

‘I am not your tour guide,’ I snap.

A hurt look crosses his face and I feel an unfamiliar sour pang in my gut. Guilt? I ignore him and my misguided senses. My gaze goes back to Madame Meng. She stands next to her helpers who wear matching silver robes, albeit less ornate than Madame Meng’s, each holding a handful of candied haws. The gangplank lowers from the ferry and connects with the wooden dock with a soft thunk that makes me flinch.

A young boy, no more than three, in a long, dirt-encrusted tunic, toddles from the boat holding a little girl’s hand. She can’t be more than six or seven, and her clothes, a pair of too short trousers and too tight shirt, are hardly more than rags. They look around, nervous and curious as they step off the gangplank. Madame Meng hands each child a stick of candied hawthorn. They hesitate, but after a moment, they take the candied haw with bright, eager eyes.

As soon as the children take the candy, a strand of red beads wraps around their wrists and links the boy to the girl. One of Madame Meng’s helpers takes the little boy by the hand, and they walk up the planks back towards the Bund. Madame Meng continues to hand out those sticks, one after another, each child linked to the next by a string of glistening crimson beads.

Children of all ages disembark from the ferry. Each takes a hawthorn stick; each receives a red bead bracelet. The oldest children disembark last, carrying the babies who cannot walk themselves.

The helper and the little boy pass us. I bow low. The children giggle and point as they pass the roosters in the trees, the lady ghosts with their long hair. A few cry but are comforted by the helpers. Most, if not all, wear patched, frayed clothing. Once they have the measure of yin Shanghai, they’ll be able to simply will their clothes new. But they’ll likely not be here that long. They are too young, too innocent; they deserve to move on, and Madame Meng will make sure they cross safely.

The procession snakes down the Bund towards the teahouse, while Madame Meng continues to hand out the hawthorn candies.

‘There are still trolleys on the pontoon,’ Mr Lee says, words hoarse. ‘How many more ferries to come?’

The tremor in his voice makes me answer him more fully than I might have otherwise. ‘There’s usually at least three or four these days. When the Japanese bombed Zhabei a few years ago, Madame Meng met a dozen ferries one morning.’ I nod at the river. ‘Here comes the second.’

He looks green, and the rims of his eyes have gone red, but to his credit he doesn’t once avert his gaze like a coward might. My estimation of Mr Lee grows a tiny bit.

The children keep coming. My stomach twists when I see a third ferry queuing to dock. I nudge Mr Lee.

‘C’mon. You wanted to see the Custom House.’

We trudge away in silence, each wrapped in our thoughts. I refocus on my plan, if only to shake the gloom from the ferries and Madame Meng’s small charges. The dragon pearl is probably being kept at the Treasury. If I can find it and hide it somewhere else, then the Hulijing Court won’t be able to get it even if Big Wang agrees to give it to them. I add to my list of tasks to ask Old Zao, the undisputed queen of Shanghai’s gossip, what they know about the dragon pearl and the Hulijing’s quest to get it. But first, the Custom House.

Most of the Custom House is a soaring stone building of flat planes, hard angles, and stone columns – Doric style according to Big Wang because of the square tops. The pink stone building looms above us, its windows lit with warm yellow light. But the ground floor entrance is preserved from the original building. Grey arched tiles line. . .