The Tapestries

by Kien Nguyen

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas; 20th Century Romance

Synopsis

A boy takes a harrowing journey to manhood in early 1900s Vietnam in this “daringly complex and vividly imagined debut novel” based on a true story ( Publishers Weekly, starred review). Dan Nguyen is seven years old when he witnesses his father brutally beheaded by the mayor of his town in a bid for power. Already married to a woman twenty years his senior, Dan’s wife Ven makes him promise to one day avenge his father’s death. In order to protect him until he is old enough to defend his family’s honor, Ven hides Dan as a slave in his enemy’s house. As years pass, Dan falls in love with the one person he can never have, the mayor’s beautiful granddaughter Tai May. Dan’s journey from slavery into scandal, and finally to the royal court where he has the chance to win Tai May’s heart, is a story of spellbinding drama, intrigue, and love. Following his critically acclaimed memoir, The Unwanted, Kien Nguyen shares this epic tale based loosely on the life of his grandfather, a professional embroiderer in the court of Vietnam’s last king.

Release date: December 2, 2008

Publisher: Back Bay Books

Print pages: 325

Sample

Acclaim for Kien Nguyen's

The Tapestries

“Nguyen relates an epic tale of family, greed, revenge, and love set in Vietnam during the early decades of the 20th century…. An exciting tale that takes many twists and turns.”

—Rebecca Stuhr, Library Journal

“A heartfelt book, inspired by Nguyen's grandfather, a tapestry weaver in the court of Bao Dai, the last emperor of Vietnam…. The novel fuses family history with folk tales. At its best, The Tapestries gives us fascinating glimpses of village and court life in Vietnam from 1916 to 1932.”

—Charles Matthews, San Jose Mercury News

“Mesmerizing…. Nguyen's thrilling storytelling leaves the impression that the supernatural does indeed exist, whether in the form of human dementia or the hostilities of nature itself. The Tapestries is a fascinating, complicated story, filled with colorful characters…written with elegance and style. It's a tour de force for Kien Nguyen to have used a classic fairy-tale genre about an ancient way of life to depict a contemporary love story.”

—Corinna Lothar, Washington Times

“Powerful…. A thrilling tale based on an extraordinary life.”

—Kristine Huntley, Booklist

“A poignant and deeply satisfying novel…. The Tapestries is set in a Vietnam unknown to most Americans. That this strange and beautiful lost world has been brought to life for us by a storyteller of such force as Kien Nguyen is cause for celebration.”

—Sigrid Nunez, author of For Rouenna

“A daringly complex and vividly imagined debut novel about a boy who fights to reclaim his family's royal legacy…. The beauty of Nguyen's stately, ornate prose—perfectly suited to the rigidly formal customs of Vietnamese royalty—serves him well as the complex plot unfolds. The scope of the tale and its grace and power make this a formidable first novel.”

—Publishers Weekly

“The Tapestries has the obsessive concentration of a Greek tragedy and the slow and howling glory of an opera…. The tale's ins and outs take us from the country to the capital, from the Imperial Palace to the low taverns and brothels of Saigon. We even get glimpses of the high seas and Parisian high society…. Many elements of The Tapestries seem familiar from Kien Nguyen's memoir, The Unwanted…. But Nguyen is such a skillful storyteller that the similarities make his novel seem universal, not repetitive—as if this story must be told again and again, like a fairy tale, until its ending comes out right.”

—Polly Shulman, Newsday

“Romance and revenge are vividly depicted in The Tapestries…. The author describes landscapes, clothing, food, architecture, festivals, ceremonies and other aspects of Vietnamese life in rich detail…. A fine debut.”

—Dean Neprud, Minneapolis Star Tribune

“This excursion into a vanished world of scimitars and eunuchs and polygamy delivers…. That Kien Nguyen was not fluent in English when he arrived some fifteen years ago lends more power to The Tapestries, whose precise images put the work of countless native speakers to shame.”

—Anneli Rufus, San Francisco Chronicle

“A brilliant novel filled with details of turn-of-the-century Vietnam—a novel with a spellbinding love affair, drama, intrigue, warmth, and humor. Don't miss this lovely book.”

—Ann LaFarge, Taconic Press

chapter one

The Wedding

HUE CITY, JANUARY 1916

During the winter months, the Perfume River was chilly, especially at dawn. The morning of Dan Nguyen's first wedding was no exception. While the sun was still hidden, its early rays reached from behind the Ngu Binh Mountain, stretching pale-yellow fingers over the sky. Thin clouds wafted by, and the wind whipped up whirlpools of mist. Damp tendrils drifted over the jungle of oak trees that climbed the steep mountainside and were lost against the horizon.

Along the side of the river, a strip of land still lay in darkness. From afar, it looked like the back of a crocodile floating in the water. A few hundred feet away, a sampan moved slowly upstream. Both sides of the boat were painted with red resin from the lacquer tree and highlighted with gold trim in large rectangular patterns—the design reserved for weddings.

At the vessel's stern, a white-haired man with stooped shoulders sat on the floor. His gnarled hands clenched an oar, and he leaned heavily into its strokes. The man seemed lost in his own world. His eyes, hidden beneath the rim of a torn conical hat, focused on the water. The faded blue peasant shirt on his back was tattered, exposing his bony ribs. Next to him hung a red lantern that illuminated a short stretch of river ahead. The faint sound of the oar moving the water echoed against the silence.

Behind the old man, in the center of the sampan, was a small cabin with a roof built of red-lacquered bamboo stalks lashed together with palm fronds. Across its entrance hung a pink silk screen on which a canary-yellow dragon entwined with its feminine mate, an equally gracious phoenix. Custom dictated that the bride must be concealed from sight. She sat behind the silk barrier, careful not to make a sound while the boat rocked to the helmsman's gentle rhythm.

Just as the sun appeared from behind the purple mountain, the old man guided his bridal sampan toward land. Sunlight broke through the clouds into thousands of tiny golden pennies. The old man squinted, searching the shoreline for a place to dock. He did not have to look far.

Just ahead, where the ground extended into the water to form a long, narrow wharf, twenty people from the groom's family stood in a single file. Most of them wore the ao dai, the ceremonial garb reserved for festivities such as this. The costumes were similar for both men and women: a tunic, made out of silk or satin, with a long skirt separated at the waist into two panels, front and back. The men wore their robes over white pants, while the women wore theirs over black—a more subservient color.

The wedding party had prepared the landing site by hanging strings of firecrackers over the branches of the tamarind trees. Upon the arrival of the sampan, the two oldest men began the ceremony by burning purified joss sticks. Then they ignited the firecrackers. The red, petal-like missiles burst into the morning air, stirring flocks of sparrows from their sleep. They flapped their gray wings among the dark branches, adding their screeches to the din. The deafening sound of the explosives was believed to banish evil spirits as the groom's family prepared to accept their new daughter-in-law.

With the help of two young servants, the old man stepped off his boat. He took off his hat and bowed to the elders. His gesture was mechanical yet courteous. He focused his eyes on the crimson debris of the fireworks on the ground. After the last few scattered booms, silence returned to the riverbank, and even the fog seemed to settle back into its original pattern, draped over the oak trees.

From the greeting party, one man marched forward. He was about forty-five years old, and his deep-set eyes peered from beneath bushy eyebrows. His high cheekbones and the downward curve of his mouth made his features appear grim and darkly authoritative. He wore a headdress of black silk, folded into many layers, which framed the crown of his head like a halo. His ao dai was ocean blue, with a subtle, darker, dotted pattern of embroidery, representing the royal symbol of longevity. The fabric was handwoven from a superlative silk, made by the silkworms of the famous Phu Yen Village. Even a rich man could afford only a few such garments. He returned the old man's salutation with a slow bow, then knitted his hands together and faced his palms upward, placing them against his abdomen.

“Greetings,” he said to the visitor. “My name is Tat Nguyen. I am the father of the groom. Welcome to our humble town.”

The old man's head bowed lower, so that no one could see his lips moving as he spoke. “Thank you, but I am afraid that I can't accept your warm welcome, Master Nguyen. My job is to deliver my granddaughter to your home. It is now done, and so I must bid my farewell. Take her with you to the groom. From this moment on, she belongs in your household, sir.”

He stepped aside, leaving room for the groom's family to approach the sampan. A pair of servants came forward and joined the other two on the boat. One stood at each corner of the bridal cabin. Then, with one synchronized movement, they hoisted the cubicle to their shoulders and carried it to the shore.

Master Nguyen lifted a corner of his robe and strode to the cabin. He parted the silk screen with the back of his hand to reveal its small interior. Looking back at him was a woman in her twenties. Dressed in a red wedding gown, she crouched with visible discomfort in the center of the cabin. The moment she saw his face, she recoiled farther into her cramped sanctuary. Her eyes, slanted and wide-set, darted as though she were searching for a way to flee. From years of working outdoors, her body had absorbed so much sunlight that a glow seemed to radiate from her skin. She had a big, flat nose, large mouth, and oversized teeth, which were stained black with the juice of betel nuts. He drew his eyebrows together disapprovingly.

“Master, do you like what you see, sir?” came a female voice from somewhere behind him.

He turned to see an elderly woman whose back was bent so close to the ground that she appeared to be crawling instead of walking. She was the matchmaker who was responsible for this arranged wedding. Trying to meet his stare, she looped her neck like a duck.

“How old is she?” he asked.

“Four and twenty, sir.”

His frown deepened. “She is an old maid, isn't she?”

“She is very healthy,” the matchmaker replied quickly. “She is as strong as a bull. And look at her breasts. They are heavy. You will be blessed with many grandchildren.”

He relaxed his grimace, looked at the bride, and asked, “What is your name, daughter?”

Upon hearing this, the matchmaker turned happily to the others. “The master has approved. He called her ‘daughter.’ Bring in the musicians!”

A much louder noise from a turn of the street drowned out the old lady's excited cry—the pulsating sound of a drum. Within seconds, a dragon made of glossy painted wood, cardboard, and papier mâché, held up high on bamboo sticks, appeared at the opening of the wharf. From afar, it seemed to float through the village. Young men in white shirts and red pants danced under it to the beat of the drum. Lanterns, shaped like butterflies and fish, burned brightly under the early-morning sun. A soprano sang the ending verse from the famous opera The King's Wedding. Her voice glided to the highest note before it, too, blended with the sounds of revelry. More firecrackers soared through the air, and no one seemed to notice when the old man slipped away to his boat and turned it back downstream.

When the noisy celebration dimmed, the bride shyly answered her father-in-law's question. “My name is Ven, sir.”

“Good.” Master Nguyen nodded. It was a lowly name that one would give only to a dog, yet somehow it suited her, he thought.

The matchmaker handed him a red veil, which he hung over the bride's head, concealing her face. From that time on, all she could see were the ruby tips of her slippers, yet she was thankful. The sheer fabric became her protective shield. Alone in a strange town, she would rather be led through the ceremony like a blind woman, unaware of the disparaging looks, like the one she had just received from her husband's father. In the back of her mind, a pang of curiosity stirred up, as faint as smoke. What did he look like? She knew nothing about her bridegroom. What of his personality, his likes, his dislikes, even his name? And yet, these things mattered little at this juncture of her life. Like it or not, she was about to be a married woman.

The servants carried her through the streets. The farther they walked, the more vigorously the cabin rocked on their shoulders. She leaned back, closed her eyes, and let herself sway with its movement. The thought of becoming a fine woman in a rich man's home relaxed her aching muscles. The folds of her satin gown trapped her body heat, and she began perspiring. “An elegant lady never sweats.” She dimly remembered an old saying she had heard as a child. She reached under the veil and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.

At last, the bridal party stopped at what seemed to be the back entrance of a house. Someone swept aside the silk curtain of her cubicle and took her callused palm. She recognized the matchmaker's wrinkled hand as the old lady guided her down a muddy path that led to a wooden door.

At the entrance, a burning pot of red coals sat on the ground waiting for her. It was the custom for the bride to step over a blazing stove before setting foot in her new home. The fire would rid her soul of any evil spirits still clinging to it. The matchmaker explained that, according to the astrologer, Ven's unfortunate time of birth required her to enter through the back door and go straight to her honeymoon suite. The rest of the wedding celebration would continue without her.

Ven had to wait for her husband to come and lift her veil. This was another important tradition she had been told that she must follow if she ever hoped to have a long and happy life with this man. Seeing nothing but the tiles beneath her feet, Ven was led through unseen rooms and seated on her bridal bed, alone in the unfamiliar house.

Ven lost count of how many hours she remained alone. From the fading of a few streaks of light on the floor, she could tell that the day had aged into night. Outside the window, the party seemed to be winding down. She could hear the laughter slowly diminish into the slurring of drunken guests. The ebullient opera had ended, and now there was a single, soporific moan of a lute. In the dark, her back throbbed, and the numbness in her buttocks spread down her legs. She was hungry and tired. The gown tightened around her bosom, making it difficult for her to breathe.

Just when she thought she could not wait any longer, Ven heard the squeaking noise of a door as it opened and shut. A small group of people tiptoed into the room. Their whispering sounded to her like the wind rasping against rice paper. The oil lamp on the nightstand by her side flickered into light. Moments later, she heard the intruders withdraw, carefully closing the door behind them.

But Ven could tell that she was not alone. The subtle movement of the furniture, the faint rustle of clothing, and the quiet footsteps moving back and forth kept her frozen in place. It's him, she thought. It must be my husband. Who else could it be? In seconds, her months of waiting would be over. Like a boiling pot of water, the anxiety rose up, and she could hardly control her composure. She sat tightly, watching her hands tremble. She could feel the heat from her husband's body as he approached her. She kept her eyes downcast. Touching the ruby tips of her slippers were two tiny bare feet, just half the size of hers. A small hand reached out and clumsily tugged the veil from her face.

Standing before her was a little boy wearing a groom's costume. He could not have been older than seven. She could see the wide gap of his missing front teeth as he grinned at her, and it came to her that this child was her husband.

She got up from the edge of the wedding bed and lowered the oil lamp until it emitted only a dot of light the size of a pea. Quietly, she took off her restrictive clothing. The boy sat on the bed and watched her with his large, almond-shaped eyes. He inserted his thumb into the gap in his teeth. Ven left her undergarments on and climbed into the bed, pulling the mosquito net over her. As she lay down, her husband snuggled into her outstretched arms. He buried his face in her armpit, sucking his thumb.

She took the boy's wrist and pulled the finger out of his mouth. With an effort, she made her voice low and reasonable. “Young master, you are too old for this habit.” He lay still, looking at her. Then he closed his eyes and went to sleep. Ven struggled with an impulse to wipe the drool off his face.

In the dark, she began to understand what her position would be in this rich man's house. They did not marry her to make her a fine lady. They wanted her for slave labor. Yet, being a daughter-in-law, she was not entitled to the salary a servant would have been paid.

To her surprise, Ven found she could not cry. Soon exhaustion claimed her.

chapter two

Breakfast

Ven was awoken before dawn by a tapping on her shoulder. In the light of the oil lantern, she saw the shadowed face of a young woman leaning over her. At her side, still wrapped in her arms, her groom was asleep.

Ven pulled away from her husband gently, so as not to disturb him. His peaceful face, round with baby fat, pressed against the hard tatami surface. The oak bed creaked under her weight like the bones of an old person. Through the bedroom window the night seemed frozen in time, and the courtyard shimmered in an iridescent glow. Here and there, the moonlight lingered on a few rare orchids.

Beyond the high brick garden wall, she heard the lazy footsteps of a time-teller. In most communities, the task of telling time fell to the village idiot, since his duty was considered lowly in the extreme. Most often, he lived in a hut on the outskirts of town, far from any neighbors. Besides the clothes on his back, the time-teller typically owned only a small metal gong. Night after night, he wandered the streets, sounding the passage of time with his padded hammer. By counting the strokes he made, the villagers could approximate the hour. The night was divided into five intervals, each about two Western hours long, stretching from sunset to rooster's crow. Ven counted four strokes on the gong. Its hollow sound echoed through the stillness long after the man's shuffling footsteps had receded.

She dressed quickly in the dark, wearing the undergarments she had on from the day before. From the bundle of possessions she had brought with her, she chose a long-sleeved cotton blouse, as the sun would not come up for several more hours.

The young woman who had woken Ven up stood waiting by the doorway. She was dressed in servant's clothes—a faded brown uniform. She was about sixteen years old, and sleep still crusted her eyelids. With an impatient gesture, she beckoned for Ven to follow her. Ven took a lantern from the bamboo stick outside the bedroom door and watched the servant hurry ahead of her down the hall. The girl was heavy, and she waddled like a pregnant mare.

“What is your name?” Ven asked her.

“I am called Song,” she said in a whisper.

“Where are we going?” Ven hastened to keep up as they walked down one of the manicured paths that cut across the garden, dividing it into rectangular beds of well-kept grasses and plants.

The maid stopped next to a plum tree and turned to look at Ven. “We are going to the kitchen, of course,” she whispered. “First Mistress has ordered you to make breakfast and have it ready by the time the other mistresses wake up. Didn't the matchmaker tell you this would be your duty?”

“No,” Ven replied. “When do the mistresses wake up?”

“As soon as the time-teller makes his last round. But if I were you, I would not rely on him. He drinks too much rice wine and is always late. You have about two hours to prepare the meal.”

She resumed her swaying gait, and they walked in front of Master Nguyen's house. The mansion and its outlying buildings faced a white-brick path, about twenty feet wide and a hundred yards long, that led to the street. Three gates protected the compound from intruders. The middle and largest one was a solid piece of black granite, split in two. When closed, the two sides merged in a complicated carving that depicted a portion of the mystical world of Heaven—beautiful bodies of the immortals dancing in and out of the clouds. Through this elegant portal only family members and honored guests would pass. Servants and vendors used the two side doors, which were modest in size and made of simply carved wood.

Ven stopped to look at her new home. Under the indigo moonlight, its outline glinted as though made out of sapphire. Never in her life had she been in a place so magnificent. It was a miniature palace, from the golden roof, decorated with a bold ceramic dragon at each corner, to the red sliding panels of its doors. In front stood five massive granite columns, embossed with carved dragons. The veranda held an ornamental vase balanced on a wooden stand large enough to hide an adult. Inside grew a eucalyptus twisted into the shape of a phoenix, which reached its wings to the sky as if to take flight.

They turned onto a side path, and through a window of opaque parchment, Ven was surprised to see that the main living room was aglow. The light of oil lamps flickered on the silhouettes of two men. They leaned over a desk in serious discussion. Curious, Ven stepped closer. She could hear their urgent whispers, though she could not make out what they were saying.

Song slipped in next to her. “The master is meeting with Master Long, the town mayor.”

“Did my father-in-law entertain a lot of overnight guests because of the wedding?” Ven asked.

The girl shook her head. “No, the master doesn't allow overnight guests, except for a few important people and, of course, his fishing crews. Master Long did not come for your wedding. He sometimes comes after dinner, and he and the master stay up talking until dawn.”

“How often do they meet?”

“It varies,” Song replied. “Our master and the first two mistresses are seldom home, but when they are, they entertain several guests. For example, Master Long was here four nights already this week. Occasionally, two other men accompany him.”

“What do they talk about?” Ven asked. Her eyes were glued to the shadows on the screened window.

“I don't know. I assume it's about the master's business.”

“What kind of business does he have?”

Song looked up at Ven with a fearful expression. “Please, Mistress—”

It was the first time that Song had addressed Ven with a title. She listened as the maid continued, “I beg you, don't ask me any more questions. Your in-laws would not hesitate to discipline me severely if they found out I was telling you these things.” The girl turned away and hid behind the curtain of her hair.

Ven knew she should give up her prying and make herself subservient in the eyes of others. But inside she felt a touch of rebellion, and as isolated as she was in this strange house, she could not let go of the subject. She touched the girl's shoulder. “I am scared, too,” she admitted. “You and I are of the same kind. We are both women. And we are slaves under this roof. But unlike you, I do not receive wages for my service, and to others I am still an outsider. For those reasons, I need your help. Please tell me about these people before I meet them, so that I can avoid mistakes. I promise I won't get you into trouble.”

Song sighed. “I see that you know as little about them as they know about you,” she said. “The master and his first two wives earn their living from the sea. Master is the captain of the largest fishing boat in this town. Most of the men in the village work for him as his sailors.”

“What about Third Mistress? What does she do?”

“Third Mistress is like a water lily, beautiful but fragile. Before she was married to our master, she was an actress in a Chinese opera troupe, which performed in the big cities. She was sold into this house when she was fourteen. I learned this from Old Che, the family's cook. She was handed over to settle a debt the owner of the troupe had with the master. He loves her beyond reason. He treats her like a Buddha statue and never lets anyone or anything so much as touch her fingernails. Ever since she was blessed with a child, and nearly died giving birth to him, Master Nguyen has allowed her to handle the household while he is away at sea. That child is your new husband.”

Ven ran her hand over the bars that protected the window. She knew it was dangerous to linger, but the voices from the other side of the parchment stirred her curiosity. “What could they possibly be talking about that would last all night? Surely it can't just be business.”

Song's eyes took on a conspiratorial sparkle. “Do you want to find out?” Without waiting for an answer, she put a finger in her mouth and moistened it, then used it to poke a small hole through the parchment. Ven stepped closer and put her eye to the opening.

From her oblique angle, she could not see Master Nguyen's face. It was hidden behind a lantern, but she recognized his dark-blue robe with the sphere-shaped embroidered pattern. He was reading something to his guest out of a notebook. She had a direct view of the other man, who appeared to be in his early thirties. He had thick hair and wore thin-rimmed glasses. His delicate lips tightened to form a straight line across the lower half of his face. He appeared to be listening intently to Master Nguyen.

Song leaned close to Ven's ear. “Can you make out what they are saying, Mistress?” she murmured.

“Only a little,” said Ven. “They seem to be discussing politics, not business.”

“It's possible,” the girl said. “Master Nguyen is passionate about political affairs. The royal palace once offered him a position, but he declined.”

“Why?” To Ven, the idea of refusing the fame and fortune that came with a royal assignment was inconceivable.

“I don't know,” Song said. “I once heard Third Mistress say that he isn't happy with the influence that the French government has over the court at Hue.” The maid looked over her shoulder and seemed to grow worried. “Let's go,” she said, pulling at Ven's arm. “Before someone sees us. Besides, I'm getting chilly, aren't you?”

Ven pulled herself away from the window and followed Song to the kitchen, a small building next to the living quarters. It was the dirtiest place she had ever seen. The original color of its walls had long been buried under a greasy coating of sticky black soot. A bitter smell of burned pork fat, mixed with the stench of singed feathers, formed a dark cloud under the low ceiling. Oversized pots and pans, some big enough to hold an entire potbellied pig, lay scattered on the damp cement floor. Ven could see the food encrusted around their edges. None of this surprised her.

Like most Vietnamese, her in-laws apparently believed that the kitchen was a place that generated fortune. The dirtier it got, the richer the owner would be. Anyone foolish enough to clean up his kitchen would soon find his fortunes wiped out. Ven's origins were humble. She never had a reason to follow this ancient custom.

“Where should I begin?” she asked, trying to hide her queasiness.

Song pointed to a small door behind the wooden cabinets. “All the dried food is in that pantry. First Mistress always has sweet rice with red beans wrapped in bamboo leaves and a bowl of sparrow's nest in shark-fin soup for breakfast. Second and Third Mistresses prefer black beans, not red ones. The master likes his sticky rice coated in mung-bean starch and steamed in coconut milk. The rest of the servants will have regular white rice and grilled chicken in lemongrass. Do you know how to make sparrow's nest soup?”

Ven nodded uncertainly. At home, her grandmother had taught her how to make many exotic and expensive meals in preparation for her married life. Yet she could learn only the principles of those recipes, for her family was too poor to buy the ingredients. But bird's nest soup was not her main dilemma. She was preoccupied with unanswered questions and impossible chores. She looked at the saucepans, cleared her throat, and asked Song, “How many people do I have to cook for?”

The maid replied, “It all depends. Today, because Master Nguyen and his crew are here, we will prepare food for everyone in the household, plus thirty fishermen. But usually, there are just the five of us. That includes you, the young master, Third Mistress, the gardener, and me. Today the matchmaker is also here.”

“I was under the impression that there are lots of servants in this house. I saw so many at the riverbank yesterday.”

Song laughed. “Those are Master Nguyen's crew. They were the ones who orchestrated your wedding yesterday. I am the only servant in this house.”

“Who usually does the cooking?”

“Old Che was the cook until yesterday. First Mistress fired her just before the wedding.”

Ven pushed up her sleeves. She regarded the young maid's ample curves and said, “You are very young and pretty. Why didn't the master marry his son to you?”

Song's cheek turned as red as the skin of a ripe Chinese plum. “Please, Mistress. Do not joke with me. A chicken cannot grow a peacock tail. I was a widow long before I came to work in this house. My husband was a fisherman who worked for Master Nguyen. He died from dysentery while at sea two years ago this full moon.”

“I am sorry,” Ven said, feeling foolish. “You look so young. Please forgive me.”

Song waved her hands in front of her face. “It is quite all right, Mistress,” she said. “Now you must hurry. There isn't much time left. You don't want to upset your in-laws on your first day.”

“Will you help me make breakfast?” Ven asked.

Song nodded. “I am the kitchen assistant. Let me soak the bird's nest while you cook the sticky ric