Page 101 of The Cinders
Feng’s gaze lingered on him before he turned and stepped through the curtains to a round of rowdy applause and drunken cries of impatience.He was an entertainer; that could be said of him at least.His introduction was fanciful and dramatic, and quick.Xian was to dance for the remaining half hour until midnight, and the crowd was restive.
‘I present to you, without further ado, Prince Xian, thirteenth son of our beloved Son of Heaven, the Daoguang Emperor.To welcome in this Year of the Dog, I present to you the man of many names.The Veiled Prince, the Dancing Prince, but from today a Prince of the Cinders no more.’
Xian listened to the mandarin’s prophetic words, his true spirit scratching at his bones.
Run.Run.Run.
He touched a hand to the restraining bodice, and whispered to the vulpine within.‘When Song Lim is with us, and only then.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
XIAN EXHALEDuntil his lungs were empty and stepped onto the simple stage.The crowd, boisterous after Mandarin Feng’s grandiose introduction, grew quiet, but not silent.
The whispers began before he’d taken the centre mark.But Xian did just as time had taught him to do; he ignored them.Allowing himself only a cursory glance over the gathering, searching out Sir William.He found him easily, for he was the only one in the room who glowed.He sat off to the right, lounging in the arms of a woman; a lady of the Middle Kingdom and not his English companion, who sat just behind, nibbling at a rice cake, looking straight over the couple.Her eyes were on Xian.
Sir William’s companion was scantily dressed, with the cut of her gown not intended for modesty.He gazed up at her, tracing the line of her jaw with his finger, holding a cup of something strong, no doubt, in his free hand.She smiled at his sordid whisper — the details of which Xian’s superlative hearing was unhappily privy to — and slapped at him in a playful show of coy disapproval.
Xian put away his hope that the Englishman, daemon, incubus and terrible fairy godmother might still aid him.
Liar.Liar.Liar.
His inner spirit stated the unfortunate truth.
Xian sighed and raised his arms, turning his palms to the ceiling and splaying his fingers.He was almost ready to gesture to the musicians when he decided on one last alteration.Xian unfastened the gold veil from the hooks that secured it to the headpiece.
If he were not to be Prince of the Cinders any longer, he’d not be the Veiled Prince either.
Gasps and excited whispering followed his move, but Xian had more for this ravenous crowd.He stepped his left leg forward, letting the fabric part high near the crease of his thigh, allowing a hint of the burns there to show, too.
Gasps became squeals of macabre delight.
Xian lifted the heel of the slipper, setting off a flash of light— the strike of the sun on a dragonfly’s wings.He set off an uproar.There were boisterous cries, a few high squeals, and someone clapping madly.
‘Are you hiding an African ship from us, Feng?’A man bellowed.‘So full of diamonds you can make your shoes from them?’
‘Would I do such a thing, Baron Zhen?’The mandarin shouted back, raising his cup.
‘A thousand times over.’
Riotous laughter swept through the gathering.Xian raised his arms once more, lifting his palms to the sky, and signalled to the lead musician; one of the few in the room whose gaze had not moved to Xian’s feet.
The paixiao began the music, and the pan flute’s wistful note soon quietened the rowdy crowd.The brass bells followed, then the guqin with its warbling tune, and lastly the ban to mark the tempo.
Xian’s restlessness settled, the hum beneath his skin overcome by the vibration of the instruments; a fox spirit serenaded into stillness.Xian sank into the welcome embrace of sweet oblivion and danced.
His hips swayed, his joints turned to liquid by the only desires of which he was certain; that of melody and movement.The strict tempo of the music banished thought of the indignity of the gown.
Time moved differently for Xian when he danced; it held its breath and quietened its relentless drone.The air became his partner, moving him about, as though he were the long lengths of a willow captured by the breeze.The music was his heartbeat, and Mandarin Feng’s skilled musicians were attuned to the whims of a dancer who did not conform to ritual.
On the dance floor, Xian alone held court.
And they would remember this prince of the dance.
Xian forgot those who watched with dark eyes and black hearts, finding solace in the whining highs and lows of the banhu, an instrument he so rarely had the pleasure of accompanying; uncommon in most noble courts.
But Mandarin Feng held a noble court like no other, and Xian did not intend this to be a common performance.
His turns grew faster, more frequent.The sweep and dip of his arms were more vigorous.He took up the veil from where he’d dropped it to the floor, and brought it into play; an extension of his arm, leading the eye on a merry chase.