The Red Peony House did not merely open its doors at dusk. It bloomed.
Hours before the nobles arrived, the house began its slow unfurling, each chamber stretching awake like a courtesan's body being unwrapped from silk. Servants lit the first coils of sandalwood incense, their smoke winding upward through carved rafters painted with cranes and plum blossoms. Maids scurried barefoot across the lacquered floor, their trays balanced with paints, powders, and jars of perfume. The air was heavy already, cloying with the sweetness of ambergris, the sharpness of camphor, the faint sourness of preserved plums.
In the private chambers, mirrors of polished bronze reflected faces painted into perfection. Courtesans powdered their skin until it gleamed pale as moonlight, rouge dabbed like blood blooming beneath the surface. Their hair was combed with ivory teeth and pinned with jade cicadas, gold dragons, silver fish. Anklets of bells were fastened around pale ankles, each chime a promise. Robes of gauze and brocade were tied loosely, knotted in ways meant to fall open at the first tug.
A boy with lips already painted black leaned into the mirror and let another courtesan dab oil along the line of his throat. He laughed when she teased him that the oil smelled of peaches, promising that by morning his neck would smell only of wine. A girl in violet gauze stretched her arms above her head while a eunuch brushed powder into the crease beneath her breasts. Another girl, younger, giggled as a servant painted her toenails with lacquer the color of cinnabar, whispering that men would pay fortunes to kiss them.
In the kitchens, ducks turned slowly over flame, their skins blistering and shining with fat, dripping into trays of star anise and cassia so the smoke filled the hall with spice. Grapes were piled high on silver dishes, lychees peeled and gleaming, chestnuts candied in syrup until their skins cracked. Wine was poured into ewers painted with courtesans in compromising positions, as though even the vessels had learned indecency.
The musicians tuned their instruments behind silk screens. Guzheng strings plucked and tested, pipa notes gliding like sighs, drums beaten softly, like a hand striking bare flesh. Even the silences between their tests carried heat.
By the time the lanterns were lit, the House was no longer a place. It was an invitation. Crimson silk lanterns swayed above the gates, their tassels perfumed with rose oil, their paper painted with scenes of lovers punished by jealous gods. The doors stood wide, carved of phoenixwood and polished so well the torches outside reflected like fire caught in a pool of blood.
And the crowd began to come.
Princes in brocade stepped from their litters, their attendants already brushing the dust from their hems. Ministers waddled forward with flushed cheeks, wiping sweat from their foreheads as if ashamed to be seen and yet more ashamed not to be. Generals arrived on horseback, their boots loud against the stone, their eyes sharper than their swords, their laughter already promising ruin.
When the first stepped inside, the house swallowed them whole. The main hall was lacquered black, the floor so polished it reflected the lanterns above like pools of wine. The pillars were carved with lotuses and cranes, their wings painted white, their beaks tipped with gold. Banners of gauze dyed in violet and scarlet hung from the rafters, embroidered with indecent poems in silver thread. Courtesans spilled across the divans, their bodies arranged in indolent poses, their mouths already wet with laughter and wine.
They descended upon the guests with the trained instinct of predators. A boy with oiled shoulders climbed into a minister's lap before he had even sat down, biting into a grape and feeding it mouth to mouth. A girl pressed herself against a prince's back and whispered obscenities into his ear until he dropped his crown onto the floor. Two courtesans shared a cup of wine, letting the liquid pass between their lips before tilting a nobleman's head back and spitting it into his mouth.
The air thickened. Wine dribbled down throats and breasts, licked up by waiting tongues. Anklets jingled in rhythm with the guzheng strings, fans snapped open to hide kisses that needed no hiding. The scent of roasted duck melted into the scent of sweat. The laughter grew louder, rougher, crueler.
In the balcony above the hall, three men sat like gods watching a play meant only for them. General Shen Qiang sat in the center, his robe black lined with crimson, dragons embroidered across his chest, their ruby eyes gleaming in the lamplight. His hair was tied loosely, a scar pale across his cheekbone, his boot propped against the railing. He did not drink. He watched. His stillness was iron, and no courtesan dared approach him without being summoned.
To his right sprawled General Ma Jin, red-faced and loud, already gorged on wine and duck. His robe was open to his waist, his chest oiled with sweat, a courtesan bent across his lap while he fed another piece of fruit from his greasy fingers. He laughed with his mouth full, shouted bids before anything was offered, and slapped thighs as if he were striking war drums.
To Shen Qiang's left sat Lieutenant Wen Jiayi, pale blue-gray robes embroidered with cranes at the hem, his beauty so precise it made the painted courtesans below look coarse. His face needed no powder. His lashes shadowed his cheeks when he lowered his eyes, his lips were pale as pressed lotus petals, his posture refined and languid. He raised his cup with elegance, drank only a little, yet his gaze moved like water over every body below, resting too long, betraying the hunger hidden beneath restraint.
If Shen Qiang was iron, Wen Jiayi was silk. Yet both were blades. And those who had fought with them knew: the bond between them was older than the House, older than their reputations. They had shared tents, campaigns, victories, and sins. They were brothers in blood and indulgence, and they were never apart.
The hall heaved with moans and laughter. And then Madam Zhao appeared.
She floated to the dais veiled in hibiscus gauze, her robe violet, her hair heavy with jade, her fan lacquered and painted with lotuses. Her eyes swept the room with contemptuous delight. She snapped her fan open, and the noise stilled as if the fan itself commanded silence.
"Great lords of the realm," she intoned, her words rippling through the chamber like incense smoke. "Your lips have known wine, your hands have crushed a thousand roses. Tonight, I offer you not petals, but fire wonders to arouse your desires and loosen your purses. From the northern steppes to the southern seas, I have gathered treasures, each rarer than jade, each flesh more precious than gold.
The hall gasped. Grapes fell from fingers. Wine spilled unheeded. She clapped once.
A boy entered.
The fan snapped shut with a crack that startled even the musicians behind their screens. Madam Zhao raised one hand, and the first boy was brought forth.
He came barefoot, the chain at his neck gleaming in the lamplight, the sound of the links against the lacquered floor too loud in the hush that had fallen. His robe was cut short at the thigh, crimson gauze torn in strips so his skin showed pale beneath it. The hollows of his shoulders were oiled, and his lips were painted black. He walked with the careful sway of one trained to move as though he were always being watched. His head remained bowed until he reached the dais.
Madam Zhao tilted her chin, and the boy sank onto his knees. He bent until his forehead touched the lacquer step, his mouth open against the wood, his body trembling as if to remind the crowd that his trembling was for them alone.
"Slave," Madam Zhao announced, her voice like a bell struck in a shrine.
The word hung, vulgar and heavy, until a noble broke it with his own voice.
"Ten thousand!" shouted Lord Han Yuren, his fingers already tangled in the hair of a courtesan sucking wine from his belly button. He slapped the boy's cheek beside him as if he had already bought the one on the dais.
"Twelve!" called Minister Liu Sheng, his lap covered in a girl's thighs, his mouth sticky with syrup. He raised his hand without looking away from the flesh in front of him.
"Fifteen," murmured Prince Zhao Yan, reclining against cushions, his chest bare and glistening from the tongue of the eunuch who knelt between his legs. He lifted his cup and smiled faintly. "Fifteen, and I will take him blindfolded."
"Seventeen!" bellowed General Ma Jin from the balcony, slamming his palm against the railing hard enough to rattle the lamps. "Seventeen, and I want him chained beside my bed before the hour ends."
The hall erupted. Coins clattered. Courtesans laughed and climbed higher into laps. A courtesan fell to her knees and began to lick spilled wine from the lacquer floor while a minister pulled her hair and shouted his next bid. The boy on the dais remained bowed, trembling.
When the bidding reached twenty thousand, Madam Zhao lifted her fan, and the boy was led away, his chains rattling, his body vanishing into the dark corridor behind the stage. The hall roared as if they had already eaten him.
She did not pause.
The second boy entered like a scroll being unrolled. His body was painted with red characters, winding from his throat down his spine, verses of a sutra that spoke of restraint, though the way he walked made a mockery of every word. He wore only a strip of gauze knotted at his hips. His hair was bound high with a single golden needle. His lips were painted crimson, and when he smiled, his teeth flashed like a threat.
He stopped at the dais and turned, presenting his back, the red characters gleaming against pale skin. Slowly, he sank to his knees and bent forward until his forehead touched the floor, his painted mouth smearing against the lacquer. His hands reached back of their own accord, wrists crossing as though already bound.
"A very special slave," Madam Zhao said again, softer this time, her smile edged with delight.
The bidding began before the echo faded.
"Eighteen thousand!" cried a governor, his voice breaking as the courtesan straddling him tugged at his ear.
"Nineteen!" said a merchant, pouring wine down a boy's chest and licking it from his navel.
"Twenty," drawled Prince Zhao Yan, lifting a grape between his teeth, letting a courtesan bite half from his mouth before he finished the rest.
"Twenty-two!" roared General Ma Jin, pulling the courtesan on his lap back by her hair so he could bite her throat. He spat the number like a curse.
"Twenty-five," said a minister quietly, his hand shoved under the robe of a eunuch who bit his lip but did not move away.
The red-inked boy did not look up. His shoulders gleamed with oil. The characters on his spine seemed to burn. When the bidding climbed past thirty thousand, Madam Zhao laughed, a low sound that made the room fall quiet again. She snapped her fan shut, and the boy was led away, his back arching as he rose as if to remind the crowd of what they had just lost.
The hall writhed. Courtesans moaned loudly now, even without touch. A girl climbed onto a table, spread her legs, and let a noble eat fruit from between them while the others clapped. Grapes rolled across the lacquer, crushed beneath bare feet. Wine splashed from cups and was lapped from skin. The smell of duck, incense, sweat, and desire thickened until it clung to the throat.
Above, in the balcony, Shen Qiang leaned back, finally lifting his cup. His scar glowed pale as he tilted it, wine touching his lips at last. When Jiayi sat beside him, his posture unbroken, his lashes lowered. Yet his gaze, when he raised it, fell not on the hall but upon the veil at the dais. He drank, slow, and set his cup down.
"Still not bidding, General?" Ma Jin barked, wiping grease from his beard with the sleeve of a courtesan's robe. "Not even for the scripture boy with a back made for flogging?"
Shen Qiang exhaled, slow as iron cooling. His eyes were on the veil.
"I did not come for slaves."
Ma Jin laughed until wine spilled from his nose. Wen Jiayi smiled faintly, the kind of smile that sharpened the hunger already simmering beneath the surface.
The crowd, still panting, still laughing, turned its eyes back to the dais. The gauze glowed. The room thickened with anticipation. Even those with hands buried in flesh paused.
Madam Zhao raised her fan high.
"You have seen the slaves," she said. "Now you will see the jewel."
Gasps rippled. Fans snapped open. Courtesans pressed closer to their patrons. Madam Zhao's smile curved crueler.
"His beauty is not my boast. His feet are smaller than teacups, his face makes the peony seem coarse, his voice will make even generals kneel. He is of age, untouched, and I set three physicians upon him in the daylight. Each sealed my ledger with their names. No one has broken him. Not even the sun has tasted him. He is a miracle, and he will serve the tea."
The hall shook. Nobles shouted, courtesans screamed with laughter, grapes were thrown into mouths, kisses stolen, wine spilled like blood. The air was no longer air but pure desire, perfumed with incense and roasted duck, soaked with sweat and sugar.
The veil at the dais trembled. A shadow moved behind it. The jewel was coming.
The hibiscus veil trembled as though stirred by the breath of the hall itself. Even the lanterns seemed to lean forward, their tassels whispering against one another as the crowd leaned toward the dais. For a moment there was only the sound of the guzheng plucked once, a note drawn long, as if time itself had paused to taste the anticipation. The veil parted.
He did not step so much as appear, as though the gauze itself had opened to reveal a figure painted beneath it.
He was veiled again, but not in crimson, not in black, not in the vulgar silks meant to tempt. His veil was white gauze, translucent, shimmering faintly with gold thread that caught the light like dew. The robe he wore was layered so finely it clung like mist, revealing only the suggestion of long legs, the narrow line of a waist, the pale shadow of a chest. His hair had been brushed until it gleamed, pinned loosely with silver, strands falling across his cheek as though even hairpins feared to mar him. His feet were bare, small, arched, lacquered at the nails until they gleamed like shells. Each step was noiseless, each movement too measured to be taught.
The hall exhaled together, and then the noise began.
"Impossible."
"A boy born of lotus root."
"They said it, they said it. Untouched. Untouched."
"Look at the feet. Madam Zhao did not lie."
"Virgin, confirmed by three physicians. Three."
A minister bit into a grape and moaned as juice ran down his chin. Another tore his sleeve open and demanded a courtesan lick the sweat from his shoulder. Someone poured wine into the mouth of a eunuch and kissed him until they both gasped. Yet no one looked away from the dais.
Madam Zhao fanned herself lazily, her eyes sharp with triumph. "You have seen pearls and chains. You have seen scripture painted upon flesh. But this one was not made in my house. He was made elsewhere, by gods who must have been bored. He does not serve wine with his mouth. He does not open his thighs for coins. He serves only one thing. He serves prophecy. He serves the tea."
The jewel did not bow. He lowered his eyes, his lashes long, his face pale as porcelain touched by the faintest rouge. The shape of his lips was soft, but not open. His hands folded at his waist. He looked as though he had been carved to break the arrogance of kings.
A ripple of moans moved through the courtesans. Some laughed and pressed themselves harder against their patrons, whispering, "Not even you are worthy." Others kissed each other with desperate mouths, as though trying to swallow their own envy.
From the balcony, Ma Jin leaned forward, his fat fingers clutching the railing, his eyes wild with wine. "By the ancestors," he muttered, his laugh breaking. "If he serves tea, then let him pour it into my veins." He slapped the thigh of the boy on his lap until the boy squealed.
Wen Jiayi said nothing, but his gaze was fixed on the jewel as if he had seen him before in some dream. His beauty, already cruel, sharpened. The lanternlight gilded the curve of his mouth, the shadow of his lashes. He looked as though he might reach out from the balcony and take what was not yet offered.
Shen Qiang drank at last. He lifted his cup, tilted it, swallowed, and lowered it without expression. But his eyes did not leave the boy. His scar seemed paler, his presence heavier.
The jewel was guided forward by two attendants, who placed before him the porcelain tea set revealed earlier. The pot steamed faintly, the cups glimmered with the blossoms already dissolved.
He lifted the pot with both hands.
The hall grew so quiet that the sound of steam rising was clear. He poured. Slowly, steadily, the golden water filled each cup, petals rising and dissolving again as though reborn with every stream. The way he held the pot, wrists delicate, fingers curved, made even ministers who had signed a hundred executions bow their heads. His robe slid from his shoulder as he leaned, revealing the slope of a collarbone pale and sharp.
"Ah," someone groaned. "Even his bones are virginal."
"He does not need to speak," another whispered. "He pours tea and the gods kneel."
When the last cup was poured, Madam Zhao clapped her hands once. "Drink, and remember this night. He has touched the cups. That is worth more than kingdoms."
Servants carried the cups to chosen nobles, each sip taken with trembling hands. Ministers licked their lips as though tasting prophecy. A prince spilled half down his chest, and a courtesan pressed her mouth to his skin and drank it as if it were holy water. A governor laughed too loudly and demanded another, but when Madam Zhao shook her head, he wept.
The jewel stood silently, the pot in his hands, his eyes lowered. He did not bow. He did not smile. He simply existed, and the room drowned in him.
Shen Qiang leaned forward at last, his voice deep enough to shake the balcony rail. "Bring him here."
The hall gasped.
Wen Jiayi's lips curved, almost imperceptibly, his gaze cutting like silk. Madam Zhao snapped her fan open, hiding her mouth as she laughed. "The jewel does not yet serve generals. He serves only the tea. If you want him to pour for you, General, you will have to wait."
The hall howled, laughter and groans mixing with the sound of flesh slapping flesh. A minister fell onto his back with a courtesan astride him, both crying out as grapes were tossed into their mouths. A prince began to sing a vulgar poem, courtesans clapping in rhythm.
But the General did not smile. He leaned back, his eyes heavy with hunger. Wen Jiayi sat beside him, beautiful as ever, his hand raising his cup, his mouth brushing its rim, his eyes never leaving the boy.
On the dais, the jewel lowered the pot.
The incense burned lower. The curtains swayed. The night opened its throat and swallowed them all.
The jewel set the pot down as gently as if it were a child, his wrists trembling only once, his face never lifting. The steam curled upward from the porcelain like ghosts released from a sealed tomb, carrying with it the faint perfume of blossoms that had never touched the earth. The hall had drunk, and in drinking they had been undone.
The nobles were not satisfied. They were famished.
A minister fell upon his knees, clutching the cup to his chest as if it were scripture, whispering a vow to drink nothing else until his death. A prince tilted his cup over his bare chest and demanded a courtesan lick every drop. A eunuch sobbed into his hands, then dropped them and kissed the floor, smearing rouge and wine together.
The smell was unbearable, layered and thick: sandalwood smoke choking on duck fat, the sugar of lychees melting into the sweat of a hundred bodies, the sharp perfume of courtesans' hairpins mixing with the sour tang of wine spilled on lacquer. It was not air. It was desire breathing through every mouth in the room.
And still he stood silent, veiled in white, the hem of his robe brushing the lacquer floor like mist. His lashes lowered, his face unbroken. It was as though he had not noticed the hall collapsing in hunger around him, as though he were only an attendant pouring tea in a shrine, untouched by what the faithful had done at his feet.
General Shen Qiang leaned forward, his scar glowing pale in the lantern light. His voice was low, but it cut through the chaos. "Enough of the cup. Let him pour into my hand."
The hall gasped, the laughter faltering into silence.
Wen Jiayi smiled faintly, so faintly it could have been mistaken for kindness, his lashes lowering again as though he had already imagined it. His beauty was sharper than cruelty in that moment, the kind of beauty that made courtesans cover their faces, ashamed to be seen watching him.
But Madam Zhao did not falter. She snapped her fan open and hid her mouth behind it. Her laughter was velvet soaked in wine. "The jewel does not yet pour for men of war. He pours only for the House. To taste him now would be to spoil the next night."
The nobles groaned, ministers shouted, a prince stamped his foot like a child denied, but the fan stayed lifted, and her smile was law.
Shen Qiang leaned back again, iron in his silence, his cup still full, his gaze unmovable. Wen Jiayi raised his own cup and drank slowly, his eyes not leaving the boy veiled in white.
Below, the courtesans began to move again, faster now, as if to drown their frustration in more vulgarity. A girl climbed onto a table, spread her thighs, and let grapes be poured into her mouth, only to spit them into the lips of the man who kissed her. A boy bent over a cushion, his back inked with false sutras, while two nobles laughed and pulled him open. Wine spilled across silk, and courtesans dropped to their knees to lap it up with painted mouths. The sound of flesh striking flesh grew louder, competing with the guzheng strings plucked in frantic rhythm.
Madam Zhao lowered her fan and spoke again, her voice cutting through the storm. "You may spill wine. You may spill seed. But tonight you will not spill him. He is not yours yet. He is still mine."
The attendants stepped forward and drew the veil back across the dais. The jewel vanished behind white gauze once more. Only the faint outline of his figure remained, blurred like a memory already fading.
The hall moaned as one. Some cursed. Some laughed. Some clapped their hands as though the denial itself was part of the pleasure. A prince collapsed into his cushions, his courtesan wrapping her thighs around him as he groaned that he would pay a thousand taels just to kiss the boy's feet. A minister threw his cup against the wall, shattering it, only to be soothed by a courtesan who pressed her breasts against his face until he wept again.
The music swelled. The house moved like a body convulsing. Moans echoed against lacquer, mixing with laughter, with curses, with the chanting of the word jewel until it was no longer a name but a liturgy.
Above it all, in the balcony, the three generals sat. Ma Jin roared with laughter, his courtesan squirming in his lap, his hand greasy with meat and wine. Shen Qiang was still, his gaze fixed on the veiled dais, his scar pale as bone. Wen Jiayi was silent too, his face as beautiful as the jewel himself, his hunger more dangerous for being quiet. The hibiscus gauze swayed faintly, as though the boy behind it had breathed too deeply.
Madam Zhao snapped her fan shut with a crack. "Tomorrow," she said. "Tomorrow you will beg me for him."
The crowd howled, vulgar and broken, their lust spilling into laughter and copulation as though they had been cursed to desire forever. The lanterns flickered, the incense burned lower, and the night collapsed into itself.
The jewel had been seen.
And nothing in the city would be clean again.