Alexander drew attention as he always did. His height and breadth alone made heads turn and jaws dropped. He had to duck to avoid the low lanterns strung between tables. But for once, he wasn’t the sole target of curiosity. Whispers sparked over bowls and teacups—not just toward the foreigner, but his companion as well.
Some stared at Haorán with curiosity or veiled suspicion. Others, more openly, with disdain.
Alexander lowered his voice. “Is it difficult,” he asked, “to live here and stand out?”
“Yes,” Haorán answered without pause.
They waited a while, but no one came to their table, not even to offer a cup of tea. From his sleeve, Haorán withdrew a palm-sized wooden plaque and set it on the table between them. It was dark-stained and finely carved with three vertical characters picked out in gold leaf. Even before Alexander could decipher the script, he recognized what it was: a token of imperial sanction. It marked the bearer as an extension of the emperor’s own authority. To insult him was to insult the throne.
“This helps,” Haorán said.
Alexander eyed the plaque. “Does it?”
Haorán glanced over his shoulder where an elderly man was still frowning in their direction.
“It helps,” he said again. “But it doesn’t change hearts. Only behaviour.”
One of the attendants, drawn by the sight of the plaque, approached their table. His gaze bounced from the lacquered wood to Haorán’s features, then to Alexander’s. Without a word, he placed a pot of fragrant tea before them, followed by two pairs of jadetsaiwàn—the eating rods of her people. One end tapered to a fine point for piercing, the other flattened for lifting and balancing.
“Honoured guests, would you like today’s special? The broth has been slow-cooked since dawn.”
Haorán nodded. “Two servings, please.”
The man vanished with no further question.
Alexander glanced at him. “You didn’t even ask what it was.”
“I never need to.” Haorán shrugged. “And it has never let me down.”
It arrived moments later, carried by a boy no older than fifteen. He weaved between tables with careful steps, trying not to rush, though the slight hitch in his gait suggested he’d already been scolded once today.
He set the bowls down with a nervous glance, then straightened.
“Today we have hand-pulled noodles in chicken broth with tea-smoked duck breast, red dates, and ginger,” he recited, gesturing with two fingers as he named each item. “There’s pickled chrysanthemum stem on the side, and a little fermented bean paste. If you want more spice, there’s chilli oil at the table.”
His voice cracked on the last word, but his tongue didn’t trip. He gave a small nod and turned to leave, nearly walking off without the empty tray, then hurrying back for it with an apologetic bow.
Alexander watched him go, something catching at the base of his throat.
There was a bit of Conrad in that boy, the same scrappy energy beneath all the carefulness. The same way his voice caught when he tried to speak with confidence. The same habit of looking back over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t done too poorly.
A faint smile touched Alexander’s lips before he turned to his meal. Haorán lifted his bowl with both hands, sipping from the edge. Alexander followed, careful to hold the porcelain theway he’d seen others do—thumb pressed against the rim, pinky curled inward.
Steam rose between them, fragrant with pepper and star anise. For a few breaths, neither spoke. The clink of utensils and murmur of other diners filled the silence between them.
Then, Alexander asked, “Does she eat well?”
Haorán glanced at him over the rim of his bowl, one brow lifting.
“She eats,” he said after a moment, “but enjoyment is rare currency in her world.”
He stirred his broth, eyes fixed on the shimmer of oil dancing across the surface. “Do you see her often?”
“I provide escort when required. Few others are allowed that honour.”
Alexander nodded, tension prickling at the back of his neck. He hesitated, then asked, “Is she . . .”
The word stalled.