1. The Tide

“The so-called ‘catching a son-in-law at the examination results’ is just a figure of speech. It’s always a matter of mutual consent—how could there be any reason to seize someone by force?”

“The Minister’s daughter is as talented as she is beautiful, gifted with both wit and grace. She and Liang Ziming are a perfect match, as if heaven itself decreed it.”

“At the banquet by Qujiang Pond, the two exchanged verses and fell for each other at first sight—where is there any talk of coercion?”

“I know you were once betrothed. In this, he does you wrong, and as his mentor, I apologize to you on his behalf. But Ziming and you…”

The old magistrate did not finish his sentence. He merely stroked his graying beard, brows furrowed, his bloodshot eyes scrutinizing Haichao.

Haichao lowered her head and looked at her own feet.

Her toenails were caked with mud; her feet and heels bore wounds from straw sandals, some scabbed, others still bleeding, mixing blood with dust so that the true color of her flesh was lost.

These were the feet of a pearl diver.

In that instant, she understood the words the old magistrate had left unsaid.

Liang Ye was not like her; they were not of the same world.

She could not even fill a basket with the characters she recognized, let alone match poems with him.

Yet she could not believe it. Because this was Liang Ye—someone she’d known since infancy, who had depended on her as she had on him for seven years, whom she thought she would never be parted from in her life.

When she received the letter of breaking off the engagement that Liang Ye had sent through another, she was unwilling, unable to believe it. She walked for three days to the city, determined to ask the old magistrate for the truth.

He was Liang Ye’s benefactor and mentor, the one who had set him on his path. Only if he confirmed it with his own lips would she be convinced.

So she walked for three days, wearing out three pairs of straw sandals, and stood at the city gate for an entire day before finally intercepting the old magistrate’s carriage.

Now, even Liang Ye’s most respected teacher had said as much. She ought to let go.

Yet still, she could not believe it.

Haichao raised her head, her eyes dry and gritty as if filled with sand. “Liang Ye would never do that.”

The old magistrate sighed. “How long has it been since you last saw each other? It’s been three years since Ziming went to the capital, hasn’t it? People do change…”

He seemed to waver, pausing for a long time before finally saying, “Ziming is not your destined husband, young lady. You must try to see things clearly. If there’s anything I can help you with…”

Haichao shook her head dully.

The old magistrate lowered the curtain and said to his attendant, “Go on.”

Haichao stood motionless in the road as the carriage wheels rumbled away. Then, snapping out of her daze, she ran after it, calling, “Master Du—!”

The carriage stopped. The old man, weary-faced, lifted the curtain again. “What is it now?”

Haichao drew a cloth pouch from her bosom and offered it with both hands. “This is the silver that came with the letter of annulment. I weighed it—fourteen taels and seven coins in all. It’s his money. When you see him, please return it.”

The old magistrate did not reach for it. “This is Ziming’s compensation for your three years of support. It’s a token of his regard. You should keep it.”

Haichao stubbornly held the pouch out. “I kept the few broken pearls he sent back. But this silver is not mine. I will not take it. Please give it back to him when you see him.”

The old magistrate, unwilling to argue further, gestured, and a servant took it from her.

The carriage rolled away again, dust rising to cover her face.

Only then did Haichao notice she’d lost a shoe running after the carriage. She picked it up and found the strap was broken—her last pair.

She brushed off the dust and caked mud, tucked the shoe into her bundle, and limped home, one foot sinking deeper than the other.

She could not remember how she made it back.

She drank not a drop of water and, though her throat burned, sat in a daze at the threshold until sunset.

The sky bloomed in hues of purple and deep blue. The sea breeze grew cold.

Haichao rose and went inside.

She ladled water into the large pot, lit a fire, and when the water boiled, steamed a handful of sweet potatoes. Then she sat by the stove, pulling out the letter of annulment Liang Ye had sent her.

The paper was fine—smooth, white, and resilient. The ink was rich and black, shining with a coppery gloss in the firelight. Such materials even the sons of wealthy townsfolk could hardly afford.

Liang Ye must have truly prospered.

She unfolded the letter, smoothing it carefully.

A single page, a few lines, each sentence either four or six characters long—the kind of “flowery writing that could fool Li Liu to death,” as Liang Ye used to call it.

He had never written to her like this before. He had always known how little she could read, always choosing words she recognized, sometimes drawing a little picture beside those she didn’t.

But in this letter, half the characters were strange to her. Even so, she recognized the last sixteen characters—

“Let us part forever, each seek our own happiness. Three years’ provisions, offered for your kindness.”

She read those words again and again in her heart, then crumpled the letter and threw it into the stove.

Once the first step was taken, the rest came easier.

She dragged out a four-foot-long rattan trunk from under the bed, brought it to the stove, and lifted the lid.

She was a rough and careless person—her room was always a mess with barely space to step. Only this trunk was kept in perfect order: everything connected to Liang Ye, she had stored there, neatly, with the greatest care.

Now, one by one, she began to pull things out, as though gutting a carefully tended animal and drawing out its organs piece by piece.

First were the undergarments and socks she’d sewn over the past half year, all of fine linen and banana fiber—materials too precious for her own use.

The flames quickly devoured them.

She felt a pang—so much work and cloth wasted. She could have altered them for herself, but found the thought unbearable. She would rather be rid of them.

Everything connected to Liang Ye, she would throw away.

He had left behind old clothes, some large, some small, each patched and washed until threadbare, nearly falling apart.

There were his brushwork exercises on coarse hemp and his poems on rough paper.

Kites he’d made for her as a child, pinwheels, grasshoppers woven from blades, lanterns crafted from bamboo strips.

Shells and conchs they’d gathered together, bizarre fish skulls, all manner of oddities.

And a number of candles, long and short—scraps she’d picked up while working for wealthy households, melted and recast with new wicks, as good as new.

Liang Ye always read at night, straining his eyes by smoky oil lamps, unable to afford candles. So she had come up with this trick.

Now he was rich; he would never worry over candles again.

Haichao did not throw the candles into the fire; instead, she lit them all and placed them around the room, filling the space with light. Since she was going to burn everything, she might as well enjoy the brightness once.

At last, it was time for the letters.

It was never easy to send word: in three years, he’d managed only a dozen or so, each one read countless times, unfolded, smoothed, and folded again, until the paper wore thin.

She fed them, one by one, to the flames.

Only the last remained. She hesitated, then opened it.

Inside the hemp paper was a dried plum blossom. When it was first picked, it must have been snowy white; by the time it reached her, it had turned yellow.

This was the letter he’d written her upon first arriving in Chang’an—a few lines, which she could recite backward, yet she read each character carefully once more.

“Fifteenth day of the first month, night—Ye: The years slip by; another Lantern Festival. I have been in the capital more than ten days, all is a flurry, nothing yet settled. Residing at Jingyun Temple in Wuben Ward, all is well, except that in the middle of the night I hear no tide, and cannot sleep.

Last night, a great snowstorm, stopping at dawn. This morning, white plums blossoming in the courtyard, most lovely. I thought you’ve never seen such flowers, and broke a branch to send with this letter.

Tonight is a festival, and the city guards do not forbid outings. My classmates invited me to see the lanterns on Zhuque Avenue, but I fear the cold and have no heart for such pleasures, so I declined. When you come, we can see it together.

With this letter I also send some cotton and a length of silk for your winter clothes next year. Spring is still chilly—do not go out to sea. The letter is short; words cannot hold all I wish to say. Please, take care.”

A painted plum blossom decorated the bottom. The real flower had withered, but the painted one looked as if it had just bloomed.

From the moment she received that letter, Haichao had cherished a vague dream.

One day, she would go to Chang’an and see the lanterns of the Lantern Festival with Liang Ye.

She cast the letter into the flames. Soon, the painted plum blossom, too, turned yellow and then to ash.

By then the sweet potatoes in the pot were cooked, filling the room with a faint, fresh scent. Only now did she recall her empty stomach.

She cooled a piece and took a few bites, but could eat no more.

The fire in the stove had burned down; she threw in the remaining candles.

They melted quickly, the flames lowered, and finally went out.

Just like the lanterns of Chang’an’s Lantern Festival, which she had dreamed of countless times—it all faded into darkness.

The room was pitch-black.

The darkness pressed in like a wall, suffocating her, her chest tight and aching, as if something inside was tearing at her heart, threatening to rip it apart.

She could not stay another moment. Dragging her numb legs, she mixed the rest of the sweet potatoes with fish sauce, wrapped them in a banana leaf, pushed open the door, and headed for the sea.

The moon was rising, casting its cool light over the waves.

The water moved gently, like a sleeping sea softly snoring.

At this hour, the shore was deserted; all the boats were moored.

The damp, icy sea breeze filled her body, that familiar briny tang flooding her lungs.

She felt alive again.

What was a lantern festival? Without Liang Ye, she could go by herself.

She could go to Chang’an on her own, see the plum blossoms at Jingyun Temple, the lanterns on Zhuque Avenue.

The journey from Hepu to Chang’an would cost much, but she could save slowly.

She was skilled at diving for pearls and handling a boat, not afraid of hardship, strong enough to endure—she could save up, little by little, until she had enough.

With a bit of stubborn resolve, Haichao untied her boat.

Just then a frail, aged voice sounded behind her: “Is that Haichao?”

She recognized Granny Sha’s voice, stopped what she was doing, turned and greeted her, pulling out the banana leaf bundle.

Granny Sha took the bundle. “A storm is coming.”

Haichao glanced at the clear, cloudless night sky and smiled. “There’s no wind.”

Granny Sha opened the bundle and began to eat, mumbling to herself, “Be careful, child. A great wind is coming…”

The old woman was the village’s lone elder. It was said she’d been a shaman from the Yue lands, able to read omens and tell fortunes, but her husband and children had all perished at sea.

After her youngest daughter died, she grew somewhat mad, always warning those heading out to sea of coming storms. Nine times out of ten she was wrong, and the tenth was just luck, but the villagers pitied her and made sure she never went hungry.

No one knew how old Granny Sha really was.

No one took her words seriously, yet tonight, for some reason, when those clouded eyes, buried under layers of wrinkled lids, looked at Haichao, something in them made her heart beat faster.

“I’m not afraid. If the wind rises, I’ll come back,” she said.

The old woman grunted vaguely. “Why are you alone? Isn’t Little Ye going with you?”

“Granny, you forgot again? He went to the capital three years ago.”

“He’s not back yet?”

“He’ll never come back.”

“Why not?”

A lump rose in Haichao’s throat, but she forced herself to sound cheerful. “He passed the imperial exam, became an official, and is marrying a noble’s daughter. He won’t come back.”

“Ah?” Granny Sha gaped. “Why marry someone else? Isn’t he going to marry you? The two of you were always together, like one person—nothing could come between you…”

Haichao’s nose stung; she quickly changed the subject. “Eat your sweet potatoes before they get hard.”

The old woman nodded. “All right.” She took a bite, then looked up. “Your mother buried wedding wine by the river. When Little Ye comes back, gather your uncles to dig it up…”

“I told you, he’s not coming back!” Haichao’s voice rose in agitation. “He’s chosen someone else and will never return!”

Granny Sha’s gaze was empty and confused, as if she couldn’t understand.

Haichao regretted raising her voice. What was the use of telling such things to a half-crazed old woman?

She reached out to smooth Granny Sha’s snowy hair and whispered, “Did I scare you? It’s chilly outside, go home early. I’m off to fish.”

But the old woman kept muttering, “A boat girl’s wedding needs wedding wine… Your mother brewed the best, haven’t tasted it in so many years…”

Haichao could listen no more. She hurriedly untied the boat, pushed it into the water, leapt aboard, and poled out to sea.

She could faintly hear Granny Sha’s voice drifting across the water, indistinct: “What a pity… what a pity…”

She rowed nearly a mile out and, glancing back, the old woman was gone; the coast, studded with white shells, had become a jagged black line.

Haichao alternated between poling and letting the current carry her.

She was headed to the nearest pearl bed, ten fathoms deep—a tangle of jagged reefs like an underwater city.

The village elders said that city was home to ancient giant clams, but they must not be touched, for to approach them would draw the wrath of the spirits that guarded the pearls. Only the pearls that overflowed from the city were meant for human hands.

She didn’t know if the stories were true. Since she was born, only two people had ever dared enter the city—her parents—and both had died.

By the time she reached the ‘Place of Broken Hope,’ the sky was turning pale.

Haichao stopped the boat, lay down to rest with her eyes closed, then got up, rolled up her sleeves and pant legs, took her pearl basket and knife, and slipped into the water.

The sea was still cold that spring morning, and she shivered as she entered. But soon she adjusted, moving lithely like a fish, diving deeper.

The eerie outline of the pearl city appeared, wavering underwater like a ghost town abandoned by men.

The villagers said her diving skill surpassed even her mother’s, but she had never approached the Place of Broken Hope.

Nor had she meant to today.

But once in the water, she glimpsed, through a fissure in the rocky cliffs, a pool of light.

It was like the moon, but with a misty glow, soft as the eyes of a girl brimming with tears.

Haichao was transfixed, unable to look away, unconsciously swimming toward the halo.

Just as she was about to cross the threshold of that ‘city gate,’ she suddenly came to herself and realized she’d gone too far. Any farther and the air in her lungs would not get her back to the surface.

She turned, pushed off the slippery rocks with both feet, and swam upward.

Her lungs ached, but at last she saw the dark hull of her boat.

As she broke the surface and clung to the boat, dragging herself aboard, the world seemed to darken—clouds covering the sun.

The wind had risen.

Haichao’s heart sank.

Those who lived by the sea knew this kind of “demon wind”—in a season when storms were not expected, it meant the sea had come to claim a life.

She had no time to rest. Grabbing the oars, she rowed with all her strength, but the waves grew wilder, and a breaker capsized her boat like a leaf in a storm.

She was thrown into the water, barely dodging the overturning hull.

The waves swept the boat away in an instant.

She struggled in the heaving sea, her strength ebbing, her mind growing hazy.

Her vision blurred; the cold, salty water began to feel warm.

A sudden jolt cleared her head; she realized she was sinking, seawater flooding her mouth and nose.

She fought to break the surface. Luckily, another wave turned the boat over again, pushing it back toward her.

She grasped the gunwale and, mustering all her strength, climbed aboard, collapsing on her back, gasping for breath.

She knew she should try to get out of this sea, but her body ached, utterly spent, even her fingers refusing to move.

The wind and waves faded in her ears. The boat stopped tossing. Drowsily, she saw fog rising over the sea.

She had never seen such thick fog—white and endless, blurring sea, sky, and shore until the world seemed to melt away.

The damp mist crept into her mouth and nose, filling her lungs.

She felt herself dissolving into the fog; the ache in her limbs faded, and she slipped into dreamy lethargy, her eyelids drooping.

She knew how deadly it was to fall asleep at sea, but she could not resist the bone-deep exhaustion.