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After Siji Manor had been restored to a fraction of its former glory with a new head of the sect, the nearby town began to prosper again; in spite of his youth, Zhang Chengling had established himself as a proactive and noble sect leader, visiting to do small favours, drive off bandits and charm mothers and uncles alike. Last summer, the market had been idle and quiescent, a far cry from its current bustle. Where people had once lounged against ramshackle stalls, fanning themselves and fretting about making enough coin to last the winter, they now bustled around one another, grabbing onto polished poles to grab the attention of the nearest passerby.
Zhang Chengling felt no pride as he walked through the street, patting an ox on its haunch as it passed and offering a quick greeting to the farmer who drove it. His gaze was drawn only to the things that needed work: where an elderly woman coughed, her gnarled hands trembling as they wove baskets with decades-old familiarity; the splintered barrels that served as stools at the tea shop, still awaiting the supplies to build fresh furniture.
He stopped to talk to the old woman for a moment, pulling out some herbs from his satchel and passing them to her, waving off the baskets she tried to thank him with. However, on the other side of the street, he caught sight of a stall selling combs that gleamed in the sun, carved from the finest bone and some of them studded with jewels. They were regal in their beauty, and Zhang Chengling immediately knew they were what he’d been looking for.
As Chengling peered at the combs, wondering which might best represent his gratitude to Gao Xiaolian for her assistance and loyalty following the disintegration of the Five Lakes Alliance, there was a whisper of pink silk in his periphery. The scent of jasmine reached his nostrils, and a woman with an imposing stature stepped up to the stall beside him, grasping a fan-shaped comb with wide teeth. She held it up to the light, and, drawn by the grace in the line of her arm, Chengling followed her gaze. It was painted with plum blossoms, each petal perfect and round, in vivid black and red ink, and Chengling’s mouth opened before he could stop it, a gasp of surprise escaping his lips.
“Isn’t the craftsmanship exquisite?” she asked, winking at him, and Chengling blushed. The woman was older than him by far, faint shimmers of silver in her pinned hair, but her face was painted with such delicacy that he couldn’t help but admire her beauty. He nodded dumbly, and the woman turned to the shopkeeper, who sat with his back to them, hunch backed as he carved. “Is this ivory?”
“Ox horn,” he grunted, turning his head towards the front of the stall. There was a crack in his voice that spoke of decades spent at the market, hawking his wares until he was hoarse, and Chengling’s heart leapt in sympathy and admiration. It was no wonder that he didn’t make the effort to move his whole body - as little as that might help his business. He stared at the woman with narrowed eyes. “Too common for your tastes, I’m sure.”
Chengling hid behind his sleeve, rocking back onto the balls of his feet. Perhaps the seller’s lack of manners would work in his favour.
“On the contrary. Ox horn is good for the blood, and the hair is where the blood ends. Why shouldn’t I want to keep my hair revitalised in such a way? Besides,” she reached up to pat her hairstyle, two cloudlike buns at the top of her head, holding the comb against one side to show it off. “I’ve been told that nothing looks common on me.”
“Is that so,” the seller said flatly, unconvinced, and Chengling stumbled to intervene when he saw the woman’s expression fall.
“I think it suits you,” he said, cursing his own eagerness to please. None of the other combs had plum blossoms. “It’s - classical? Sophisticated.”
The woman lifted her sleeve to hide her painted lips as she laughed.
“Oh, what a charming young man you are. Perhaps he should hire you as his sales assistant,” she cooed, making Chengling blush again, this time feeling younger than he had in a long time. “Do you really think so? My husband is very discerning, you see, and gives compliments rarely.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Chengling told her earnestly. She looked mournful, and Chengling ached, seeing her expression. When he spoke up, though, she smiled, reaching out to pat his shoulder. Her grip was firm beneath her nail guards, and for a moment Chengling found himself closing his eyes, filled with nostalgia and a longing for the mountains. Then he opened them again, seizing his chance to redirect her attention. “My shifu has always been similar, and I think it’s usually that men don’t notice these things unless they’re right in front of their noses. I know I don’t. That comb is nice, but it’s a bit subtle…if you want him to see and compliment it, why not choose something more extravagant?”
Chengling didn’t notice the seller’s stare as he perused the combs again, eventually settling on a silver pronged comb with ornamental peonies. He held it out to her, biting his lip.
“I think this one is nice.”
“It’s not too young? I might have worn this some twenty years ago…” the woman spoke, turning the comb thoughtfully between her fingers, and then pressed the shopkeeper again. “You’re closer to my twilight years, sir, what’s your opinion?”
Chengling thought that the old man was much further into his twilight years than the woman, but he kept his mouth shut as he looked between them. Hard labour had an effect on the ageing process, after all, and this woman looked like she hadn’t worked a day in her life, other than the crows’ feet around her large, black eyes.
The shopkeeper shrugged. “It’s a wedding comb, for a bride.”
“Perfect!” the woman laughed, clapping her hands together. “I’m to be married, you see.”
Chengling gaped blatantly at the woman’s pinned hair. “But - you said your husband…”
“My husband of many years, my husband-to-be,” she smiled, clearly enjoying his confusion, and Chengling felt a familiar build of frustration. “Every moment we are together is a marriage. Don’t you think that’s romantic?”
The shopkeeper snorted. “It sounds like a lot of hassle and expense.”
“Ah, you are so much like my husband,” the woman said, placing the comb into her hair. Silently, Chengling cheered, beginning to reach for the plum blossom comb she had put down. “He’s cheap as well.”
“Then he probably wouldn’t want you to buy that,” the shopkeeper said, “it’s the most expensive one here.”
“Oh…” she responded, dismayed. “And there are no discounts for a beautiful bride-to-be?”
“There might be, if I could see one.”
The shopkeeper’s gaze was stubborn beneath his wrinkled face, his eyes sparkling with fight that seemed younger than his years. The woman sighed, reaching again for the ox horn comb that Chengling had yet to close his fingers around.
“Perhaps this is all I can have, then…” she sighed. The frantic energy that had been building in Chengling’s throat as he watched the exchange burst forth, and he interrupted quickly.
“I’ll buy it for you!” he said. She looked at him in surprise. “I mean, you’re already wearing it, and it suits you well… I think your husband will be impressed.”
Chengling squirmed under the woman’s piercing gaze. As he struggled to meet her eyes, he thought that there was something ethereal about her. He wondered if huli jing were the type to spend their time in markets, picking fights with elderly shopkeepers.
“That’s a very kind offer,” she said. “I couldn’t possibly…”
“Please, let me,” he insisted, hoping that he had brought enough silver. “I was taught to be a philanthropist.”
She laughed again, bright and youthful, as if years had fallen away from her as a result of Chengling’s kindness.
“Alright then, young man. Since you insist.”
Chengling bowed his thanks, turning to the shopkeeper to purchase the comb. When he pushed the ox horn comb forwards as well, mumbling about the friend he was gifting it to, the old man raised a single, bushy eyebrow, and quoted him a price far less than he was expecting.
“I hope your husband compliments you. Best wishes for your wedding,” he said to the woman, bowing again. She admired the comb in a handheld mirror, offering Chengling a benevolent smile.
“If we see each other again, I shall let you know.” she assured him. As Chengling left the market, hurrying back with the ox horn comb tucked into his sleeve, he felt lighter, eager to retell the story to the disciples at Siji Manor.
At the stall, the woman pouted, leaning over the table to give the old man a dour look. He ignored her, gaze still on the retreating back of the sect head, expression thoughtful.
“Why do you never disguise yourself as more of a beauty?” she whined, tugging on the coarse lapel of his robe. “I can spot you a li away, even without your shoulder blades, but you do yourself such a crime…”
“Why can you never disguise yourself as less, Lao Wen?” the shopkeeper spoke, the timbre of his voice lowering to something deep and sighing. “You attract attention wherever you go like this. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone tries to rob you.”
Wen Kexing smiled, predatory and delighted. “I hope they do. A-Xu, do you think I’m beautiful like this?”
“No,” came Zhou Zishu’s immediate retort. “Go away, pest. I have wares to sell.”
“A-Xu! It’s too late, you admitted it. Run away with me.”
“Haven’t I already?”
Wen Kexing stopped short, an honest blush spreading over his face, and Zhou Zishu grinned.
“Ah-Xu–!”
“Eh, Lao Wen, we’re in public, stop, you’ll get us arrested…!”