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墨書 Inktalez
The hem of my Qipao brushed against the Soap Pod water that still bubbled with blue smoke at my ankles as I hurried along the weathered Shikumen wall. The neon lights of Ballymen pierced through the night of the French Concession, while a Rickshaw Puller shouted "Make way," the sound of his bell clanging against the polished leather shoes of the bronze doorman.
I pulled out the pocket watch Master Zhou had given me—it was a quarter to three. The chain, wrapped in deep blue silk thread, pressed into my palm, matching the temperature of the bruises on Boss Mei's throat.
"Sir, would you like to buy some flowers?"
The Granny selling White Orchids suddenly grasped my sleeve, her gnarled fingers tapping three times on her basket. Beneath the crushed petals lay a theater ticket, marked for the Second Floor Private Room where Boss Mei had been murdered that very night.
When I looked up, the Granny had vanished into the crowd, and in her basket, a White Begonia was speckled with bits of Cinnabar, reminiscent of the shattered flames of an eternal lamp in a mourning hall.
As jazz mingled with the scent of perfume wafting through the door cracks, I was busy patching a tear in my suit with oiled paper from Crab Roe Soup Dumplings. On the dance floor, Qipao skirts swirled like golden waves, while crystal chandeliers swayed, making my head spin.
Troupe Leader Zhang's Major's Overcoat swept past the bar, vodka splashing onto an Enchanting Woman's Fox Fur Shawl—an emerald green fur coat that had clearly been Boss Lu's birthday gift to Boss Mei last month.
"Do you know?" The bartender paused in his glass polishing, his silver tray reflecting the profile of a man in a kimono seated at a booth. "That Eastern Guest always adds three drops of Absinthe to his whiskey."
His fingertip brushed against my hand, his sleeve embroidered with Gold Thread in a tadpole pattern that matched the designs on a jade disc. The liquor crawled up the glass walls in eerie arcs, reminiscent of Master Zhou's serpent-shaped smoke rings rising from his pipe.
As the music shifted to "Ye Lai Xiang," Troupe Leader Zhang's hand slipped into the Fox Fur Shawl. A glint of cold light suddenly reflected off a woman's earlobe adorned with jade—missing a crescent-shaped piece that perfectly matched a pair in Boss Mei's Makeup Box.
Bending down to pick up a handkerchief, I caught sight of Troupe Leader Zhang's boots smeared with Indigo Powder, identical to the Soap Foam in the Tailor Shop's washbasin.
The pianist slammed down on the bass keys. The man in the kimono stood up to adjust his belt; as his Chrysanthemum Pattern Pocket Watch chain swept across the table, it knocked over a Salt Shaker—salt grains spilling into an "Lan" character that aligned perfectly with bloodstains on incense ash at the mourning hall.
I pressed my back against a column; the cool marble veins seeped with the sweet and pungent scent of opium paste. In a daze, I saw Boss Mei twirling beneath a spinning disco ball, her Gold Thread hem catching on Troupe Leader Zhang's Azure Sky and White Sun Medal pinned to his chest.
"Has Xiao Chi Lao had too much to drink?"
The Enchanting Woman suddenly leaned closer, her crimson nails digging into my throat. The bitter almond taste lingering on her lips was reminiscent of blood-streaked phlegm from Old Qin Master's spittoon.
As her skirt brushed past me, I caught sight of her thigh bound with a Browning—its handle wrapped in faded silk sleeves that were unmistakably those Boss Mei had discarded on the day of Guifei Drunk.
The rhythm of the tango suddenly quickened.
Troupe Leader Zhang wrapped his arm around the woman and moved towards the side door, the hem of his Major's Overcoat brushing against the waiter’s tray—three stemmed glasses stacked in a triangle, which was Boss Lu's signal.
I slipped into the dressing room, my fingertips grazing the hangers filled with Costumes, when I suddenly heard the sound of the door lock turning.
In the mirror, a corner of a gray squirrel fur coat reflected back at me, overlapping with the shadow outside Master Zhou's room.
"Yun Sheng used to love hiding here," a hoarse voice came from beneath the wall of feathers, as Old Qin Master pressed his pipe against my lower back.
He lifted the Costume from Youyuan Jingmeng, revealing a hidden compartment where half a Red Nail Stain nail lay, its jagged edge resembling wolf teeth—identical to the strings that had strangled Boss Mei.
The melody of the waltz abruptly shifted. I pressed against the peony-patterned wallpaper and found the ventilation shaft; Troupe Leader Zhang's low, cold laughter mixed with Dongyanghua echoed through the pipes.
When the word "jade disc" struck my eardrum, my stomach twisted suddenly—the missing Tiger Tally was heating up in my sock, burning like the porridge that Legitimate Mother had poured into my collar years ago.
The shadows of the iron grating of the ventilation shaft twisted unexpectedly. A man in a kimono was unfurling a scroll below, and the yellowed script of Mu Dan Ting was splattered with brown stains.
Troupe Leader Zhang's saber flicked open the cover page, and a gilded pen traced over "Ethereal Judgment" on a folded page—the handwriting identical to Boss Mei's will where it stated "must not be buried."
A woman's delicate laughter pierced through the darkness. The moment I pulled out my Browning, a sound of shattering glass came from the direction of the booth—
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