I Was Once Empress

In Tofu Alley in the West Market of the capital lived a woman named A Ying. She had delicate features, but always wore a coarse-cloth skirt washed pale with age. Every day, before dawn, she set up a stall at the street corner to sell homemade sour plum drink. The neighbors only knew that she had come to the capital with a stream of refugees three years ago, with no family or friends. Still, she was as tough as a well rope. Last winter, during a heavy snowfall, a patrolman’s thugs overturned her stall. She crouched in the snow, picking up the broken porcelain pieces one by one. The next day, she set up her stall again, this time with a patch on her sleeve.

No one knew that the plain silver bangle around A Ying’s wrist had a tiny character, “Zhao,” engraved on the inside. No one had ever seen her staring blankly at the half-dead orchid on her windowsill late at night, either, or noticed the trace of sorrow in her eyes as her fingertips brushed its leaves, a sorrow that did not belong to the ordinary world. Once, Aunt Zhang from next door teased her, “A Ying, you’re so pretty. You ought to marry into a rich family.” She merely lowered her head to wipe a coarse porcelain bowl and said softly, “Someone like me is lucky just to live in peace.”