Nightsong. V.J. Banis
the next. At the amah’s suggestion, she attempted to learn the intricate embroidery with which many of the women entertained themselves, but she soon found that she had no aptitude for such work, and she grew tired of constantly pricking her fingers.
It was while strolling through the gardens that Lydia one day came upon one of the servant women kneeling at a low table. She had spread before her an array of dishes and containers, and she was carefully measuring ingredients from one to another. She might have been preparing a recipe, except that she was far from the kitchen.
To Lydia’s further puzzlement, the servant shook one of the rose bushes close at hand, sending a shower of petals to the ground; she then collected the fallen petals putting them into one of the containers. When she saw Lydia, however, she paused in her efforts and made a low obeisance.
“What are you making?” Lydia asked.
Smiling shyly, the woman handed her a small vial. Thinking she was to taste its contents, Lydia raised it to her lips, which earned her a startled look and a giggle.
“No, no, this,” the woman said; taking the vial, she brought it to her nose and sniffed deeply, then handed it once again to Lydia.
It was perfume. Lydia was reminded at once of Peter MacNair and the cosmetics he had been collecting to take back to America with him. She knew that Chinese women used a great many such things; even the servant women here in the palace whitened their faces with powder. She had been curious, but this was the first time she had actually seen their manufacture.
She looked down at the table at which the woman was working and saw that various containers held a variety of such items. There was the white face powder, made, she had been told, from rice, and a satiny cream that smelled of almond blossoms, and yet another vial in which she could see flower petals floating.
“Will you teach me to make these?” she asked.
The servant giggled again, until she saw that the foreigner was indeed serious; properly chastened, she nodded in mute compliance.
* * * * * * *
Lydia was grateful at last to have a hobby to occupy her time, and one which would not cause Ke Loo to lose face, for the making of lotions and perfumes was one of the few pastimes practiced by women of the aristocratic class. It was an ancient art, and though there were certain basic procedures and ingredients, each woman had her own secret formulas, which were jealously guarded, and often handed down as treasures from mother to daughter. The royal perfume maker, she was told, was one of the most favored in the Empress’s retinue, but one hapless maid had been put to death for merely mentioning the name of one of the secret ingredients.
As her pregnancy advanced, Lydia found herself more and more absorbed in creating her own special scents and creams. The gardens of the palace were filled with myriad blossoms, each of which could be used for a scent, or blended with others in infinite variations.
Her hours were now filled with the scents of almond and myrrh, lemon and tangerine, patchouli and sandalwood. With the first tentative approach of spring came new blossoms and new variations.
And with spring, too, came her child. The warm fragrant breezes of April were wafting through her little house when she felt the first of the pains.
“Send to my husband to say that my time has come,” she directed the nurse, putting aside a perfume that she had been blending. “And then fetch the midwife.”
For a brief moment she allowed herself the luxury of wishing for her mother. How comforting it would be to have her here now, to hold her hand and listen to her reassuring voice. It was the first time she had thought of her parents in weeks.
“I mustn’t dwell on such things,” she thought, stubbornly thrusting the thought from her.
* * * * * * *
Her labor was prolonged and severe. It was as if her child well knew what difficult circumstances awaited, and resisted being thrust into so harsh a world.
It was done at last. Lydia lay in a semi-stupor induced by some drug the midwife had given her, and heard the first angry cries. She opened her eyes, willing away the effects of the drug.
“Bring him to me,” she said, struggling to lift her head from the pillow.
The midwife and the amah exchanged glances. Lydia’s heart skipped a beat.
“What is it?” she asked, fear making her voice shrill. “Is something wrong with him?”
The amah bent over the bed to wipe her brow with a wet cloth. “You must rest,” she said.
Lydia slapped her hand away. “No. I want to see my baby. Bring him to me.”
The Chinese women looked at one another again. The amah nodded her head. The midwife wrapped the baby in cloth and came to the bed.
Lydia took the child in her arms, her eyes wide with fright as she looked him over. He was Chinese, that was her first thought, seeing the straight black hair, the slightly tilted eyes, squeezed shut now, the mouth wide with his cries.
“Why, there’s nothing wrong with him at all,” she said, breaking into a grin. “He’s as sound as a dollar.”
The amah bent and pulled open the cloth wrapping the baby. Lydia glanced down. His hands were balled into fists, his little legs were kicking furiously....
Her heart sank. “A girl,” she said. She could hardly credit her eyes. She’d prayed so much, she’d been so certain. “It’s a girl.”
In the next moment she was overcome by a wave of shame. She had been so long with the Chinese that she had begun to think like them. As if it mattered to her! It was a baby, her baby, and she loved it.
As for Ke Loo, she’d make him see, it couldn’t matter that much to him. After all, when the peasants put their daughters out to die, it was because they couldn’t afford to feed and raise a girl, just to see her go off to work for someone else, but Ke Loo had no worries over money. He could afford a girl child just as well as a boy. She’d make him understand.
She wrapped the blanket around her daughter again, and hugged her close.
My daughter, she thought, my own child. For the first time since she had been betrayed by Peter MacNair, she felt joy in her heart, and was glad to be alive.
“I shall call you...,” she said aloud, and paused. She had been about to call her Sarah, after her mother; but she couldn’t, not a child fathered by Ke Loo, who had left her mother to die.
A gentle breeze brushed her cheek. “I shall call you April,” she said, laughing with delight. “April, my child of the spring.”
There was a noise in the garden, and Ke Loo came in. Lydia’s joy faded as she saw his face; he knew already.
He barked a command and the amah fairly snatched the baby from Lydia’s arms, rushing to take it to the father. Ke Loo threw the blanket to the floor, holding the infant up for his inspection.
He swore aloud and shoved the baby back at the amah. “Drown it,” he said.
“No,” Lydia cried, struggling up from her bed.
Ke Loo ignored her, signaling the amah to carry out his instructions. She started for the garden with the screaming baby.
Lydia staggered after her for a few steps but she was too weak to run, and even should she reach her, the amah had no choice but to obey Ke Loo.
“Stop it,” Lydia cried. She looked around and saw the midwife’s knife lying on a table near the bed. Without pausing to consider, she snatched it up and held it to her throat.
“Stop it, I say, or I’ll kill myself!”
The amah stopped in her tracks, looking from Lydia to Ke Loo. The midwife gasped with horror.
“I mean it,” Lydia said, speaking to her husband in Chinese. “If the baby dies, I shall die too.”
She