The city of Baohe greeted the dawn. The first rays of morning sunlight slid across the tiled rooftops, glinting in cracks along the walls, and peeked through windows. People woke up, yawning wide, stepped out of their cramped homes, and went about their business. Thin curls of smoke began to rise from courtyards, blending the scent of burning kindling with the damp morning air. The breeze filled with the aroma of food — yesterday’s porridge reheated over the fire and flat, unleavened bread.

  The higher the sun climbed, the livelier the city became. Loaded carts rumbled and squeaked as they rolled by, splattering mud. Shops and taverns opened their shutters with a clatter, letting out the smell of old wine and grease. Small vendors, hunched under the weight of their goods, hurried toward the market, exchanging hoarse shouts along the way.

  “Make way! Make way!”

  “Watch where you’re going!”

  The streets near the docks slowly filled with stalls and stands. They lined the roadsides, forming a narrow, chaotic corridor. From grills came thick, enticing steam, while cheap pastries and snacks filled the air with the acrid scent of fried dough and spices.

  Then came the flow of dock workers, porters and sailors with weathered faces. Some stopped to spend a few coins on a cheap meal to fill their stomachs before a hard day’s work. Shipowners and overseers would wring every ounce of strength from them before sunset.

  With each passing minute, more people appeared at the market, and with them came the growing noise of chatter, the clatter of carts, the cries of traders trying to lure customers and outshout one another.

  “Fresh fish! Straight from the nets!”

  “Lamb pies! We eat them ourselves!”

  From restaurants and taverns came buyers looking for fresh produce, haggling loudly for a few coins’ discount. Sweaty porters pushed through the crowd with massive baskets strapped to their backs, while small-time vendors carried vegetables on shoulder poles, live birds tied by their feet, or baskets of eggs. The medley of sounds blended into the unmistakable hum of a bustling market.

  Amid this endless stream of people, like tiny chips of wood in a rushing river, two little girls carried a large wicker basket. Water dripped from it, leaving a trail of wet footprints that were quickly trampled by dozens of feet. Their rough, baggy clothes hung loose, like those of street urchins, but they were clean and neatly mended. Walking with firm steps, they made their way toward the street where the fishmongers stood, sometimes swaying uncertainly as the crowd pressed around them.

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  The basket hung from a long pole, one end held by the older sister, the other by the younger. The faint scent of river water and fresh catch trailed behind them. They stopped beside a stall selling sea crabs, and the older girl cast a businesslike glance over the neighboring merchant’s stand, a mustached man in a greasy apron, then nodded to her sister. They set the basket down and lifted the woven lid. Inside, on a bed of damp seaweed, a few large fish flapped weakly, proving their freshness.

  This part of the market, where shells crunched underfoot and puddles of fish blood gleamed, was reserved for fishmongers. The girls took a small empty patch of ground, feeling the curious and in some cases, unfriendly stares of the neighbors. It was their first time here, and though they tried to look serious, they were nervous. The younger girl frowned fiercely, ready for trouble, while the elder smiled at passersby and pointed her small hand toward the basket.

  “River fish?” asked the vendor at the next stall.

  “Mm-hm,” the older sister nodded.

  Though their father had left them money, they were used to being frugal and avoided spending extra coins. Life had taught them thrift, and more than that, they feared being alone again, feared waking from the blissful dream of the last few weeks to find themselves once more hungry and miserable in that wine-soaked house. The memory of that life frightened them more than anything, and they didn’t want to return to it.

  When the girls realized that their traps brought in more fish than they could eat, they decided to sell the extra. But they brought their entire catch, not keeping a single fish for themselves. They came to the market in their old rags, mended by a kind neighbor in exchange for a large pike. The clothes their father had given them they kept carefully, only wearing them after washing thoroughly in the river.

  Unfortunately, they didn’t understand the importance of appearance in trade. If not for their round, rosy cheeks, they would have looked no different from the street orphans the locals distrusted and despised. No one believed that children could catch fresh fish, and so they didn’t bother stopping. People glanced briefly and walked on.

  Imitating the fish sellers, the older sister began calling out to customers in her thin, trembling voice. It took effort to overcome her shyness, but her attempts drew only smiles or condescending smirks from passersby. Business went poorly — no one showed interest in their catch.

  “Your fish will start to spoil by noon,” warned the vendor next to them. “Better take it home and eat it yourselves before it goes bad.”

  “All right,” the girl replied, “but it’s still far from noon.”

  “Pfft,” the vendor snorted.

  “How much for the fish?” asked a tall old man with one arm.

  “Big ones are ten coins, small ones eight, sir,” the girl said brightly.

  The sisters were used to taking care of themselves and already had a rough sense of market prices. They hadn’t yet learned to read well, but they could count coins and living near the port, they knew how much sea fish cost, though their river fish sold much cheaper. A few copper coins seemed like a fortune to them.

  “Hm,” the old man smiled, seeing the hopeful sparkle in her eyes. Then, raising his voice so everyone nearby could hear, he exclaimed, “River fish for only ten coins! How cheap! I’ll take two!”

  His booming voice momentarily drowned out the market noise and startled the fishmonger beside him. People began to turn their heads; a few women came closer to see. The fish in the net flapped their tails, gills opening and closing as they gasped for air. Each one looked big and meaty. The girls froze in surprise, but the old man’s kind, smiling face quickly put them at ease.