Twilight, like crushed ink, spilled along the contours of Qinglan Mountain and into the folds of Southern Xinjiang. As Ye Fan and the three women stepped into Baihua Town, the last thread of sunset was grazing the old banyan tree at the town entrance, dyeing the bronze bells hanging among the branches a honeyed hue.
"It smells good." Chǔ Hóngzhuāng sniffed, the silver ornaments in her hair chiming softly as she bounced. "It's a mix of datura and dragon's blood tree. They grow quite a few poisonous herbs in this town." Tilting her head, she glanced at the flaming red bird-of-paradise flowers blooming brightly at the street corner, her fingertips unconsciously stroking the Gu pouch at her waist—a custom-made pouch crafted from centennial Golden Silkworm cocoons designed to block out most foreign odors.
Su Qingxue steadied the pipa at her waist, the tear-mole at the corner of her eye flickering in the twilight. Looking at the small stall hanging embroidered sachets by the street, she suddenly gave a light laugh. "Little sister Hóngzhuāng smells poisonous herbs, but I smell osmanthus. The women in this town probably all know a thing or two about the art of blending fragrances."
Chapter 117