With her looks, she could never earn enough money to pay for all that. Peony wished the magistrate had sentenced her to death. Day after day she slaved at the Half Moon. Night after night she spent in the foreign settlements, bedding the only men who would have her: stinking Chinese, Arab, and Korean sailors and merchants. The high prices they paid were not enough to cover the costs Minami charged against Peony’s earnings. Her continued thefts made life bearable, but extended her punishment. And the worst day of all had come two years ago, when Minami ordered her to service the Dutchmen whose ship had just arrived.

Crossing the bridge to Deshima, Peony had tried to jump into the sea, to drown herself and thus avoid the disgrace of bedding a barbarian. But the guards restrained her. They led her to the house where the Dutch trade director waited. Peony struggled and sobbed. The guards threw her into the barbarian’s room and locked the door.

The barbarian rose from his seat. Peony shrank back against the door, fearing his strange blue eyes, light hair, and immense size. His odor sickened her. Helplessly she waited for him to assault her the way other foreigners did after long journeys without women. He would savage her with those huge hands and strong teeth. His huge organ would tear her insides apart. Peony suppressed a scream, fearing that resistance might provoke cruelty.

But the barbarian merely pointed to himself and said, “Jan Spaen.” Then he pointed to her, a question in his strange eyes.

“Peony,” she whispered, surprised. Clients never asked her name; she was just a convenience to them.

Jan Spaen went to the table and poured two cups from a flask. “Een brandewijn?” he said, offering one to her.

And clients never offered her a drink, as they did the prettier women. She accepted the cup, careful not to touch his hand. Maybe the liquor would give her courage. When Jan Spaen sat on his raised bed and motioned for her to join him, she perched as far from him as possible. He raised his cup to her, then drank. Hesitantly she followed suit. The potent foreign liquor burned her throat. Heat flushed her body. Suddenly light-headed, she giggled despite her fear.

Jan Spaen proffered the flask.

“Yes, please,” Peony said eagerly.

They drank again, and she relaxed. The barbarian wasn’t so bad after all. He didn’t seem to notice her ugliness. His smell no longer seemed so awful, either. Though she knew he didn’t understand Japanese, she began to flirt with him.

“Master is so kind,” she cooed. “And so strong and virile.”

The barbarian answered in his own tongue. Their attempts at conversation struck them both as hilarious; they laughed together. Peony, the usual butt of all jokes, marveled at the unexpected pleasure of shared humor.