She arranged herself on the cushion, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. This early in the season the air was chilly, and her new qipao banner dress left her arms bare and cold. She was thankful that the current style called for ankle-length hems and a high collar, at least; she’d have frozen near solid otherwise. Her reflection could be seen dimly in the windowpane, ghostly, as in a half-silvered mirror, her faint likeness drifting past the shops and houses and temples of the darkened streets of Fanchuan. She almost couldn’t recognize herself, so complete was the transformation from her typical appearance. Her hair was arranged in tight coils on the top of her head and lacquered in place, her face powdered, and her eyebrows painted high on her broad forehead. Gamine felt that this new appearance made her look so much older than thirteen; she could almost believe that one day she might be a grand lady like her mistress. Gamine was alone in the coach with Madam Chauviteau-Zong—a rare occasion.
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