My grandfather says that I was bestowed "Mimi" for my small name because I've been a chattering menace since birth. Most Mimis are named after the character for rice, mĭ mĭ, because they're so adorable that they could just be eaten up. I was named after the sound that incessant birds make when they're perched over the city walls of Chang'an in the morning: mimimimimimi—
"Mimi, stand up straight."
I adjust in an instant. I've learned to behave when I'm working the shop, at least. Grandfather wouldn't boot me out, but Mother comes around often to remind him that he really ought to, so I'm on my best behavior. Sixteen-year-old girls should be sitting nicely at home sewing something beautiful, Mother says. Instead of greeting customers by flashing all my teeth and trying to sell every product on the shelves in one breath. It's not that I don't like sewing too. I do. I just have a lot of hours in the day and a lot of teeth when I smile. The customers deserve to see my teeth.
Grandfather glances over again. He’s in his chair by the entrance, watching the street. Every morning the main thoroughfare goes through the same routine: The sun rises over Chang’an’s walls, the birds flock onto the roof tiles to join the early bustle, the carts selling flat cakes and egg bing push out to greet the shopkeepers opening their doors. Today, the city is even more raucous than usual, abuzz while it begins setting up for the annual Lantern Festival. Some years it’s a longer affair; this year, it’s a one-day extravaganza. Although we’re not participating as vendors, I’ve been bouncing on my toes since I woke up, thinking about the candy I’m going to buy.
Maybe I can't stand still, but at least my spine is straight now. Grandfather nods in approval. "Isn't that so much better?"
"I suppose," I allow. "But it seems horribly arbitrary that we've decided spines should be straight. If humans were built to feel more relaxed while slouched, then we should change the custom."
A small bird lands at the shop entrance. It hops right up to Grandfather, sniffing at his feet.
"No need to change humanity before noon, Mimi."
"I didn't ask to change humanity, I asked to change society."
The bird chirps. Slowly, Grandfather runs his fingers through his long beard, considering my correction. He's done this since I was a baby: I would hand him a shaker filled with uncooked rice insisting that he needed the entertainment too, and he would examine it sagely, giving it two shakes with utmost gravity. I feel like the smartest person in the world with my grandfather. No one else takes me seriously like he does.
"Fair," he concedes. "Are you ready for your task today?"
"Yes!"
The bird flies off in fright over my loud volume. Grandfather gives me a chiding glance; I pay no mind. Grandfather never misses a day in the shop, but he's getting old and he needs people around to help out. Xiao Bao is the actual hired assistant, except Xiao Bao isn't as good as I am at dusting the top shelves or explaining to customers why our tricolored glazed pottery is better than every other store's in Chang'an.
"Take this." Grandfather leans over the side of his chair, reaching for a case on the floor. His chair creaks and groans in protest, the wooden hinges older than he is. Just as he's lifting the case, Grandfather winces, and I hurry forward in a rush. He doesn't make any audible protest, letting his chair complain for him, but I know what's wrong.
"Are you-"
"All is well, Mimi," Grandfather assures before I can finish my question. Nonetheless, he makes a slow exhale, smoothing his palm over his chest.
Grandfather doesn't like to talk about it, but he's having heart problems. Healer Pei is in and out of the house often, giving Grandfather herbs and cleansing his internal system from blockages. While the problems persist, Grandfather can't go anywhere other than home and the shop, and even when he's manning the shop, he needs to be sitting down.
"Here," he says, passing me the case.
I suspect he is distracting me from asking further, but it works. I open the case, finding only red lining inside, and immediately shake it around as though that might summon an item I can't see.
"There's nothing here."
"Yes, Mimi. Mrs. Wu borrowed an heirloom for her son's wedding last month—I’d like you to fetch it back for me." He still sounds a little pained. I know if I ask, though, he'll deny it. "Do not tuck it under your arm willy-nilly. The glass horse is very fragile."
I go still. "The glass horse? That's the heirloom on loan?"
Grandfather pats my elbow. "Yes, yes. Off you go now."
The glass horse is usually on display with our ancestral shrines, in a part of the house where I don’t often go . . . which is probably why I haven’t noticed it hasn’t been there lately. I’m hardly to blame.