Anna stood before the mirror, holding her breath.
She was a beautiful young woman— she never doubted that.
Back in the salons of St. Petersburg, lovers had once praised her in fiery verses— her hair “dense and golden like spun gold,” eyes as “deep and endless as the lakes of Greek nymphs,” lips “full and inviting like a ripe red apple.”
Yet now, the figure reflected back at her in the qipao was a beauty Anna had never imagined, one that had never been defined before.
The woman in the mirror wore a dazzling red Hangzhou Silk qipao, its high-grade silk shimmering like flowing water.
Delicate gold threads embroidered intricate Song Embroidery patterns of blooming peonies and entwined vines —luxurious yet never gaudy.
The high, standing collar hugged her slender neck tightly and smoothly, making her skin look purer than snow, elegant and noble as a swan.
The tailoring of the qipao was exquisite, fitting like a second skin, perfectly contouring every curve— from fragile collarbones to a waist that could be circled with one hand, flowing down the ample hips, and ending at the calves with a gracefully slanted side slit that left much to the imagination.
Anna had never examined her figure so clearly or so frankly before.
Those natural curves, always hidden beneath layers of heavy skirts, stiff whale-bone corsets, and thick petticoats, were now outlined vividly by this extreme Eastern cut, revealing a sculpted, innate beauty.
“My God!” Varona exclaimed, unable to contain herself, her blue eyes wide with amazement. “No more suffering through that damned corset! Your waist… looks so slender, so natural!” Her voice brimmed with incredulous envy.
Anna’s thoughts immediately drifted back to the days shackled by ornate costumes.
To be the center of attention at the ball, she had to endure the pain of ribs compressed and deformed by corsets, heavy petticoats that felt like cages binding her every step. Countless times in the suffocating banquet halls, she nearly fainted.
She always comforted herself: this was the price of beauty.
But now, standing here without paying any such painful price, she looked like a goddess sculpted by a master artist, every curve exuding confident and healthy charm.
She trembled with excitement.
She lightly twirled in front of the mirror, shifting poses, intoxicated by the view from every angle.
Each slight movement caused the red fabric to subtly reveal the slender, pale lines of her calves— this subtle sensuality carried a gentle Oriental charm that immediately captivated her.
The woman in the mirror had a perfect hourglass figure that was utterly captivating.
She dared say even the most dazzling actresses in America didn’t possess her graceful curves and charm.
“This… this is the perfect design God has fashioned through human hands!” Her emerald eyes sparkled with excitement.
Unable to contain her joy, she spun around like a whirlwind of red and warmly threw her arms around the somewhat bewildered seamstress Chen Amei.
“Ты наверняка ведьма! (You must be a witch!)” she exclaimed, voice full of excitement in Russian. “You have the magic to make me so enchanting! Oh my God! I swear I will be the brightest star at the evening banquet!”
Chen Amei froze completely, her body stiff as a board.
In her life, she had never been embraced so enthusiastically by a blonde, blue-eyed foreign woman who exposed her arms and calves.
The torrent of unfamiliar foreign words spinning in her ears left her dizzy, so she hurriedly glanced at Jiang Xi, who stood silently nearby with a gentle smile.
“Master Chen, she’s thanking you,” Jiang Xi’s recently acquired rudimentary Russian came in handy. She smiled, acting as an interpreter, “She says your craftsmanship is magical—it makes her so beautiful.”
Chen Amei’s eyes widened, her cheeks flushed bright red.
Good heavens.
This foreign lady, showing white arms and calves, walking with her chest and hips swaying, made Chen shy just by looking. Yet she was this happy?
Varona’s gaze, however, was already magnetically fixed on Anna’s qipao.
Impatient, she turned to Jiang Xi. “Xi, how much would a qipao like this cost?”
One bolt of Hangzhou Silk cost 66 silver yuan; two bolts made about seven qipaos. Adding the seamstress’s labor, the cost price for one qipao was about 22 taels.
Jiang Xi smiled and quoted a retail price four times that cost, “60 taels— rounding up— that’s roughly $29.”
Overwhelmed, they all exclaimed in unison, full of incredulous delight: “S!”
Raising an eyebrow, Jiang Xi asked in English, “Cheap?”
Anna suppressed her surprise and explained seriously in her carefully trained, almost accent-free English, “Twenty-nine dollars is about the monthly wage of an average American worker. But for wealthy ladies in Manhattan or Long Island, that’s just the price of a bottle of fine Champagne or a pair of lace gloves.”
Jiang Xi’s eyes brightened with understanding.
She switched back to still-awkward but adequate Russian: “The upcoming event is in the Embassy District, potential guests are all of that class. Twenty-nine dollars is probably not expensive—it’s… too cheap.”
Looking at Jiang Xi, Varona’s green eyes were full of disbelief.
Though she always knew Jiang had an extraordinary gift for languages, in just over a week his Russian had progressed from jumping words to fluently expressing complex ideas.
“So, in your opinion,” Jiang Xi asked humbly, his gaze sincere as he looked at the two women who clearly understood Western luxury goods better, “how should we price it?”
Varona smiled, turning her gaze to Anna. “On this question, I believe Anna has more to say than I do.”
Anna hardly hesitated, a fluent stream of luxury brand names flowing from her lips, enumerated like treasured relics.
Yet as she listed these brands, the light in her eyes visibly dimmed, her voice tinged with an unmistakable sadness and self-mockery:
“These top-tier Parisian or New York haute couture salons charge between one hundred and three hundred dollars on average for a single heavily embroidered silk gown.”
Jiang Xi’s expression remained composed, as if he hadn’t noticed her brief shadow of melancholy.
His smile deepened as he replied calmly, “Your information is very helpful, Anna. I think pricing our ‘Peony Pavilion’ series qipao at $188 would be very appropriate.”
The sadness in Anna’s eyes vanished, replaced by a puzzled wonder as she repeated, “Our Peony Pavilion?”
Jiang Xi nodded with a clear, determined gaze, looking at both women in turn.
“Of course. I am the designer and founder of the qipao line. Anna, you are our chief model and global brand ambassador. Varona, your artistic talent will create our most exquisite promotional illustrations. So yes, this is our— shared endeavor, our brand.”
His gaze calmly swept over the two women, free of any impurities or desires, yet like a stone dropped into a dry heart’s lake, instantly stirring huge ripples and fiery passion in their souls.
Anna savored the phrase “our Peony Pavilion,” her heart gripped tightly by a warm hand, beating faster than any fiery vow ever spoken between lovers.
Oh God, she silently shouted within, this is the most wonderful, most moving thing I’ve ever heard!
She had once thought that the gilded past, those years of sumptuous gowns, had been buried forever under the smoke of war and the dust of exile, and that the rest of her life would be a dull, cautious survival.
But now, in this foreign tailor’s shop filled with the fragrance of silk, she clearly saw a glimmer of golden hope shining through the future.
Varona’s eyes also gleamed brightly, a long-lost creative passion and zest for life flowing back into her parched body.
Since her parents had died in the war, since she had been treated like cargo shoved into dreadful refugee camps and nearly auctioned off, she thought her soul was dead— that she was only a numb shell.
Yet now, that shell was filled anew with burning vitality.
Chen Amei stood dumbfounded beside them.
She understood none of these foreign words, only that Mr. Jiang was babbling on, and suddenly the two foreign ladies seemed struck by some spell— they hugged, laughed and cried wildly, then bowed deeply to Jiang in unison, their fervor making Chen’s skin crawl.
She could not fathom these foreign eccentric manners.
……….
When Anna finally stepped out of the low doorway of the tailor’s shop, dressed in the stunning red qipao embroidered with gold peonies, she caused an unprecedented sensation in the street.
The lazy evening city noise seemed to freeze instantly.
The once noisy alley fell abruptly silent.
The vendors’ calls, neighbors’ greetings, children’s play— all the raucous sounds were cut off as if by invisible scissors with a sharp “snap.”
Countless eyes— astonished, curious, disdainful, even shocked—turned from all directions to focus on the foreign woman with snow-white skin, red lips, and radiant golden hair, clad in an ultra-fitted qipao with a high slit, her bare arms and calves revealed.
Vegetable seller Old Zhang’s mouth fell open, forgetting to call out; his pipe slipped from his lips.
Several young women in two-piece jackets and skirts hurriedly lowered their heads, cheeks flushed, whispering but sneaking glances at the daring outfit.
A woman holding a child gasped in horror, hastily covering the child’s eyes but unable to look away.
A few men in short clothes stared wide-eyed, then blushed and turned away amid their companions’ laughter, yet couldn’t help stealing side glances at the swaying, slender figure.
A low buzz of repressed gossip spread like a swarm of mosquitoes:
“Oh my! How scandalous! Arms and legs all showing!”
“Foreign women are just so free…”
“This… this is becoming the new norm!”
“Look at her hips sway… it’s a shame to our ancestors!”
Though Jiang Xi had warned Anna beforehand, he couldn’t help but glance anxiously at her, worried she might not withstand the blatant scrutiny and criticism.
But to his surprise, Anna’s reaction was remarkably calm.
She clearly felt those gazes and whispers but only lifted her chin slightly.
Her green eyes showed no trace of fear— instead, a brighter, more dazzling confidence kindled within.
She even deliberately slowed her pace, meeting those looks head-on, raising the gloved hand to tuck a stray lock of golden hair behind her ear, revealing a captivating smile tinged with a hint of playful defiance.
“My body is a masterpiece of nature,” she whispered to Jiang Xi in a calm, proud tone, as if stating an undeniable fact. “There is nothing to be ashamed of.”
Then, bathed in a flood of astonished, disdainful, and curious stares, she strode confidently and gracefully down the street like a queen on her own red carpet.
Her waist curved perfectly by the qipao, she walked with a gentle sway yet firm step toward the waiting rickshaw.
The red dress blazed brightly against the dull alley, like a fearless flame burning through the grayness.
Jiang Xi admired Anna’s proud silhouette.
Women’s arms and legs, men’s arms and legs—there was no difference.
In the future, Chinese women would also confidently and openly reveal their arms and legs just like Anna, showing off their figures without fearing being branded as loose women.
……………..
“Grandma, madam, we’ve arrived at the Astor House Hotel,” the rickshaw puller called politely as he stopped steadily.
Jiang Xi was the first to alight, turning gentlemanly to extend his hand to Anna.
Anna gracefully took his hand and stepped down slowly.
As soon as she stood straight, a dazzling scene opened before her eyes.
A magnificent six-story Western-style building in classic British Victorian architecture stood proudly by the Huangpu River, like a crystal palace descended to earth.
Countless windows glowed with bright, warm light, outlining the building’s contours clearly.
It echoed the architectural ensemble of the Bund in the distance, weaving the sleepless dream of old Shanghai.
China’s first electric light had been lit here.
This was the renowned Astor House Hotel, the first Western hotel in Shanghai and China, where countless dignitaries, officials, and wealthy merchants had stayed— a living legend itself.
In front of the hotel, a steady stream of traffic passed— luxury carriages, the latest Ford automobiles, and elaborately decorated rickshaws busily weaving through.
Well-dressed Chinese and foreign guests chatted as they ascended the steps.
Doormen in crisp uniforms respectfully opened heavy glass revolving doors for every guest.
The air was thick with the mingled scents of Champagne, cigars, and fine perfumes, accompanied by the gentle strains of a live jazz band, showcasing ultimate luxury and international flair.
Anna’s red qipao embroidered with golden peonies stood out extraordinarily in this milieu dominated by Western evening gowns and changshan.
A foreign lady just stepping out of a Ford stopped in her tracks.
She appeared about forty years old, wearing a finely tailored dark green velvet dress, a lustrous pearl necklace adorning her neck, exuding noble elegance.
Her eyes immediately locked onto Anna’s qipao, shining with undisguised admiration and awe.
She almost forgot her manners and quickened her steps to approach, speaking in English with a faint French accent, “Oh, pardon me, madam!”
Anna and Jiang Xi halted at her voice.
The lady in green looked at Anna eagerly, her gaze lingering appreciatively on the qipao’s collar, embroidery, and fluid tailoring, unable to hide her excitement.
“I must say, your gown is absolutely stunning, breathtaking— so elegant, so unique!”
Curious and eager, she pressed, “I have never seen such exquisite design at any haute couture salon in Paris! May I ask… where did you acquire this masterpiece? And if it’s not too bold to ask, what would be the price range?”
As she spoke, several Western noblewomen came over, equally entranced by the qipao, their eyes filled with the same curiosity.
Feeling their admiring gazes fixed on her garment, Anna instinctively straightened her back and smiled with practiced grace and reserved beauty.
She did not answer immediately but turned her head elegantly, passing the floor to Jiang Xi with a hint of pride in her emerald eyes.
Jiang Xi stepped forward calmly, nodding slightly to the inquiring lady, replying in clear, fluent English, “Thank you for your kind words, madam. This gown is from our upcoming haute couture line, ‘Peony Pavilion,’ personally custom-made by Imperial tailors, and only one exists.”
Imperial tailors, personally custom-made, only one piece.
The lady in green breathed a little heavier.
For every woman present, those words were irresistible.
They meant uniqueness.
They fulfilled a woman’s vanity to the fullest.
At that moment, her gaze on Anna’s qipao could almost be described as fanatical.