The idea of this story came to me after reading a book called the 'Peach Blossom Pavilion', which takes place in 20th century China. After relating it to Kuroshitsuji in some way, staying up too late at night while discussing random nonsense with my friends, and getting high off the idea of break (no, I was not literally getting 'high'), I finally managed to write this.

Recommended Listening: Mad World by Michael Andrews and Gary Jules

'Kuroshitsuji 'belongs to Toboso Yana

Calligraphy. Poetry. Music. Painting. These are the four arts of a courtesan. Your life is nothing but a show; use your beauty and talent to awaken the lust that lives deep within the soul of each man; intrigue him with your skills and with your splendor. You may impress him, charm him, seduce him, but you may never fall in love. Love is a luxury few can afford, dearest one; but lust is a currency that travels through all oceans, understands all languages. It is an art that everyone understands, but few master.

And to be a courtesan, Spring Jade, is to learn to perfect all arts. Including the art of the body, and of desire. Understand it, and it will one day lead you to great joy.

Once, my life was that of an empress'.

I was born on the twenty-ninth day of the third lunar month, five years after the birth of Emperor Guangxu. Two years ago, I belonged to one of the most prestigious families in Shanghai. I was the youngest daughter to the noble Li family; the only daughter of the eldest son. Consequently, I was the youngest child in each of five children my father and his wife, my mother, had conceived. I was pampered and coddled over and treated like a princess by all: my mother, my father, my aunts, my uncles, my brothers, my cousins, my servants - even by my father's three concubines.

For centuries, my family had produced generation upon generation of the highest scholars. My father was one; my oldest brother, Dalang, was one. The emperor had even read my father's eight-legged essay. Hence this, two of my three uncles were also scholars, each younger then my father, whom lived in their own houses close to ours. Because of this, our family was very wealthy, however much of our money also came from the silk factories we owned and my youngest uncle managed.

I was the last child of my father and mother. I was the youngest in the household, and lived a very indulgent lifestyle. I was highly educated, I was intelligent, and I was gorgeous, despite my young age.

I thank the men in my family for my education. Especially my father. Since I was just two, my father, and even my eldest brothers, would sit me upon their laps and tell my stories of the old days; they would read to me poetry by the greatest authors of all time; they would get me to copy down poems and recite sutras; and would teach me how to write calligraphy. I pride myself in my calligraphy writing; it is delicate and neat, the characters small and refined. I can still remember spending my winter days in my family's library, pouring over ancient, beautiful Chinese literature; immersing myself within a culture so lost in time.

However, on the contrary, I was drilled in the many lessons on how to be a proper woman by my mother, my aunts, and older, female cousins. I was taught to play the guqin and er-hu, to paint, and to embroider and do needlework properly. The arts of a woman, my mother would say. I tremble as I think of the words now, for they are unjustly right.

Because my family was so Chinese in their traditions, I had an arranged marriage. But it was not to a man I did not know; no, it was to a young boy I had known all my life. His name was Guan Jianyu, and his father was very good friends with my own. He was a handsome little thing, Jianyu was, with a full mouth that was shaped like a bow, a high nose, and an elegant oval-shaped face. His skin, I remember, was white as snow, his eyes wide and as black as oil. He was a year older then me, and we were incredibly close. Whenever his father would bring him over, we would sneak out together into the gardens and play under the sunlight, or dance under falling blossoms. I miss him terribly. I had always imagined our life together… But enough of that now. Those days are long gone.

Two years ago, I had been kidnapped by the hands of triad kidnappers. In the three weeks that I had been at their mercy, I was transported from place to place, where I had been exhausted from my malnutrition, from lack of sun, and from lack of interaction of the outside world. I had been beaten, been tortured, yet never defiled by the dirty shafts of my captors. I still remember those days with a terrified shame; and though I long to forget them, their touches have seemed to bury themselves deep into me, and even with the longest showers or the most desperate scrubbings of my body, they still seem to stay, as though imprinted onto my skin and rooted into my soul.

After those three long weeks, I found myself sold to an opium den, ripe in my virginity and youth. Though badly bruised and almost half-dead, they still accepted me with open arms, and a large sum was paid for my contract. This place is called the Pearl Pagoda. Yet, this opium den was not in my homeland; instead, it is in a country so unfamiliar to me. I was, and still am, unused to the thick wetness that hangs constantly in the atmosphere; to the brisk freshness of the air; to the ever-constant temperature that is never too hot, yet never too cold. I relish it, but always with a slight uncertainty. Still, I think I'm in a dream; still, I think that one day, I'll wake up, and be back at the Li Family Villa.

It is excruciating to see how far I have fallen. I miss the Li Family Villa. I miss the smells of ginger and jasmine and sweet spring rain. I miss hearing the soft chatter of the woman, the quiet singing of nightingales, the more rambunctious talk of men. I miss the feeling of silk against my body, the cobblestones of the garden pathways underneath my feet, the cold touch of the cool ponds in the hot summer. I miss my books, my embroidery, my instruments. How I long to stroke the cover of my books once more, read the words written across white pages. I miss the sound of my father's strong voice as he recites poetry, my mother's lilting intonation as she tells of stories of the past. My heart aches as I think of my family.

Once, I was an empress. Now, I am a prostitute.

But it's all going to change. I know it. Ever since I met him.

So yep, that was the prologue. Please rate and review! :)

BAIBAI.