ness, and frenzied devotion merging on madness. The fever in her blood was rising. The moon was red, sensuous, blood-burning.
She thought of the story of Ch'i Nu, who had two lovers, one living to the right of her, the other to the left. Her father was exasperated. He directed that she tuck up her sleeve on the arm corresponding to the lover she preferred, whereupon she tucked up both sleeves. She explained to her angry father that she wished to eat with the one who was rich and live with the one who was handsome.
Yang Kuei-fei smiled ruefully. She was in a somewhat similar plight, though by no stretch of the imagination could the monstrous An Lu-shan be called handsome. She felt vexed, humiliated, that she had so little control over her emotions. In the Palace she was sheltered, beyond danger.
She sprang to her feet. A figure was moving slowly, silently toward her. Her heart leaped toward the approaching form. Of course it was An Lu-shan. She was stunned, momentarily frightened; no fear quite as entrancing as the delectable panic of surrender. She knew that she ought to escape, to return to her apartment, to the magnificent scarlet bed in which the Emperor lay sleeping. That way was sanctuary, physical sanctuary, but, alas, no sanctuary of the spirit. There were tears in her eyes, but she waited. It might be the end of her high position, it might mean banishment forever, even death, but this one mad hour would be worth the
sacrifice. Now his form was silhouetted against the
