Zhaonü did not cry when she was born， her body， slapped red by the midwife in order to make her cry and breathe， obstinately curled. She did not cry until the cock inside the house， a house which lay nestled within the cliff's face， began gallantly and resoundingly to crow， as the blood-red sun from the tip of the cliff reached out， a lofty omnipresent splendor.
Dragon Boat Village's shaman， Qin Lao'er， closed his eyes， summoning the Seventh Goddess from the heavens. It entered his wizened walnut-hard body， filling it with litheness and grace. He closed his eyes， his hoarse voice like the early morning kingfisher's call as he walked lightly forward. Hearing an infant's wail， the head of the Tian family， Venerable Madam， eagerly asked， "Can you see？ Can you see my granddaughter's flower tree？"
The Seventh Goddess， eyes flickering， turned toward the red clouds surrounding the mountain where spirits gathered. She saw the spring come and the winter pass over the land where the countless flowers blossom with the destinies of countless people， some exuberant and flourishing， others wilted and fading. The Seventh Goddess checked the Tian family's new granddaughter's destiny tree. The tree was covered in delicate， crystalline white flowers. A ray of red luminosity suddenly appeared before her eyes： a fragile pink flower， dazzlingly close. Involuntarily， she gasped： "Another one？"
At that time the baby girl's mother， half-dead， stood above a large wooden basin， her body so weak is required the support of a man. An intermittent moan of pain vaguely coming from her throat， her bare belly rumbling up and down， showing clear signs of something inside， kicking —the sound of another life. The midwife， dripping with sweat， fetched a wooden club they used to beat clothes washed in the river， and used all her strength to press the baby from the mother's belly by rolling the club across her stomach. Yingnü， unable to tolerate being stifled any longer within that vast dark body of water， stretched and kicked and came rushing out， plunging into the wooden basin filled with watery blood， her mother letting out a cry before falling still.
The Seventh Goddess moved lightly and left Qin's body. Qin fell to the ground， spittle trailing from his mouth as he slept.
The setting sun awakened him. In a hoarse voice he asked Madam， "What did the Seventh Goddess say your granddaughter's horoscope will be？" Madam stood before the ancestral shrine in the house's main room， carrying Zhaonü in one arm and Yingnü in the other， her face grave.
She shook her head and did not speak.
The girls' father fought through the rain and buried the woman who gave birth on the mountain， planting two trees before the mound where she lay.
The following spring they bloomed： one plum， one peach.
1
Obviously Zhaonü was not as good-looking as Yingnü. Yingnü possessed a round face， double folded eyelids， a happy smile revealing two charming dimples and white teeth， and a bright and lively nature. When the two sisters walked together， everyone always clustered round Yingnü， touching her pink cheeks and clicking their tongues， leaving Zhaonü snubbed.
Zhaonü had only an ordinary face， no dimples or double eyelids， her eyes long， revealing a contemplative quality that surprised the villagers.
"The girl carries a lot in her heart."
So they would say， touching her cheeks， as she turned away. As Zhaonü grew a bit older， she was no longer willing to walk along with Yingnü while listening to the praises for her sister from others. While Yingnü pursued some frolic in the village， Zhaonü would hide in the dusky wings of the house， reading. All she had were her textbook and collections of stories she knew by heart， each page carrying her away into another world.
After finishing primary school， Yingnü no longer studied， she'd rather take a basket upon her back to collect hogweed， or search out prickly red strawberries on the paths between the fields， or go out to the river banks to catch fish. Zhaonü on the other hand silently carried hot sweet potatoes as she walked several miles to the town for her studies in the middle school， the bitter cold soaking broken walls， freezing her hands like carrots. Madam， staggering to town on her walking stick to sell eggs for salt， would allow her stern gaze to soften when she saw the trembling figure of Zhaonü in the coldness. She said， Yingnü was napping by the fireplace， and you should go home too Zhaonü. It's no use for girls to be about reading books. Zhaonü leant upon Madam's stiff knees， smelling the old sourness of pickled vegetables she had spent the day turning over. Zhaonü shivered and shook her head slowly. Madam sighed， "This girl was born stubborn."
Madam became much older in one spring. So long as there was sun， the only thing she would do was to sit on the steps under the eaves and doze off； or to gather Zhaonü and Yingnü together and examine them closely. "My girls，" Madam said， "Girls cannot be kept as they grow up. Match makers are coming now."
The best match， it seemed， was a young man coming from outside the town， a tailor called Liu Pingwa. A craftsman， neither too short nor too tall， he had previously supplied them with clothes， making black western trousers， the stitching on the legs fine and meticulous， each line like an ant's trail. Madam said the young man was the sort with a living. She looked over at Yingnü as she spat out seeds. "It's natural to start with the elder daughter，" Yingnü said. Madam turned to Zhaonü， without turning a hair.
