The days that followed slipped into rhythm — the kind that only men trained for war could make sound like peace.
At dawn, drills rang through the rented grounds near the old harbor. Jinyu's soldiers, housed in a discreet barracks provided by the local merchants' guild, moved like clockwork — rifles checked, formations crisp, their breath turning to mist under the equatorial haze. He trained with them, not above them; even in Batavia's stifling heat, his discipline carried the chill of Guangzhou's winter.
By day, the docks told a quieter story. Kim Yang Trading's ships took on "textiles," "machinery," and "oil barrels," their manifests stamped and signed under Chen Guosheng's seal. Local laborers loaded the cargo without question, but the soldiers knew better — each bale held hollow crates, each barrel a false bottom. Night crews ferried the hidden shipments by pangkawan under curtained lanterns, their oars dipping soundlessly through black water. Every motion rehearsed, every shadow memorized; the plan was moving, heartbeat by heartbeat.
To the locals, they were simply "inspectors" for a shipping consortium — a convenient fiction. But in truth, every routine march, every coded message from Chen's men, was a quiet rehearsal for the day the world would shift.
By the sixth night, the scent of salt and clove smoke had already settled into his coat. His reports were written, his orders reviewed. Yet when the house quieted and the lanterns dimmed, sleep refused to come.
And that was when he heard it.
Soft — like a voice speaking through silk. Notes, delicate and mournful, floating through the open courtyard.
A pipa.
The melody wove through the air, patient and precise, rising and falling like breath — not quite sadness, not quite hope. He followed it down the corridor, boots quiet against the tile, until he reached the half-shuttered veranda where a single lantern burned low.
There she was.
Jiaxin sat there, cross-legged on a rattan couch, the pipa resting against her knee. She wasn't dressed for company — only in silken nightclothes, pale ivory trimmed with faint lavender embroidery, sleeves loose enough to slip down her wrists. Her hair was unbound, falling in soft waves from its pins, a few strands curling at her neck where the sea breeze brushed against her skin.
For a long moment, Jinyu simply watched — and in that stillness, the world outside the mansion's walls felt impossibly far away.
For a moment, he said nothing, caught between stepping forward or turning back. But the melody faltered mid-note, and her head turned toward the doorway.
"Oh?" Jiaxin blinked, recognition flickering before she smiled faintly. "What's up? Couldn't sleep?"
Jinyu stepped into the light, the faint glint of his uniform buttons catching her lantern's glow. "You play beautifully," he said simply.
"Mm, it's just something to pass the time." She ran her thumb along one of the strings, the note humming softly. "The house gets too quiet after everyone's asleep. I guess I got bored."
He hesitated, then asked, "May I?"
Her brow lifted slightly, amused. "You play?"
"Used to," he said, crossing the room to stand near the open window. "My mother insisted. Said a man who can't make music shouldn't command men who can march."
That drew a small, genuine laugh from her. "That's a very poetic mother."
"She was," he said quietly.
For a while, there was just the sound of the night insects and the slow sway of the curtains. Then Jiaxin spoke again, softer this time.
"Do you ever miss it?"
"Music?"
"No," she said, setting the pipa down carefully. "Home."
He looked out past the shutters — where the moonlight bled silver over the garden walls, where the scent of frangipani and salt air mingled. "Every day," he admitted.
She hummed in understanding. "Funny. You came here to protect it. But the more you do, the farther it gets."
He turned toward her, meeting her gaze. "You speak like someone who understands distance."
"I do," she said lightly. "My brothers are both in Singapore now. Father says it's the price of progress — one son in trade, one in law. And I stay here, reading about the world they'll inherit."
There was a pause. Then she smiled again, the kind of smile that barely reached her eyes. "So I play the pipa. It sounds less lonely that way."
Jinyu studied her — the way her fingers still hovered over the strings, the way her voice carried quiet strength under the calm.
"You don't seem lonely."
"Maybe I'm just good at pretending," she said. Then, glancing up at him, she added with a small grin, "You, on the other hand, look like you've never pretended a day in your life."
That earned a soft huff of laughter from him. "Then maybe I should start."
"Mm," she said, picking up the pipa again. "Then start by sitting down. It's rude to hover while someone's playing."
Jiaxin shifted slightly, fingers brushing the strings again. "This one's called 'Dream of Falling Petals,'" she said. "My tutor says it's supposed to sound wistful. But I think it sounds like remembering something you never really had."
She plucked the first notes, and the melody bloomed soft and clear — fragile but deliberate, like a confession you could only make through sound.
Jinyu listened in silence. The tune carried the faint ache of distance, the rise and fall of something he couldn't name. For a soldier who lived by precision and orders, it felt strangely unguarded — the kind of truth that slipped past armor.
When the final note lingered and dissolved into the night air, Jiaxin smiled faintly. "You can tell a lot about people from what songs they like."
"Oh?"
"You," she said, tilting her head toward him, "strike me as someone who'd like the kind that never resolves. The ones that stop right before the last chord."
He raised an eyebrow. "Why's that?"
"Because people like that don't believe anything really ends."
For a moment, their eyes met — and in that silence, the air between them felt suddenly smaller, charged in a way neither dared name.
Then she looked away, setting the pipa down gently. "Anyway," she said softly, "it's late. Father will think I've run off with the orchestra."
He smiled, standing. "Then I should let you rest."
But as he turned toward the door, she called out — light, casual, but with something unspoken beneath it.
"General Xu," she said. "Don't think too much tonight."
He paused. "Is that an order?"
"A suggestion."
He inclined his head. "I'll try."
The lanternlight caught in her hair as she smiled. "Good. You'll need it. The world outside never really sleeps."
She hesitated as he reached the edge of the balcony, her fingers twisting the silk tassel at the end of her sleeve.
"Wait—"
He turned, half-shadowed in the lamplight spilling through the carved teak shutters behind him. The night air carried the faint scent of frangipani and sea salt.
"If you're not… occupied tomorrow," she began, trying for nonchalance and failing halfway through, "Father mentioned you'd be inspecting the ships at Tanjung Priok?"
He nodded slowly. "Yes. Early afternoon."
"What hour?"
He blinked. "Around two."
She smiled — quick and bright, as if that was exactly what she wanted to hear. "Good. Then I'll have an excuse to escape embroidery practice."
"An excuse?"
"To study the mainland's military, of course," she said with mock gravity. "Very educational, General."
He couldn't help it — he laughed, quiet but genuine. "And does your father know about this… educational interest?"
"I'll tell him when I need permission," she replied, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as the lanternlight caught on her sleeve. "Which is never."
For a moment, Jinyu just watched her — half-amused, half-stunned by how easily she said things that would've gotten anyone else scolded.
"You're fearless."
She shrugged lightly, smile still lingering. "I just like knowing things before everyone else does."
"Curiosity can be dangerous."
"So can silence," she shot back, soft but certain. "Besides, you'll be there. I'll be safe."
He didn't answer that — not because he disagreed, but because something in her tone struck too close to something he couldn't name.
She tilted her head. "Two o'clock, then."
"Two o'clock," he echoed.
Her smile deepened, quiet but sure. "Goodnight, General Xu."
He bowed his head slightly. "Goodnight, Miss Chen."
The silk screen between them fluttered as the night breeze passed through, carrying the faint sound of the sea and the pipa string still trembling in the corner — the last note neither of them heard.
The next day broke heavy with humidity. The harbor was already awake — cranes clanging, gulls screaming, the smell of salt, rust, and oil rising in waves from the docks.
Jinyu stood at the edge of the berth, coat folded neatly over one arm as he inspected the crates being unloaded. The men moved in practiced rhythm, each gesture deliberate — a language of efficiency and trust. Chen's shipping crest, the mark of Kim Yang Trading ; a golden sea dragon coiled around an anchor, waves curling beneath it—gleamed faintly on each crate's lacquered seal.
"Manifest check, sir," one of his lieutenants reported, handing him a clipboard.
He nodded, eyes scanning the papers even as he counted the crates. Every number matched. Every seal intact. Nothing out of place — except the faint unease that came with waiting for perfection to hold.
Then, from the road leading toward the docks, a flicker of pastel caught his eye.
Jiaxin.
She moved through the bustle like she belonged to another world entirely. Her soft blush-pink kebaya encim, embroidered with jasmine flowers along the collar and cuffs, shimmered faintly in the sun. The fabric's translucence caught the light with every step, revealing the pale satin beneath — graceful, but bold in a way that turned heads. Her batik sarong was threaded in rose and gold, phoenix motifs curling near the hem like something alive.
In one hand, she carried a painted paper parasol, its edge trimmed with lace and tiny satin bows — a custom piece she'd insisted on herself, delicate rabbits and butterflies chasing one another across a garden of peonies.
Trailing just a few steps behind her was Siti, her young baboe muda, dressed neatly in a dark green kebaya and plain batik kain. She balanced a woven rattan basket on her arm, eyes darting between the crates, sailors, and her mistress — the latter whom she watched with the kind of fond exasperation only years of service could earn.
"Miss Chen," Jinyu greeted, recovering quickly from the momentary pause. "You made it."
"Of course," Jiaxin said, smiling. "I said I'd come."
Behind her, Siti dipped her head politely toward Jinyu — but when Jiaxin wasn't looking, she tried (and failed) to hide a grin, eyes sparkling with that look — the one that said, 'Oh, I see what's happening here.'
"I half expected your father to keep you under house arrest after that statement."
"Oh, he tried." Her tone was airy, like gossip. "But he was too busy arguing with Mr. Cai about tariffs to notice me slipping out."
Jinyu blinked. "You snuck out?"
"I walked out," she corrected primly, though her grin betrayed her. "There's a difference."
He couldn't help it — a quiet laugh escaped. Around them, soldiers pretended not to stare, half-awed and half-wary of the cute girl who'd walked straight into their ranks without hesitation.
"Doesn't seem like the docks are a safe place for a stroll," he said.
She twirled the parasol once, ribbons fluttering. "Then it's a good thing I came with the man in charge, isn't it?"
Jinyu's reply died on his tongue — because, somehow, she'd said it like fact. Not flirtation. Not challenge. Just truth wrapped in charm.
Mr. Chen's arrival was heralded by the sharp hiss of the car brakes and the scent of clove smoke.
"General Xu," he greeted, voice as smooth as the silk in his cufflinks. His gaze shifted from Jinyu to Jiaxin, faintly amused. "I see my daughter found her way here."
"She did," Jinyu replied evenly. "Uninvited, I assume."
"Curious, more likely," Chen said, a soft laugh rumbling under his breath. Then to Jiaxin — "You've given half my staff a heart attack. But since you're here, you might as well make yourself useful. Show the General the city tomorrow. He should see more than docks and ledgers."
Jiaxin's face brightened — a spark of triumph slipping through before she quickly ducked behind her parasol. "If Father insists."
Chen's expression warmed into that knowing, fatherly sort of smile. "Within reason," he added. "And take Siti with you."
"Yes, Father," she said sweetly, her tone all decorum while her eyes shimmered with victory.
As Mr. Chen turned to discuss cargo manifests with Jinyu, Jiaxin glanced sideways at the General, her parasol still half-raised. There it was — that quiet, self-satisfied glint that said "told you I'd manage it."
Jinyu met her gaze briefly, the corner of his mouth threatening to curve. For all her mischief, she'd just negotiated an invitation from one of the most powerful men in Batavia — and made it look effortless.
He looked away first, hiding a smile.
Almost.
As dusk fell over the harbor, the day's heat sank into the cobblestones.
From the balcony of the customs office, Jinyu watched Mr. Chen finish his final negotiations — not with rebels or soldiers, but with two Dutch traders in cream linen suits. The three men laughed, glasses of imported gin in hand, the sound blending with the clatter of cranes and the hiss of the tide.
To anyone passing by, it looked like business as usual — a wealthy merchant sealing another trade deal.
But Jinyu had been around enough diplomats to recognize the rhythm beneath the civility.
Chen Guosheng was not a man choosing sides.
He was a man building both.
By day, he sold palm oil and silk to Dutch companies under the Kim Yang Trading Co. banner.
By night, those same ships carried hollow crates bound for the mainland, their ledgers rewritten by men loyal enough to burn them after docking.
He played the colonizers' game — and won by pretending not to.
And Jinyu, watching him through the golden haze of sunset, understood why the mainland trusted this man.
Not because he was moral.
But because he was useful.
When the meeting ended, Chen turned briefly toward him, lifting his glass in a silent acknowledgment — the look of one conspirator recognizing another.
The previous evening had ended with the hiss of steam and the rustle of papers — ledgers signed, cargo verified, plans quietly locked into place.
Now, the next morning, the city felt like another world entirely.
The morning light filtered through thin clouds, painting Batavia in gold and haze. The clatter of horse carriages mixed with the hum of automobiles, the scent of sea salt blending with clove smoke from the nearby markets.
Jiaxin had been one of the few young women in the city's Chinese quarter to attend the Kartini School — a Dutch-medium academy for "the Indies' refined daughters. Her father had agreed, partly out of modern ambition, partly to impress his European partners.
She had learned posture there. How to walk without creasing silk. How to pour tea without spilling. How to smile just enough to be polite, but never enough to be mistaken for equal.
Yet, between embroidery and etiquette lessons, she had found something dangerous: books.
Maps showing empires that rose and crumbled. Accounts of revolutions and queens who ruled when men could not. Speeches about "progress" that somehow never included women—or anyone with brown skin. Jiaxin had listened quietly at first, but something inside her refused to stay silent.
It was in those classrooms, under whitewashed ceilings and the smell of chalk, that curiosity turned into conviction. She learned Dutch well enough to read newspapers, enough to argue with her teachers, enough to realize the world was stitched together by power.
Now, years later, she twirled her custom parasol absently as she and Jinyu walked through the narrow lanes of Batavia's Chinese quarter—Siti following discreetly a few paces behind, holding a woven fan and the shopping basket.
"You know," Jiaxin said, glancing at Jinyu with a sly grin, "I didn't start liking politics because of Father."
He turned toward her, amused. "No?"
"It was the Kartini school."
That drew a raised brow. "A Dutch school made you love Chinese history?"
"Ironic, isn't it?" she said with a laugh. "They taught us all about civilization and progress—but I kept wondering, progress for who?"
She switched effortlessly into Dutch, the vowels round and clean from years of use: "De geschiedenis is geschreven door zij die het overleven." Then, catching his faintly puzzled look, she translated with a smirk: "History is written by those who survive."
Jinyu's eyes softened with something between admiration and surprise. "And who do you think survives, Miss Chen?"
"The ones who adapt," she replied, this time in Indonesian, her tone playful yet sure. "Yang bisa ikut berubah."
Siti, trailing just behind them, stifled a giggle—pretending to busy herself with the fan when Jiaxin shot her a mock glare.
Jinyu chuckled under his breath. "And you? Are you adapting?"
She tilted her parasol just so, the painted rabbit and butterfly catching the light. "No, General. I'm learning how to win."
By the time their car rolled into Oud Batavia, the air had already turned heavy with spice and heat — rickshaws rattling past trishaws, Javanese hawkers shouting prices over the clatter of enamel bowls, and the sound of a gamelan troupe faintly drifting from somewhere uphill.
Jiaxin stepped out first, the hem of her sky-blue kebaya encim catching the light as she adjusted her parasol. Beside her, Siti hurried out with a soft laugh, one hand on her woven basket, the other clutching a small hand fan.
"Noni, hati-hati... nanti bajunya kena debu," Siti whispered.
(Careful, miss… your dress will get dusty.)
Jiaxin smiled. "Kalau kotor, nanti kamu yang cuci, kan?"
(If it gets dirty, you'll wash it for me, right?)
Siti rolled her eyes but grinned anyway.
Jinyu followed a step behind, coat left open against the heat, his usual composure tested by the onslaught of colors, noise, and scents — frying oil, jasmine garlands, durian, and smoke all tangled in the air.
"This… is not what I expected," he said, watching as a vendor balanced three baskets on her head.
"Good," Jiaxin replied, turning to him with a teasing smile. "Batavia isn't for men who only read reports."
They passed stalls selling folded batik sarongs, gold-threaded slippers, and porcelain teacups from Amoy. Children darted between their legs, laughing, their voices mixing with the slap of fish scales being cleaned nearby.
At one stall, the vendor was arranging rows of kue mangkok — pink, green, and white, the steam rising like perfume. Jiaxin's eyes lit up immediately.
She reached for her coin purse, then glanced at Jinyu.
"You haven't lived until you've tried this."
The vendor — a middle-aged woman with a bright scarf around her head — smiled toothily as she packed two cakes into banana leaves.
"Suami mu rupawan sekali, noni. Kamu hoki."
(Your husband is very handsome, miss. You're lucky.)
Jiaxin blinked, then laughed — the sound light and scandalously amused.
"Oh, bukan suami saya," she said quickly, her cheeks warm.
(Oh, not my husband.)
Jinyu, catching only half the exchange, frowned slightly. "What did she say?"
"She said…" Jiaxin hesitated, lips twitching, "that you look like someone who doesn't eat enough sweets."
Siti snorted behind them, covering her mouth with her fan. "Aduh, noni..."
Jiaxin ignored her and handed Jinyu one of the cakes. "Here. Don't think, just eat."
He looked at it — the pink spongey texture, the faint scent of pandan — and finally took a cautious bite. His expression shifted, first in surprise, then quiet approval.
"It's… good," he admitted.
"See? I told you Batavia would teach you something."
"Apparently, it's teaching me to chew slower," he said, earning a laugh from both Jiaxin and Siti.
For a few heartbeats, it was easy to forget the telegraphs and cargo routes waiting beyond the city — just sunlight, chatter, and the warmth of something almost human beneath all the duty.
The warmth of the crowd seemed to pull them forward, past the food stalls and onto a narrower street lined with carved shutters and colored awnings. Jiaxin's parasol bobbed like a flower among the smoke and sunlight.
Siti followed close behind, occasionally brushing off children who came to sell jasmine strings or postcards. "Noni, nanti kebanyakan belanja, Pak Chen marah," she muttered under her breath.
(Miss, if you buy too much, Mr. Chen will be angry.)
Jiaxin only laughed. "Biarkan saja, He should be grateful I'm supporting the local economy." (the dialogue. after the 2 Indo words are all still in mandarin, and the 2 Indonesian words mean "Just let it be.")
Her basket was already heavier—filled with sweets, tin charms, embroidered fans, and a tiny porcelain rabbit she'd absolutely not needed. Jinyu glanced at it, half-amused, half-bewildered.
"I thought you said you came to study Batavia," he said.
"I am studying," she replied innocently. "Economics, in practice."
Siti giggled so hard she nearly dropped the basket.
By noon, the sun had turned cruel, pressing down on the roofs until the air shimmered. They stopped at a shaded warung where a line of locals queued for steaming bowls of soto Betawi—rich with coconut milk, beef, and lime. The scent was irresistible.
"Here," Jiaxin said, tugging Jinyu's sleeve toward the low stools. "You can't say you've seen Batavia without eating this."
He hesitated, looking skeptically at the metal pot and the flies buzzing near it. "Is it… safe?"
She arched a brow. "You marched through two provinces under gunfire and this is what scares you?"
Siti snorted again. "Betul, noni. Dia takut sama makanan, bukan peluru."
(True, miss. He fears food, not bullets.)
Jinyu sighed, defeated. "Fine. One bowl."
When the first spoonful hit, his expression shifted — cautious at first, then quietly stunned. "It's… not bad."
"Not bad?" Jiaxin echoed, scandalized. "That's practically sacred here!"
She laughed, tearing off a piece of emping and tossing it into his bowl. "You're hopeless. If you die, I'll tell your men you were taken down by spice."
He shook his head, smiling in spite of himself. "You'd make a very poor nurse."
"Lucky for you, I'd make an excellent general," she quipped.
Even Siti nearly choked trying not to laugh.
By the time they returned to the car, the city had grown even busier. Delmans clattered beside them as they drove, horses dressed in bells and red tassels, the sound almost melodic against the hum of engines.
Jiaxin leaned her chin on her hand, watching the mix of old and new slip past the window — Dutch buildings with cracked shutters beside Javanese kiosks selling sugarcane juice. "Batavia's like a patchwork," she murmured. "Everyone stitched together, but the thread keeps fraying."
Jinyu glanced at her reflection in the glass. "And what happens when it unravels?"
She turned toward him, smiling faintly. "Then someone learns to sew it back stronger."
The car slowed as the streets narrowed, the scent of incense growing stronger. Pasar Baru loomed ahead, its rows of tailors and fabric shops glowing with color.
The narrow road of Pasar Baru unfurled before them like a ribbon of color. Lanterns swayed from balconies overhead, and the scent of star anise, starch, and freshly pressed fabric hung in the air.
Jiaxin practically glowed the second she stepped out of the car. "Siti, remember that shop with the blue lace last month?"
"The one that charged too much?"
"The very same," Jiaxin chirped. "We're going back."
Siti sighed in mock despair but followed anyway, balancing her basket like a soldier under orders.
Inside the fabric shop, rolls of batik and lace towered like temples of color—peach, celadon, indigo, gold. The air was thick with the smell of starch and camphor.
Jiaxin's hands skimmed the patterns lovingly. "Too stiff," she murmured. "Too dull. Too Dutch." Then, her eyes lit on a bolt of seafoam silk embroidered with cranes. "Ah. Perfect."
The tailor behind the counter nodded, impressed. "Noninya punya mata bagus."
(The miss has a good eye.)
Siti leaned toward Jinyu and whispered, grinning, "Kalau noni belanja, semua toko bisa tutup."
(When she shops, every store could close for the day.)
He tried not to laugh. "Does she do this often?"
"Sering sekali." (All the time.)
When Jiaxin finally turned back, arms full of folded fabrics, Jinyu raised a brow. "I thought we were only observing."
"We are," she said sweetly. "I'm observing how commerce supports the arts."
He looked unconvinced. "That's your excuse?"
"I prefer the term 'economic justification.'"
Even the tailor chuckled.
By the time they left the shop, the sky had softened into gold. The air shimmered with heat, carrying the distant clang of tram bells and the smell of roasted peanuts from a passing hawker. Jiaxin turned her parasol slightly against the sun, glancing down the street.
"There's a temple nearby," she said, almost casually. "Would you like to stop by before heading home?"
Jinyu hesitated. "A temple?"
She nodded. "Kwan Im Teng — my family used to go every new year. It's not far from here."
Siti perked up instantly. "Aduh, iya, noni. Bagus itu. Sekalian doa biar usaha bapak lancar."
(Oh yes, miss. That's good — pray for your father's business too.)
Jiaxin smiled, half amused. "And maybe for my embroidery to look better this time."
The drive wasn't long, but the moment they stepped through the red gate of Kwan Im Teng (Vihara Dharma Bhakti), the noise of the street melted away. The air was thick with sandalwood smoke, the sharp tang of burning paper, and the faint rustle of devotees bowing under the eaves.
A caretaker handed them a bundle of red incense sticks — three each, thin and fragrant. Jiaxin took hers gracefully, pressing them together between both palms, fingers upright at chest height.
"Three bows to heaven, three to earth, and three to the gods," she murmured softly, demonstrating. "It's about balance."
She lowered herself into a slow bow — not just from the waist, but all the way down to her knees, forehead nearly brushing the mat. The silk of her kebaya whispered against the ground.
Jinyu followed, a little stiff at first, mirroring her movements. The smoke curled between them, blurring the edges of the world until it felt almost suspended in time.
When they rose, Jiaxin leaned forward and planted the three incense sticks into the bronze urn before the Guanyin (觀音) statue. The ashes shimmered faintly with heat, and the scent clung to her sleeves.
"You prayed for someone?" Jinyu asked quietly.
She smiled without looking at him. "For everyone who's still waiting for peace."
He didn't say anything for a long moment. Then he stepped forward, bowed once, twice, thrice — precise, military even — before setting his incense beside hers.
"Who did you pray for, General Xu?"
His gaze lingered on the drifting smoke. "For those who never stopped believing it could be earned."
The bells near the altar rang softly — a devotee passing by, head bowed — and Siti whispered a short Malay prayer of her own before adding her incense to the pot.
When they turned to leave, the courtyard shimmered in the evening light. A few children released paper lotuses into the koi pond, their laughter echoing faintly through the temple walls.
Jiaxin paused, watching the ripples. "Funny," she said quietly. "People pray for protection, but the ones who try to fight for it rarely survive long enough to see it work."
Jinyu looked at her then, and the air shifted — the kind of silence that carried both understanding and inevitability.
"Then maybe," he said softly, "that's why heaven lets people like you exist — to remind the rest of us what it costs."
She smiled faintly, parasol tilted just enough to hide her expression. "Careful, General. You almost sound like a poet."
"Or a fool," he murmured.
"Maybe both."
Siti giggled quietly behind them, fanning herself. "Aduh… dua orang ini, kayak cerita wayang."
(Oh dear… these two, like a love story from a puppet play.)
By the time they left the temple, the sky had turned a bruised shade of violet — the kind that made the lanterns flicker to life along the eaves. The scent of sandalwood clung to Jiaxin's sleeves and lingered faintly inside the car as Siti folded her fan and settled quietly in the front seat beside the driver.
Jinyu leaned back, exhaling slowly. The city outside was softer now — the chaos dimmed, the chatter replaced by the rhythmic creak of delmans returning home, their bells chiming faintly against the evening wind.
Beside him, Jiaxin had set her parasol across her lap, chin tilted toward the window. The last light caught the curve of her cheek, the small smile that wasn't for anyone in particular.
"Tired?" he asked quietly.
She shook her head. "Just thinking."
"About what?"
"How quiet the city gets when the sun sets." Her voice was low, thoughtful. "It feels like everything's pretending to sleep, but no one really does."
He considered that — the warehouses, the coded ledgers, the soldiers waiting for his word — and found that she wasn't wrong.
"You see things clearly, Miss Chen."
"That's why I embroider," she said softly. "If I can't fix the world, I can at least make it beautiful."
He turned toward her then — not out of surprise, but because something in the way she said it felt like a memory he hadn't lived yet.
The car rolled through the cobblestone streets, past the canal lined with flame trees. One petal brushed against the window before drifting away into the night.
Siti yawned quietly up front. "Noni, mau langsung pulang?"
(Miss, do you want to go straight home?)
Jiaxin smiled faintly. "Ya, pulang saja. Sudah malam."
(Yes, let's go home. It's late.)
Her gaze returned to the window — to the way Batavia shimmered under the lantern glow. "You know," she murmured, "if Father hadn't sent you here for business, I don't think we would've met."
"Fate, then?" he asked.
"Or timing," she said, her lips curving. "Sometimes they're the same thing."
The car hit a patch of cobblestones, rocking slightly. She steadied herself — and before he could react, her head came to rest lightly against his shoulder.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Jinyu froze, uncertain whether to shift or speak. But when he glanced down, Jiaxin's eyes were already closed — lashes trembling once before settling, her breathing soft and even. A faint strand of hair brushed against his sleeve, tickling like static.
From the front seat, Siti's fan paused mid-wave. A small, knowing smile tugged at her lips before she looked away — pretending not to see a thing.
Jinyu stayed still, the faint rhythm of Jiaxin's breathing almost lost under the hum of the city. For a moment, the General who carried wars in his shoulders simply watched the world pass — the flicker of lamplight, the red string of lanterns swaying like heartbeat pulses across the river.
He looked down at his hands — the same ones that would soon give orders, mark targets, move pieces across maps — and wondered, not for the first time, whether peace was something one could earn, or only borrow.
Outside, Batavia rolled past — unaware that the next sunrise would begin the countdown to war.
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GLOSSARY PAGE
🍴Food Terms
🍰 Kue Mangkok (Indonesian Steamed Cup Cake) — A traditional Indonesian-Chinese dessert made from rice flour, sugar, and yeast, steamed until it blossoms open at the top — resembling a flower. The name "mangkok" literally means "cup."
🍲 Soto Betawi — A traditional Jakarta-style beef soup originating from the Betawi people. It's made with chunks of beef and offal simmered in a creamy coconut-milk broth, seasoned with lemongrass, galangal, and lime leaves. Served hot with rice or lontong, and topped with fried shallots, tomato, and a squeeze of lime.
In colonial Batavia, it was a popular street dish sold by hawkers pushing wooden carts, easily recognizable by the fragrant mix of coconut milk and spice drifting through the markets.
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🎭Social Customs
☂️Parasols
Wealthy Peranakan women in the early 20th century were rarely seen outdoors without a decorative parasol. Beyond sun protection, it was a symbol of refinement, modesty, and class. Imported lace and embroidered silk were occasionally customized with local motifs — flowers, phoenixes, or even small animals — showing both family wealth and the woman's personal taste.
👧🏻Companion Maid
It was customary for elite women to be accompanied by a maid or attendant called a baboe (often of local descent) during public outings. The maid assisted with carrying items, shielding her employer from the sun, and handling social interactions in markets or streets, especially where the local language was needed.
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On Dutch education:
Kartini schools (Sekolah Kartini or Kartinischool) were among the few options for elite local and Peranakan women to receive Western-style education.
They focused on etiquette, domestic skills, and some academic lessons (Dutch, geography, world affairs). The upper-class Chinese-Indonesian families, especially those with business ties to the Dutch, absolutely sent their daughters there for prestige and language fluency.