Daughters of the Silk Road: A beautiful and epic novel of family, love and the secrets of a Ming Vase Read Online Free PDF Page A

house, the kitchen, the garden, what they were having for supper, but Miranda was aware that Charles seemed slightly distracted. As they sat down at the table and she ladled out the chicken tarragon he said casually, ‘The vase here, that’s rather nice, isn’t it?’
    ‘Oh, that, yes, my aunt left it to me. It’s just some replica or other that I suspect she picked up in Hong Kong. She and her husband were there for twenty or thirty years. Georgie absolutely hates it.’
    At the mention of her name Georgie appeared at the kitchen door, carrying her empty plate. ‘Thanks Mum, that was nice. Is there pudding?’
    ‘Yes, lemon tart; but can you wait till we’ve finished this first?’
    ‘OK, and what do I hate?’
    ‘The vase. You say it scares you, don’t you?’
    ‘Yeah, I think it’s spooky.’
    Charles smiled. ‘Well, I could take it off your hands if you wanted?’
    ‘Really? Oh no, I couldn’t do that. I know G hates it, but Aunt Celia left it to me and I’d feel a bit guilty really. Why? Do you think it’s worth something? I’m sure I saw one very like it in a car boot sale the other week.’
    ‘Well, I’d have to take a closer look, but it’s a very nice copy. Nicely painted and fired, you know. We’ve got a sale of porcelain coming up at the auction house soon. It could be worth as much as a hundred pounds if you’re lucky, maybe more.’
    ‘Gosh! Well that is tempting, I must say.’ Miranda refilled their glasses.
    ‘Well,’ said Charles, ‘think about it. The offer is there. But don’t wait too long – the sale is at the end of January.’
    ‘Yes, well, thank you; I will think about it.’ She touched the petals of the peachy rose that stood in the vase. A thorn pricked her finger and a small drop of blood dripped onto the pale white porcelain. It ran down the vase, colouring the fiery breath of the dragon that circled its centre.
    ‘Ow,’ she said licking her finger. She looked at Charles and followed his grey gaze. He was transfixed by the dragon.
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    High in the mountains of Ching-te-Chen white clay is dug from the ground. The clay is not clay as you or I would know it – sticky, heavy and malleable – but solid, hard stone that has to be hacked from the earth. It is backbreaking work. Relays of men carry the stones down the mountain in panniers – baskets hanging on either side of a long stick that rests across their shoulders. The stick digs deeply into their flesh leaving permanent wounds. The men vary in age; some as young as fourteen or fifteen, others grey-haired, bearded, and weary from years of carrying the heavy loads. They form a human chain of misery. Their clothes – short tunics, knee-length breeches – tattered. Their feet are protected only by sandals laced around their stocky shins with leather bindings. On their heads they wear straw hats to protect them against the fierce sun in the summer months. In the winter the work is indescribably brutal, as the workers battle against the frost and snow.

Chapter Four
    The Adriatic, off the coast of Venice, 1441
    M aria dei Conte struggled up the ladder of the galley, her skirts caught up between her legs in a practised fashion to make the climb easier. The storm of the previous night had departed as swiftly as it had arrived, and with the dawn had come a stillness that left the ship almost becalmed. Well used to ocean travel, she rarely suffered any form of seasickness, but had succumbed the previous night. As the ship heeled and tossed, she had several times been thrown bodily up into the air, her nose almost colliding with the cabin’s low ceiling. Now, as she hauled herself up the ladder, the muscles in her stomach ached from retching and her mouth tasted sour.
    Up on deck all was quiet. The sun was just beginning its ascent on the horizon and a gentle breeze blew in off the sea. She reached into the bucket of fresh water that was kept on deck and ladled some into her hand, sipping it gently. The sun warmed her