The secret behind the subtle, remarkable hues in each of Wu Ji's fifty-seven acclaimed self-portraits -- one, famously, for every year of her life -- was finally revealed, when the celebrated artist collapsed while deriving another batch of paint from her own blood.

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Although he was mistaken, Quinlan figured that having another mandarin orange could do no more harm, since he sensed that the clan was already clucking away unintelligibly and with disapproval, no doubt about this gawky Irish stranger with no etiquette and an unpronounceable name, and his unsuitability as a match to the only female grandchild in the family.

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Harith never imagined that rubbish would make his fortune. People just leaving things outside their apartment doors like that -- newspapers, CDs, stuffed toys, clothes, shoes, even a brand new microwave oven once. It added up, all this yellowing junk that was once needed, even loved, but now wasn't even worth the space it took up in the storeroom. All he had to do was take in these orphans and find them an eager new home, for a fee, of course. It was so easy.

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Lying back on the verdant grass, Yu Xian dreamt of the day when he would finally step on stage, in a tuxedo he'd buy instead of rent after having arrived in his own limousine, to receive the Nobel Prize -- or maybe just the Booker Prize, or even the Golden Point award would do -- and thank his parents, his teachers, but not the fellow scribes who'd snubbed him, while the girl from behind the bookstore counter who refused to go out with him would grovel before him begging for another chance. She would come to him alone, shy and in tears, wearing a clinging, bare-backed dress the colour of cannabis leaves, which would slip, before the evening was over, to the cool marble floor without the slightest effort on his part.

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Taking in his hands the jewel of his envy, Karim scrutinised its thorny edges and sharp facets, surprised to find that it wasn't green like he'd been told. Instead, it was an intense, bottomless blue: the deep blue of unfettered views of sky, of diamonds he could not afford to buy for his wife, the favourite blue jumper of the woman he adored from a distance, blue at twilight of a mountain far away from the sour tones of a smoke-bruised city dusk, in the last hour before darkening for good.

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The sky was the exact shade of unopened irises when Ai felt her heart break. It shattered on the terrazzo-tiled kitchen floor with a soft crystal tinkle, as "Mood Indigo" played on her stereo like a soundtrack to her shame. She didn't have to count days to realise -- although the man she loved must never know -- she was pregnant again.

****

The last thing Shanti noticed, before squeezing shut the bedroom door and leaning against it with all her might, was the sight of the vase she'd bought just this morning, blossoming in shards against the far wall where her mother cowered, her mussy hair anointed in a spray of fresh, domestic violets.