I am unlike other marionettes. My form is made of flesh and bones and my hair grows from my scalp. Ms. Barnum combed my black locks and tied them into a bun as the rose and ginger perfume she applied on my yellow clothes wafted over me.

“My puppet is ready.” Ms. Barnum wore a white muslin dress and pale silk shawl for my performance. She handed over my cane; I took it and stood.

“Afong, your shoes will be auctioned off after the show. Collectors are eager to obtain them.”

White lotus shoes stitched with blooming buds on branches embraced my bound feet. I made many pairs while I was abandoned for eight years. Every part of me was for sale.

Ms. Barnum led the way to the salon. I followed, limping with the cane balancing my every step.

I sat in the centre of the exhibit. A nearby table had a handkerchief, writing set, and black lacquer tea chest; these were my props for tonight.

Ms. Barnum slipped her hand into my robe. As she pressed her palm on my back, her hand sank into my skin. When she lifted her hand up, five silver strings, connected to each fingertip, were extracted. Ms. Barnum straightened her index finger; I raised my right arm off the chair. “Perform well tonight, Afong.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

On the other side of the salon’s curtain, the audience murmured as a museum employee spoke. Ms. Barnum stepped across the floor to sit off to the side of the stage; the string trailed her and settled on the carpet.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Afong Moy, The Chinese Lady. Observe her with foreign objects from the Far East, all for sale outside this room.”

The curtains were drawn. I glowed gold under lamp lights; not a single shadow hid me.

“Dance!”

“Sing!”

Attendees called out commands, but only one person controlled me.

The cane fell on the floor. I stood straight on my small feet as Ms. Barnum’s fingers curled with commands. My form followed the pull of the strings. I twirled in circles with one foot on the ground. My long sleeves fluttered with each spin.

Once upon a time, I used those strings for my own pleasure. How many years had it been since then?

*     *     *
“Big Sister, look at the boat folks.” Little Brother’s eyes were on a river. Long, short, and tall boats with vegetable cargo were paddled by tanned muscular men and women. The poor always needed their wives and daughters outside to labour. If only I could join them and man my own boat.

“Can you pay them for a trip down the river?” I asked. Perhaps Little Brother could see the homes they constructed above water and resided in. What was it like to live by the rules of the water rather than the land?

“I did not bring anything for a fare.” His vision turned back to Canton. Ships with flags of foreign countries docked before buildings and the walled city. “Can I take you there tomorrow? There is a temple I want to show you.”

“I cannot.” When we connected through my string, I saw through his eyes, climbed and gripped trees with his hands, shared the taste of sweet and salty street foods on his tongue, and ran through the streets with his legs. When I detached from him, my days were spent indoors, sewing and singing, and by night, Mama or a maid unwrapped and rebound my feet.

Our father called for me at home.

“I have to go,” I whispered. The silver strings fell and faded from our fingertips. I blinked; I sat before blank fabric stretched by my tambour. If I stitched a view of the river, my parents would know I left the house. I best be subtle with weaving flowers and branches on my family’s garments.

Baba stepped into the room. Big Brother and a trio of foreigners stayed at the entrance.

Baba introduced the guests: the wedded Obears and a merchant from the Carnes family. The men wore uniform dark jackets and white trousers. These American traders would take me abroad to sell Chinese goods; they needed someone to demonstrate how to use the objects. I would only be there for a year. Baba received a handsome sum of money for the contract; no one would starve in this house. I would be given lodging with an attendant and interpreter to make this journey as pleasant as possible.

No other Chinese girl travelled to America, but the Obear woman’s presence was reassuring. Her clothes were clean, and her skin and hair were as pale as her dress. She was a woman of good character. As she was here, these men had no ill intentions taking me with them. If I was out of the country, my parents may betroth me to someone without the groom or his parents finding out about my abilities.

“You are leaving tomorrow,” Big Brother said.

*     *     *
Diary entry from Mrs. Augusta Obear, 1835

Ms. Moy was supposed to sell goods by sitting and fanning her face, dabbing handkerchiefs on her cheeks, and eating with a pair of sticks in salons.

While in Philidelphia, we agreed upon a private examination of Ms. Moy. A group of physicians wanted to observe bones altered from footbinding. Looking upon her feet evokes pain and pity: her feet are smaller than fists and pointed.

Ms. Moy was disgraceful from the beginning by blurting, “No!”

A doctor spoke in a hushed tone as he approached her, gentle and reassuring, but Ms. Moy focused on his hands and eyes. She tucked her feet under the chair.

“Ms. Moy, please do not worry,” I spoke beside her. Some children required coaxing before they obeyed their parents. “They will not harm you.”

Ms. Moy shook her head. She curled up.

The doctor knelt and grabbed her calf. He straightened her leg out and his finger traced the outline of her shoe to unlace it.

Ms. Moy yelped and tried stomping his face, but his hold remained firm. His finger grazed her skin and it sunk into her, as if she meant to absorb him whole. He yanked his hand away from her as spiderweb threads were dragged out of her and latched to his digits.

The doctor suddenly sprang up with perfect posture. Ms. Moy possessed his body. They had matching dark scowls on their faces as the doctor turned to the other physicians.

Her father never informed us about his daughter’s ability. My husband expects me to uncover Ms. Moy’s defect. We sailed to the other side of the world to complete his transaction and my occupation was to assist in his endeavours.

After Ms. Moy’s examination was completed, I sought her in her bedchamber.

Ms. Moy sewed a handkerchief on her lap. One corner remained bare without a leaf pattern.

“How are you?” I sat on the chair across from Ms. Moy.

“I am well, thank you.” Ms. Moy stared at the carpet. Her English has improved. I thought she was incapable of learning civilized tongue.

“Have you always been able to control people with string?”

Her ability began at the age of ten. Her younger brother teased her and poked her hand. His finger stuck to her skin and sank into her. When he pulled his hand away, string was extracted and connected the siblings from hand to finger. Ms. Moy saw through his eyes, controlled his body, and vice versa. It happened again when her mother and maid touched her at night. They gloved their hands to continue binding her feet.

It was no wonder why her father was willing to send her abroad, despite legal prohibition.

“Could you do it to me?” I asked.

Ms. Moy shook her head.

“Please,” I whispered. “I wish to understand you. I do not fear you.”

She was an unholy creature, but I must experience this power. I am obliged to endure for my husband, for his business.

When my fingertip grazed Ms. Moy’s knuckle, it went still and sank into the cold bone. When I withdrew my finger, a single silver string was attached to my fingertip.

We looked each other eye to eye. With a thought that ran through the string, Ms. Moy made my wrist shake and I straightened. Ms. Moy inhaled with my lungs and paused when the corset constricted my bust.

I tingled all over. She shared what was mine. What ungodly creation was she? Am I tainted now, in the eyes of the Lord?

Ms. Moy turned me around and raised my arms over my head.

“Ms. Moy, I must try this.” I travelled through that thread to enter Ms. Moy. Together, we saw with her eyes: the unfinished handkerchief on her lap, my fair form standing before us, and the nearby bed spread with sheets.

Then, Ms. Moy stood without a cane and paced in a circle around my body. We looked at each other, through each other’s eyes. We held each other’s gaze in different ways and witnessed unknown angles of ourselves, our faces, our clothes.

Ms. Moy cannot be human. Only puppets and marionettes had string wound up in them. She is the ultimate toy in a doll’s house, surrounded by our goods.

Ms. Moy settled down in her chair. She walked my body backwards into the other seat. The string separated from our hands and faded as it floated down. Ms. Moy stared at me with dark doe eyes. Only I possess this knowledge about her on this side of the world. She has no one else to confide in.

How may we profit from this at the salon?

*     *     *
Diary entry from Ms. Genevieve Barnum, 1847

We found Afong in Monmouth County, New Jersey. Following the trail of reports and articles, I located her in a widow’s home. We trekked from state to state, county to county, and town to town to find the living puppet.

My agents and I met her in the widow’s home. Afong was short, thin, and wore dark American dress and walked with a cane. I expected something more grandiose. Art prints of Afong rendered her suspended from the ceiling with silver strings as she danced like a puppet, arms and joints flailing.

I never attended her shows. Reading newspaper ads, where she stood holding a fan, were the closest I ever reached her. I purchased shawls and handfans to follow my fellow ladies, after they saw Afong in a museum. I could not fall out with fashion.

I am more Asiatic than her drinking from my Ming porcelain teacups patterned with wispy blue women, while wearing silk shawls and perfume pouches with rose, ginger, and nutmeg scents. Father’s staff can purchase and tailor outfits to adorn her accurately.

Afong is my contribution to Father’s newest museum. I grew up watching him acquiring and exhibiting oddities of humanity, from ancient slaves to dwarfs, without an opportunity to add to his wonderous shows. Now, this is my chance.

*     *     *
P. T. Barnum’s American Museum, from the outside, was sturdy with tall white walls. The nearby buildings were small by comparison. Visitors lined up for entry as horse-drawn carriages unloaded more folks.

In my shows, I dressed as they wanted, even in yellow robes, though it was reserved for the emperor. My skin sweat just sitting every day; New York City’s humidity never changed. The audience asked questions and I answered through an interpreter. I tinkered with objects; I sat and drew scribbles with an inkbrush on sheets of paper. I did not know how to write. Little Brother once took me to his lessons through my strings to learn, but it was too much, too fast.

I had to tolerate this for just one year to secure enough money to voyage to Canton. I would return to my quarters, sew, and wed whoever my parents arranged for me. Before I left that household, I could travel with Little Brother a few more times.

One night, Ms. Barnum entered my room.

“Afong, may I see your strings?”

“No.” I shook my head. I will not let them possess me again; I spent months being touched and controlled by others on stage. So many gawked and hounded me when I was possessed – I danced and sang in tongues I did not know. I was but a puppet among props. I never fought back because I believed, after completing my contract, I would leave this land. But then, one year became two, and I spent eight alone after the profits dwindled and touring finished. It was exhausting enough, if I was normal, to be exhibited, and stared at by strangers for hours every single day. Now, they all knew my secret.

“Perhaps I was unclear.” Ms. Barnum stepped closer. Her blue eyes grew, staring down at me. “This is not a request. This is an order. Do you know enough English to understand the difference?”

I glared up at her. I understood. I trusted Ms. Barnum, Mrs. Obear, and their associates because these ghostly women were with a group of men to reassure me they bore no ill intentions, and yet, the things that happened to me could not have been done without them. I had not heard from Mrs. Obear in almost a decade.

Ms. Barnum grabbed me by the sleeves. Despite kicking at her white skirts, Ms. Barnum loomed over me.

“You are an item in Father’s collection. We shall display you as we see fit. Do you know what happens to defective toys? They are discarded, given away, fixed in a shop. We will replace you, if need be. Where else can you go, Afong?”

She dared to use the ‘a’ honorific without understanding it; they did not respect me, nor would they ever be my friends or family. I headbutted Ms. Barnum’s chest, which sent her stepping backwards. My skull pounded and I fell out of the chair.

Ms. Barnum grabbed my hair. I yelped as the roots were yanked on my scalp.

“If I leave you on the floor, can you stand up?” Ms. Barnum let go of my hair and my head hit the floor. I turned over on my belly and arched my back to look up; this was as far as I mustered. Ms. Barnum was so tall, looming above. She panted from the altercation, yet her fists were curled. Her smile widened, stretching her freckles over flushed cheeks. She was ready to discipline me again, if I resisted. “Be a good doll and no harm will come to you.”

Ms. Barnum’s hand enveloped my face.

*     *     *
This was my life: I moved as Ms. Barnum wanted. I spun in a circle clockwise, then counterclockwise following a dance pattern Ms. Barnum learned as a girl.

“Let her to talk in tongues.”

“Flip her around. Will her feet fall off?”

I was what the advertisements and audience wanted me to be. Perhaps this was why I was cursed; I was made to entertain and sell items. What other choice did I have? I had nothing. My parents never expected me to return home. I was as good as dead to them.

I hopped, hopped across the stage and picked up a tea chest. Bits of tea leaves fell over my clothes as I threw them above myself. Ms. Barnum, seated in the shadows, smiled wide and giggled.

Ms. Barnum did not know, did she? With this connection, I controlled others. The physicians that examined me and Mrs. Obear kept it a secret. What happened if I did as I dared? I had nothing to gain and nothing to lose. When you reached the deepest depth of lonesomeness, what else could you do, other than claw back?

I dropped the tea chest on the floor. My hair and sleeves settled down. I planted my feet on the floor and stayed still. I stitched my white lotus shoes with branches and flower buds embracing it. I was inspired by a springtime view Little Brother once showed me.

Ms. Barnum’s fingers quivered. My strings lie limp on the carpet.

Move. The command rang through me. My right arm tensed as it swayed back and forth, then it stilled, because I willed it. The lights cast a shadow over my face as I turned to Ms. Barnum. Looking with her eyes, my brown irises gleamed as they fixed on the other woman.

“What are you doing?” Ms. Barnum whispered.

“Why do you hide?” My face twisted, baring my teeth as I moved towards Ms. Barnum. Each step of my shoes was a harder, faster stomp.

Ms. Barnum sent commands through the strings, but her words and motions were blocked along the threads. All the strings curled, whipped, and flailed between us. I travelled up those threads and right into Ms. Barnum. She screamed as my presence entered her body. Her heart pounded, her body heated up and panted at the two souls in it. I forced her to stand. Ms. Barnum’s knees wobbled as she tried to sit herself down.

“Oh no you don’t.” I grabbed Ms. Barnum’s hair and arm and hurled her to the stage’s centre.

The audience booed, shouted condemnation, and commanded me to calm myself. Museum staff pushed attendees aside to get to the stage. I only had a few moments before I fled, but I would ensure Ms. Barnum never forgot this moment.

Ms. Barnum's pinky curled; that was all the autonomy she had as I picked up the tea chest and headed towards her. Through the thrashing threads, visions of myself beating Ms. Barnum flashed through our eyes. How could a marionette possess such violent fantasies?

I raised my foot and stomped on Ms. Barnum’s shawl and skirt. We cried out. I fell to my knees as pain shot through our bones. I focused my strength on my hand; my fist clutched the tea chest and it started to crack.

I raised the tea chest. Ms. Barnum’s eyes were wide as my shadowy form loomed above her. I struck her head. Blood and tea leaves flew into the air.