Sky rummaged for a handkerchief he did not have, before looking helplessly at me. “Don’t stay out of pity,” he said. In a softer voice: “You owe me that much.” Hesitantly, he put his hand on my shoulder. When I did not recoil, he drew me to him and pressed his lips to my forehead. Then, just as quickly, he released me, creating deliberate distance between us.
We’d been through so much together. He had been the first man to ever hold me, to save me, to love me. He had been the first one to believe in me, to tell me I could succeed in a man’s world. But in the stories of our lives, we were not each other’s happy ending.
I wished with all my heart he would find his.
I began to cry in earnest now, great, shoulder-racking sobs. Sky looked past me with an imploring air, and then a new embrace caused me to break down completely.
“Mei Mei,” said Xiuying, patting me on the back. “Don’t cry so hard. It’s unbecoming.”
I snorted through my tears, and she laughed with me, holding me as she used to. We clung to each other, feeling for scars old and new. It was hard to say what could have dragged us apart if not for Rouha and Plum diving into our midst, trying to worm themselves between us. I looked for Uncle Zhou beyond them, but Xiuying told me quietly he had passed during the Day of Terror, when the veil between realms had split in two. Father too was gone, though I could not quite bring myself to mourn him. “He was much more docile,” said Xiuying generously, “toward the end of his days.”
“Did a spirit kill him?” I asked. “Or a soldier?”
“Neither,” she laughed, but there was no resentment to it. “He passed in his sleep. So it goes,” she said with a shrug.
Talk of death reminded me of other matters. I spun toward Sky, who stood with his men. “Did you get Kuro out?” I asked, recalling the haunted, faraway look in his eyes toward the end. “We had a good run,” he’d told me. “But I’m ready to move on.”
Sky shook his head, his expression strained. “I couldn’t find him,” he said. He paused, glancing at a tall, brown-haired soldier behind him and adding, “I looked for him, and Winter too.”
“Winter?” I repeated in confusion, before the truth sank into me like a stone in water. How could I have forgotten? Winter had joined us in the in-between realm, though it had not been part of the plan. It had been his qi we’d required to seal the rift, his boundless, uncorrupted qi that had given us the life force needed to rebalance the veil to equilibrium.
I would never fully understand why he’d done it.
“Winter—is gone?”
Out of all of us, Winter was the one I most believed would survive. He had never sought battle, never chased glory or honor in war. He had no need to make a name for himself, nor would he let pride or greed lure him into a reckless bargain with a spirit. Winter had cherished his life, had desired nothing more. He had taught me what it meant to live with contentment.
I had imagined Liu Winter outlasting the rest of us—growing old with Captain Tong, playing his guqin to the delight of the flowers, the trees, the moon, and the stars. He would have been someone who brought gentleness and beauty no matter where he went.
But that life, as lovely as it could have been, was gone. He, who had never made a pact with a spirit, who bore no blame for the veil’s collapse, had given his own life to restore it. And now he was gone.
There was no justice in war.
Sky nodded. “He’s gone,” he repeated quietly.
“Sky…”
At the tightness around his eyes, I wanted so badly to hold him, to comfort him, to say anything that could ease his suffering. But with my happy memories of him came other, less happy ones. And I knew that my comfort was not what Sky needed.
“You should go,” he said, turning away. “Only a few days have passed, but you don’t have much time left. It could take weeks to find the eternal spring, if not months.”
Zhuque’s eternal spring. Meilin—I—had been seeking that spring. To sever my connection to the spirit realm, and to heal my corrupted qi. I grasped my jade, which pulsed hot against my palm. Qinglong had not sought me out, neither here nor in the spirit realm. I did not know what had happened to him, and I did not particularly care to find out.
“Your qiisweak,” said Xiuying gently. “You should make haste.” She restrained Rouha and Plum, preventing them from using me as a climbing frame. “What did I tell you?” she chided them.
Rouha spoke as if reciting a command: “We need to let Jie Jie go.”
“But when will we see her again?” asked Plum, pouting.
“She’ll come back, when she’s ready,” said Xiuying.
“If you take too long,” said Rouha to me, “I’ll come and find you.”
Xiuying scowled in disapprobation, but I only smiled, squeezing Rouha’s little hand. Her bright eyes and gap-toothed grin brought memories of another, bittersweet ones, for Lily had passed. I told myself it was what she wanted—to learn how to fight. I had given those girls swords and trained them for battle, and now the world would live with the consequences. Already the Black Scarves were composed of one-third women. But that meant those young women would live and die by the sword. That they would assimilate into a man’s world, rather than carve out a place of their own.
I tugged on Rouha’s braids. “You’re growing up so fast, little one.”
Rouha grinned up at me. “Just you wait. I’m going to become the best swordswoman the Three Kingdoms have ever known. And then I’m going to become a jinshi scholar.”
