She pales. The corners of her lips lift in a semblance of a smile. She points to the envelope. “Go ahead. I’ll give you some privacy.”
She heads for the deck. His first instinct is to go after her, but what about when he has caught up with her? What then?
He drops back slowly onto the bench and it’s another minute before he can open the envelope. It contains four strips of film. He picks up one and holds it to the light.
It’s the orca. He’s always thought it a female, judging by the shape of its dorsal fin. And it appears he’s correct: She is swimming with a beautiful calf by her side, mother and daughter frolicking while several pod mates play in the background.
His vision blurs instantly with unshed tears.
The next film strip has his mother in every frame, standing before a wall of books, reading in an easy chair, writing at a desk, and rearranging books on a shelf. She is obviously older than she was in that photograph he’d hidden, yet she looks not just younger, but healthier and happier.
Tears sting the back of his eyes again. The Potentate might not agree that women shouldn’t be taught to read, but he does not want them to read too much. Ren remembers promising her that once he had his own place, he would bring her new books with every visit—and leave with the same number of books so that to the casual observer, her paltry collection would appear unchanged, at least in quantity.
But now she has so many books, hers to own and to enjoy freely.
Nin, his sister, features in the following strip, studying, standing outside a classroom, stirring the contents of a beaker, and eating in a canteen surrounded by her friends. Four years ago, he wouldn’t have recognized her if he and their mother hadn’t been in the frame. But this time, her face has changed again and she looks so much like their mother.
So much like him.
The last strip contains images of the two women together, cooking, talking, sitting side-by-side in a garden, browsing the wares in an alley lined with small shops.
His tears fall.
It’s possible that after he moved out of the palace to his own house, he was able to obtain permission for them to visit once in a while. But all he can remember is being a boy, watching helplessly as his mother yearned for the wider world, for the ability to walk down a street by herself.
He wipes at his eyes. It was all he ever wanted for them, that they should live free and safe.
He studies the film strips again, drops them back into the envelope, and opens the nearest sketchbook to tuck the envelope inside. Lady Sun must have reordered the stack because now the topmost volume is the first one. And when he lifts its cover, he is greeted with the image of a woman, her hair and dress flying, on a raft. The raft recedes and recedes, until it has disappeared among the stars.
He used to think that he had the Wandering Sailor search for a spouse rather than a parent or a sibling as a matter of plausible deniability, in case unfriendly parties discovered his little story. But now…
He closes the sketchbook and goes out on deck. The few navigation lights barely illuminate the bow, where she stands, her hair a dark, wind-blown banner, but they shed enough light on the water for him to see her raft, gliding not far away alongside his vessel.
She’s not leaving, is she?
She extends a tiny glass in his direction. “Congratulations, prince.”
She did not have anything in her hands when she left the lounging area just now. Did she bring the glass—and the bottle of rice liquor at her feet—on deck when he was sleeping? He sometimes does that, takes his boat out at night and nurses a drink by himself: Somewhere in the world, someone must be looking up at the same bejeweled sky and feeling the same impossible longing.
He gazes at her, this silhouette at the edge of his boat, her features visible only as muted star gleam and deep shadows. Then he asks, so quietly he can barely hear, “Are you the woman on the raft?”
ChapterTwelve
Ten years ago
Lanzhou wakes up groggy, barely able to open her eyes. The sun has risen, but the day is dim—a huge cloud bank clogs the eastern horizon. Another morning at sea—except she’s on land. On a beach with one blanket underneath her and another pulled over her naked body.
Memories of the night before rush back. They made love feverishly, trying to keep tomorrow at bay. But tomorrow is here and he is no longer in her arms.
At least he’s only a few steps away, already in his uniform, searching in the sand. A little farther away, something bubbles on his camping stove.
“What are you looking for?” she asks sleepily.
He glances at her and peers back down at the sand, as if he doesn’t know how to face her now that they’re no longer attached everywhere. “Your buttons. May I have them?”
She recalls him ripping open her dress and the buttons flying every which way. She sits up and rubs her eyes. “You want them as mementos?”
“Yes.”
