“Then you must enlist with this next draft. We’re to leave for the South by week’s end.”
“You misunderstand me, sir. I have an exemption.”
The captain’s lip twists up into a sneer. “What’s the meaning of this? It’s every man’s sacred duty to serve the emperor.”
“I understand, but—”
“Are you a cripple?” he asks dryly.
My fists ball up tight, my nails digging sharply into my palms. “No.”
“Infirm?”
“No.”
“A monk?” The captain takes a step forward, leaning into my space. His breath reeks abhorrently of garlic and sour milk. “Or, perhaps, are you a coward?”
Anger bubbles just below the surface of my skin. “I’m no monk,” I answer.
And then I promptly strike him across the face.
The captain stumbles back, clutching his jaw in surprise. He trips over his own boots, flailing as would a newborn goat, landing with a weighty thud.
“How dare—”
We run too quickly for him to finish his sentence, leaving the soldiers in our dust. The young woman and I don’t stop until weround the corner and are well out of view. She gives me a bow, her cheeks a light pink.
“Thank you,gege. That man wouldn’t leave me alone.”
“No need to thank me,” I reply with an easy chuckle. “Best be on your way now.”
“Right, of course.”
With one last quick bow to one another, we go our separate ways.
Where did you sneak off to this morning?” my mother asks from the other room.
I’m in the kitchen preparing the leftover congee from last night, which I kept simmering above a low flame as we slept. It’s as tacky as it is tasteless, but at least it’s filling. I was unable to treat A-Ma to a helping of quail eggs today, as the purchase from Doctor Qi cleaned out my pockets. I won’t complain about having to resort to plain porridge, however, if it means my mother will finally get a reprieve from her constant coughing fits.
“Just to the markets,” I lie, keeping my tone light. The last thing I want is to worry her. “I thought I’d grab us a snapper for dinner, but I learned the fishermen won’t be bringing a fresh haul until tomorrow. Figured I should wait until then.”
“Good thinking,” she replies. “No sense in paying for week-old trout.” She sits at one of the teahouse’s many empty tables, a flat cushion beneath her as she pours us both a serving of tea. Her thinning black hair, oily and in need of a wash, is pulled up into a loose bun. I would take her to the public baths if only she had the energy to walk there and back.
I busy myself over the counter, my back facing toward her, as I quietly and quickly shake one of the scales out of the vial and into the base of a stone mortar. It’s an enchanting thing, truly moreakin to a precious gem than a medicinal ingredient. It seems a pity to reduce such a thing to dust. Alas, I still pick up the stone pestle and grind away, holding my breath as small, brilliant sparks crackle inside the mortar.
Magic.
“Sai?” my mother calls. “Do you need a hand?”
I have no time to marvel at the glittering green dust. I hastily dump everything into her bowl of congee and mix it in thoroughly, topping both our meals off with a bit of green onion to disguise any discoloration. I join her at the table, kneeling on the bamboo floor as I set the food down before her.
“Enjoy,” I say. “Make sure to eat every bite.”
“You know I rarely have an appetite these days.” She picks up her spoon and takes a sip of her congee.
And then another, and another, and another, until—miracle of miracles!—she has polished off the entire bowl.
The effects are immediate.
