I quickly stomp the thought down. As I turn away from them, one of the other girls’ voices rings out: “Say, Xi’xi, do you know what he stole, anyway?”
“You’ll never believe it.” Number Five—Xi’xi—lowers her voice. “I heard it from one of the guards.” She pauses, and the words drift to me through the sound of rain. “He stole a sewing kit.”
17
Blood roars in my ears. The rain, the willows, the soft conversation of the girls, all peel away from me.
A sewing kit.
The information strings everything together: fragments of memories I have not paid heed to until this very moment.
A seamstress.His cajoling tone as he tried to tease out my past life.Did I guess true?
No. I just like to sew.
I thought it was part of the magic of this realm that gifted me a sewing kit. But I remember the night we went out to the sea, how I felt his gaze on the gloves I’d sewn for Méi’zi, the way he guided me to walk on water.Can you think of it as sewing? Each current of energy is a thread being stitched, and you simply have to stitch the opposite way, in tune.
This is the part of me that I haven’t even shown to Méi’zi or Ma or Bà after our kingdom fell, for fear of disappointing them—that they would think for a moment I was unhappy in giving up my needles and threads to learn to protect them.Somehow, in a few short weeks, Yù’chén has glimpsed the girl who once wished to sew oceans.
For the crime of theft.Jing’xiù’s voice echoes in my mind. The crack of each lash against Yù’chén’s back, the silence in which he bore them. The slight movement to his hands as he searched for something to hold on to afterward.
The Spring of Healing Essence is in the remotest corner of the gardens. The downpour of rain roars in my ears as I run, but I don’t care. I know where I’m going.
I round an outcrop of jagged rocks, and the hot spring comes into view, its waters steaming gently despite the rain and the cold. Red petals are strewn across its surface, gilded by the lambent light of lanterns in a nearby pavilion.
Beneath a cluster of willows and flowering cherry trees, Yù’chén leans against a boulder, his eyes closed. Steam curls his hair, and he has shed his crimson cloak and black shirt to bare his skin. My mouth goes dry at the sight of his back. Between his corded muscles, the flesh is shredded and red. The lash wounds are already closing, perhaps from the healing energy of the spring and the demonic magic that runs in Yù’chén’s veins.
He opens his eyes as I approach, but he doesn’t look at me. His expression is walled off as it was back in the Hall of Radiant Sun. “Come to tell me I deserved it?”
A hundred questions and words tumble through my mind, yet I know that if I speak them aloud, everything between us will come crashing down.
“I came to ask if your crane reached Méi’zi,” I say. My voice is tight, my fists clenched.
His lashes flutter. He looks exhausted.
“What do I get if I tell you?” His voice is low, harsh, and hetips his head back, closing his eyes with a sigh. “What can you offer me, little scorpion?”
I swallow, thinking of the first time he spoke those words to me. What could he want that I wouldn’t give? I would give my flesh and blood to ensure Méi’zi’s safety. I would give my soul to save hers.
But I realize that this isn’t just about Méi’zi anymore.
I owe him. I owe him more than I can imagine.
“I’ll give you whatever you want,” I whisper.
Yù’chén’s eyes crack open a sliver. They flash red as he assesses me. Through the steam, I can make out traces of darkness threading his skin: his demon’s ichor, running through his veins, likely helping him heal.
Abruptly, he says, “Your life energy. I’ll take some of your life energy to help me heal faster.”
I swallow. “Fine,” I say. “First, show me.”
He reaches for his cloak, laid out on the bank, and pulls out a feather that seems to shimmer between silver and shadow. He blows on it.
The feather dissolves into light and darkness, swirling together to become an orb. Within, a scene forms, and I bite down a gasp. It’s my house! Everything is slightly stretched and fuzzy, and I realize I am looking through the crane’s eye as we soar down to the front door. My breath catches, and I actually reach forward, as though I can step into the feather’s magic and transport myself back home.
The shadowcrane lands. In the predawn light, I see the gleam of the wards that I’ve put up around the house. The bird cocks its head, then turns to the old plum tree. Carefully, it places my gloves next to its trunk.
Then it flies behind the tree and settles in to wait.
