“Àn’ying?”
Hào’yáng’s voice pulls me back to the present. My pulse is racing; I wonder if he senses my guilt.
Selfish, I berate myself.While you were dreaming up foolish fantasies of your heart, Hào’yáng has been thinking of the ongoing war, of his duty as heir to the Kingdom of Rivers.
“Yes,” I blurt out. My voice is loud to my own ears, but I would do anything to forget the image of that crimson cloak, those ink-black eyes and soft grin. I reach for Hào’yáng’s arm, as though to anchor myself. I chase the feeling of familiarity in his warm brown eyes, and my heart settles slightly. “Yes,” I repeat, more gently this time. “Let us be married by nightfall, then.”
This way, at least Ma and Méi’zi can attend my wedding—before we ask them to leave the village and go into hiding.
Hào’yáng nods. In that moment, his expression is not so dissimilar from those of the immortals who raised him: utterly devoid of emotion or empathy, as cold and immovable as the mountains of our realm.
“Good,” he says. “I’ll speak with your mother.”
He turns and makes for Xi’lín, tension in the lines of his shoulders. And as I follow, I feel that my boy in the jade is slipping away from me with every passing moment.
—
Xi’lín is waking when we arrive. Zhu’zhu and Shen’ní stand watch at the pái’fang. Survivors of the Immortality Trials, they are from the Northern Province, where their families perished in the war against the Kingdom of Night. With nothing to return to, they elected to stay behind and fight with us when we escaped the Kingdom of Sky, along with many others. The rest of the surviving candidates chose to get far away from the dangers of the demon-plagued Central Province, returning to their families and loved ones in the outer provinces, where mó presence is scarce.
Hào’yáng stops to fill the warriors in on our encounter with the rogue mó and asks them to rally the villagers for a meeting at my house.
I enter the village first, making for my home at a run. The close brush with the mó has brought back familiar nightmares that used to spin in my head. Ma, lying prone on the ground with Bà’s body next to her as the Higher One—whom I now know to be Sansiran—drinks her soul. The same thing happening to Méi’zi, like that vision the monster known as a painted skin once taunted me with in the Immortality Trials.
A peal of laughter rings through the bright morning air.
I round the corner of Fú’yí’s house, with its stack of firewood for the winter and a fresh vase of yellow dandelions—the last flowers her late husband planted for her before perishing in thewar.
Then there is my house, marked by bright plum blossoms.
My front yard is alive with motion. A little white fox darts around our flowering plum tree, letting out yips of glee. Chasing the fox and squealing with joy is my little sister. As I watch, she lunges and snatches the tip of the fox’s tail. The next moment, the fox is gone and my sister and a young woman dressed in white wrestle on the ground, their laughter ringing in the sweet morning air.
Beneath the plum blossom tree next to the house, reclining in an old bamboo chair, is my mother. Autumn sunlight dapples her complexion as she watches all this with a faint smile.
My steps slow; my heartbeat settles. Suddenly, my panic seems outsized.
“Méi’zi! I thought you were washing the rice,” says an older woman who rounds the house from our backyard with a washcloth and a pail of water. Fú’yí, our widowed neighbor who helped take care of my family in the years of the war, sets the pail by Ma—and catches sight of me. “Ah, Àn’ying! You’re back.”
Méi’zi glances up. “Jie’jie!” she shouts, and erupts into giggles as Lì’líng—our fox spirit halfling friend from the Trials—tickles her.
“They’ve been at it for the past half hour.” A tall figure peels away from the wall of my house. Tán’mù’s eye bags are darker than ever, but her normally somber expression has softened over the past few days. Her nostrils flare and her eyes narrow as she scents the blood on my shoulder—which is now hidden beneath a cloak. “What happened?”
I lower my voice so that Méi’zi and Lì’líng’s play fighting washes over my words. “Mó.”
Fú’yí is crossing the yard to greet me; her expression tightens as she overhears our quiet conversation. “Where?” she asks in an undertone.
“The Pearl’s Claw River.” I turn to Tán’mù, who is less familiar with our geography, and explain: “A half day’s journey by foot—but we flew.”
“Dead?” she asks calmly.
“Gone.” I can’t bear to look at Méi’zi, Lì’líng, and my mother in the yard as I say, “It’s not safe to stay here much longer.”It never was. Never will be, unless we win this war.“We’ve called for a meeting with the villagers now, to discuss an evacuation plan.”
“Jie’jie!” A small figure barrels into me, nearly knocking the breath from my lungs.
I find myself smiling as I hug my little sister, burying my face in her hair. She smells of sunlight, of blossoms and earth and everything good in this world.
I wonder how many more times I will hold her like this.
A sharp yipping bark sounds at my heels, and I laugh as Lì’líng nips at my thigh. She and Méi’zi have become practically inseparable since we arrived back at the village.
