Zhi Lan’s mind jumped to the magistrate’s threat. “Did Magistrate Bu hire you? I-I don’t want to die, I didn’t do anything wrong! My master and I are working on the painting as we speak. I promise we’ll—”
He climbed onto the bed, clamping his hand over her mouth again, and pinned her to the far wall with his body, his limbs hard and unyielding.
Zhi Lan squeaked, her eyes watering both from fear and his stench. Through the blur of her tears, she caught sight of his eyes. Pale, parchment beige with stark black pupils. Terrible demon’s eyes that she’d recognize anywhere.
It was the dirty thief who had stolen Master Dan’s painting.
Anger replaced her fear. Then, she was struck with a stupid thought. The thief in his horrible, dusty thieves’ clothes was on herclean bed, boots and all! How dare he!
“Hmmmph!” Zhi Lan said.
And skies, his fingers stank! Her brothers used to mess with her in the same way, pressing their dirty hands over her nose and mouth after they had spent hours doing farm work. Regretfully, there was only one way to repel them.
Without thinking, Zhi Lan stuck out her tongue and licked the thief’s palm.
“What are you—?”
He retracted his hand, scrunching his eyebrows as he stared at the shiny spot of saliva on his skin.
Zhi Lan spat the salty, greasy taste out of her mouth and gasped for air, though she only got a lungful of the thief’s scent, as he still hadn’t let go of her. He smelled like forest and sweat and smoke. And that horrible duck grease again. “Apologize!”
He stared.
“Apologize...right...now. This is no way to treat a woman, you horrible, smelly criminal!”
To her embarrassment, tears blurred her vision once more and her shoulders began to shake with sobs. She was tired and hungry and certainly didnotwant to fight for her life at the moment. Of course it was just her luck to have the thief who had started this series of unfortunate events come to her room and rob her of a good night’s rest along with everything else in her life.
“I...apologize. Please stop crying.”
The thief slowly released her and sat back on the bed, settling his hands on his knees. He was still blocking her escape, but at least he wasn’t manhandling her anymore. His eyes were terrifying, but they held no expression. No anger, no desire. They were strangely...blank.
Zhi Lan sniffled and wiped her eyes with her sleeves, unsure of what to make of this strange turn of events.
“What’s your name?” the thief said.
“N-Nong Zhi Lan.”
He nodded slowly. “A farmer’s name.”
“It is.” She swallowed and hugged her knees to her chest. “Are you here to steal more? I-I ought to call the guards on you.”
Those blank eyes studied her. “Tell me, Miss Nong, why does it matter to you if a rich magistrate becomes a little less rich?”
Zhi Lan raised her chin. If he was willing to philosophize with her, perhaps he possessedsomegentlemanly qualities. “It doesn’t,” she said. “But my master and I are under Magistrate Bu’s patronage. That painting you stole is the sole reason we’re here. His lordship intended to add it to his collection. And now that it’s gone, he’s threatening tohangus! This is all your fault!”
Then she’d be dead. Or if Master Dan found some way to save her, she’d have to go back to her parents in the village with nothing to show for her efforts. Her brothers would tease her relentlessly for her failed pursuits and she’d be a burden to Ma and Ba. She’d be too weak to be useful around the farm and too proud to make money by any other means but her own. She’d mourn Master Dan and wish she could’ve done something for him—anything.
This miserable train of thought brought fresh tears to her eyes.
“I don’t see how the magistrate’s bad temper is my fault,” the thief said.
Zhi Lan scowled. Perhaps he was not so gentlemanly after all. “We might die without that painting!”
The thief blinked slowly. “Then you ought to find a more practical line of work.”
Her face heated. “You’re one to talk, you petty thief!”
“Mine is a lucrative field,” he said calmly. “What good are artists and scholars? You wear the same white robes and wax poetic about ridiculous things. A painting from one master is indistinguishable from the next. You paint the same mountains, the same birds. You find meaning where there is none. At the end of the day, art is for thieves like me to profit from, and for the rich to feel superior.”
