Chapter 10
The soles of my boots pressed flatly against the even, paved ground of the Moon Cloud Monastery’s courtyard.
It was late morning, the air eerily breezeless and temperate.
A low-pitched bell rang from the heart of the temple, the only source of movement in the otherwise empty space.
Behind the white walls enclosing the residence, the forest’s blooming boughs interrupted the pale blue of the sky.
I turned and saw the moon gate of the monastery entrance. The wooden doors were closed, despite the daylight.
Strange.
Again, I faced the temple, scanning for signs of life. But my sister didn’t appear at the doors to greet me, and I didn’t hear Baba’s humming echoing inside the corridors. Neither were there shoes outside the prayer hall to suggest the presence of worshipers.
Unnerved, I stepped forward, peach staff held tightly by my side.
As I crossed the yard to the temple, I thought, This can’t be real.
It must be a trick. And yet I could smell the sunlit stones beneath me, the freshness of the forest around the monastery, the faint scent of rain.
When I touched the prayer hall’s doorframe, the wood was coarse, the faded paint peeling easily beneath my fingernail.
Had Yuyan somehow transported me home? If so, how was it already springtime, when autumn had just begun?
I was walking along the veranda to access the eastern wing behind when I heard the chilling sound of weeping.
It was a familiar cry, one I’d heard before when sleeping beside my sister in the bed we shared.
Lilan occasionally experienced nightmares, no matter how she disguised her fears with a cheerful demeanor.
Thoughts flying to the worst possible scenario, I quickened my footsteps and followed the sound, which seemed to be coming from Baba’s bedroom.
My sister’s weeping grew louder. At last, I reached the room, the answer to Lilan’s grief hidden behind closed windows and a wall of wood and stone.
I paused at the door, suddenly terrified to enter—to see my father’s lifeless body sprawled across the bed. Was I too late?
The need to know overpowered my dread. I gripped the small, flower-shaped handle and pulled the door open.
The crying immediately stopped.
I stared at the chamber, empty of anything but the familiar furnishings—dressers, stools, Baba’s bed shoved against the wall. No, not entirely empty. There, covered by a white sheet, a figure lay, unmoving, on the bed.
I swallowed nervously, my disquiet returning as a noxious brew in my stomach. I approached the figure, breathless, my free hand reaching out toward the thin linen sheet.
The fabric ripped away in one swift motion, my pulse faltering at the body before me.
I knew that face, knew the moonlike shape, the narrow nose, the full lips now pale and dry.
I stared at the slender, work-worn fingers laid peacefully over the woman’s stomach, the loose black hair falling starkly against her white robe like old blood on snow.
Those fingers had once combed through my own locks, twisting them back into elaborate braids and adorning them with wildflowers.
Mama.
A female voice hummed in my ears; I recognized the lullaby my mother used to sing, a song about caterpillars and grapes.
Entranced, I leaned forward again, still staring at Mama’s bloodless face. My fingers whispered against her cold cheek. This wasn’t merely an illusion—it was a memory, one I’d fought so hard to suppress.
“Forgive me, Mama,” I whispered. “I couldn’t save you.”
I jolted as a hand snatched my wrist. The peach staff clattered to the floor. My eyes flicked to Mama’s, now open and glaring. The pressure on my wrist tightened, my bones threatening to snap like twigs.
“You couldn’t save me,” Mama rasped. “So you killed me instead.”
“What? No!” I grabbed my mother’s hand and tried to yank myself free. Pain, hot as heated metal, shot up my arm. “Let me go! Please, Mama!”
“Selfish children must be punished.” My mother rose to a sitting position and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her grip never loosening.
She no longer looked like the woman I’d known.
Her cheeks were hollow, her eyes big and bulbous.
Grease pressed down on her tangled hair, and a putrid stench fumed from her mouth.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I cried, knees buckling. I slowly backed from the bed, but my mother only followed, looming over me with loathing in her eyes.
“You took my life,” Mama hissed, “and you’ll take your father’s too. You are a selfish, selfish child, Siying. How will you pay for your sins?”
“Let go of me!” I screamed through tears. “Please, I beg of you! You’re hurting me!”
“A small price for the suffering you caused me.”
I clawed at my mother’s fingers again. “I’m sorry,” I wept. “I’m so sorry.”
Whatever retort Mama had to give was interrupted by another voice coming from somewhere else in the residence. A frightened male voice.
“Mistress Kang! Where are you? Mistress Kang!”
Distracted, my mother slackened her hold enough for me to wrench back my wrist. I jerked toward the door, grabbing my staff on the way, and stumbled from the room.
“Ren,” I gasped, sprinting in the direction of the temple. Footsteps thumped from behind. I squeezed my staff and ran harder.
“Mistress Kang!” His volume fluctuated, as if he were in motion. He had to be in the front courtyard. “Can you hear me? Kang Siying—”
His voice cut off just as I crossed the prayer hall to the main door. Feet pounding down the stoop, I frantically scanned the open yard for the prince. But no one was there.
“Ren!” I called.
Nothing.
Instead, Mama’s voice sounded from behind. “Kang Siying!”
I yelped as fingers touched my hair. Too terrified to face my mother again, I lunged toward the monastery gate without looking back. At my push, the wooden doors creaked open, and I tumbled not down a forest-flanked flight of stairs but into the inner courtyard of Jing Mansion.
I fell hard on my knees, palms pressed against the polished wood of the veranda facing the courtyard.
Still panting from fear and adrenaline, I lifted my eyes to stare at the sight before me.
Where it had once been deserted and cloaked in shadow, the courtyard was now illuminated by silk lanterns strung along the walls and in the trees, the latter flourishing with new plums. Braziers fringed the pathways, firelight dancing across the moon-white gravel that lined the veranda.
More stunning than the lights were the people milling about in fine clothing and sparkling ornaments.
They chatted and sipped on wine as dancers floating in gossamer performed on a square platform in the courtyard center.
Nearby, musicians artfully plucked the strings of their guzhengs, their harmony accompanying the dancers’ graceful movements.
Silk-dressed children played at the edge of the revelry, spinning wooden tops and shoving star-shaped sugars into their mouths. The greasy aroma of braised pork, stir-fried clams, and roasted duck wafted out from an open window, scraping the walls of my empty stomach.
I bit my lip and focused on the lanterns flickering nearest me, the colorful patterns casting kaleidoscopic flowers on the ground. This must be a memory born of Yuyan’s rage. Which meant she was close by.
“Lovely party, isn’t it, Lady Yuyan?”
I jolted, then turned to see the jiangshi herself standing at the edge of the courtyard, observing the festivities with a mixture of disinterest and scorn.
Except she wasn’t a jiangshi, not yet. The cream of her throat was untouched by blood, and she wore a gleaming violet dress that looked newly made.
Hovering at her elbow was a younger girl with one too many gold baubles shivering in her hair.
“It’s even gaudier than all the others,” Yuyan said in response to the girl’s comment.
The girl blushed and stammered, “Well—the Jings are hosting a special guest tonight, aren’t they? I hear he’s a powerful friend from Sian. He and your husband seem quite close.”
Yuyan’s dark eyes narrowed, and I followed her gaze to a pair of men chatting with an older couple beneath a plum tree.
The taller man appeared to be in his early thirties.
Despite his extravagant clothes, he had handsome features and a kind face, and he was immersed in the conversation.
Yuyan’s husband, Jing Ruchang, I guessed.
My attention moved to his companion, who was decked in a robe of blue silk.
Silver phoenixes flew across the hem of his skirt and sleeves.
A simple matching guan crowned his topknot, pierced through with an elegant pin.
Though his dress was no more lavish than the other guests’, there was a regal air about his person that marked him from the crowd.
When he turned his face toward me, I nearly gasped.
Ren.
But this man was around ten years older, with wider shoulders and more angular features. His expression was also more guarded.
Liqin. Ren’s older brother. It couldn’t be anyone else. But what was he doing here?
Looking back at Yuyan, it was difficult to tell which man she held more contempt for. Fist clenched around the fan in her hand, she brusquely said, “Excuse me,” and stepped toward the men.
I stood to follow her, staying out of her line of sight even though I was certain she couldn’t see me. This was merely a memory, after all. Everyone here was long dead.
The older couple was walking away just as we reached the plum tree. Jing Ruchang turned at Yuyan’s approach, a confident smile gracing his lips.
“Yuyan!” he greeted, gesturing at Liqin. “Come, meet our esteemed guest.”
Yuyan bowed her head, expression flat. “Your Highness.”
Ruchang glanced around, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. Sure that no one was close enough to listen, he spoke quietly. “Yuyan, there’s no need for that here. We don’t want to draw unwanted attention.”