Chapter 8
It was yet another morning after her obligatory lessons with Lady Shen. Yun-si slipped through the garden like a shadow, darting through Clear Mountain Lodge’s gates, then between the potted orchids and the scholar’s rock to Yun-shan’s study.
It had been two weeks since Qing-he had arrived, wounded and wary, and in that time, Yun-si had become something of a fixture in Clear Mountain Lodge. Or at least, as much of a fixture as one could be when sneaking in like a thief.
Yun-si had absolutely no excuse to be here during the day when her brother was away.
But after that first frosty evening visit, she’d realized he disapproved of her lingering.
Perhaps he feared his maiden sister might be corrupted by the pugilistic world, or perhaps it was simply improper.
Whatever the reason, she’d taken to these covert daytime visits while he was occupied at the Ministry.
The first few visits had been awkward. Qing-he remained guarded, her fingers twitching toward the sword hilt even when Yun-si was only pouring tea.
But slowly, like coaxing a stray cat with bits of fish, Yun-si wore her down.
A shared pot of red date tea and pastries here, some interesting huabens there, and before long, they were laughing together like long-lost sisters.
Qing-he was a puzzle, and Yun-si loved puzzles.
She was the same age as Yun-si, but carried herself with the weight of someone who had seen far more of the world’s sharp edges. There was a sadness in her eyes, the kind that lingered like ink stains on paper, no matter how hard you tried to blot it out.
Yet at the same time, she had this earnestness, this childlike directness that made her silk-draped world of cultivated smiles feel false by comparison.
Qing-he didn’t hold back words or emotions.
She didn’t hide behind fans or fake smiles.
If she read something sad, she cried, and if she liked the way Yun-si described the autumn leaves, she’d asked to hear it again, her bright eyes fixed on Yun-si’s face like she was memorizing the words.
It was refreshing. Like cracking open a window in a stuffy room and letting in a gust of wind that smelled of fresh rain and grass.
Yun-si pushed open the door to the inner courtyard, the hinges whispering in protest. Qing-he was already there, dressed in Yun-shan’s old clothing again.
A sword—no, a saber, she knew the difference now—lay across her knees, its blade catching the sunlight as she wiped it down with slow, methodical strokes.
“You’re late,” Qing-he said without looking up. “I was starting to think you’d given up after falling on your face yesterday.”
“It was the hem!” Yun-si protested, but she was laughing at the memory of her own clumsiness. “You’re the one who insisted on teaching me that side kick. I’m a writer, not a warrior!”
“You’re a terrible writer if you can’t even describe a fight scene properly,” Qing-he shot back, but there was no real heat in it.
She set the saber aside and stretched her arms overhead, wincing slightly as her shoulder pulled.
“Come on. Let’s try again. Slowly this time.
Unless you’d rather I read your manuscript and point out all the places your heroine’s swordplay is physically impossible again. ”
It was on the fifth day of these secret lessons that Yun-shan found them.
Yun-si heard the gate creak first and her blood turned to ice.
Qing-he stiffened beside her, her hand already reaching for the blade propped against the tree.
But it was too late. Yun-shan stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable, his robes still immaculate despite what must have been a long morning at the ministry.
The late afternoon sun haloed him, gliding him in gold. His expression made her stomach drop.
Yun-shan’s gaze flicked between them, both looking as guilty as children caught with their hands in the candy jar.
“Yun-si,” he said, his voice dangerously calm, “this is not a training ground.”
She swallowed. “I—I was just—”
“You may take your leave now.”
Yun-si gathered her skirts and threw Qing-he a desperate look—I’m sorry, I tried—before fleeing.
She closed the gate carefully behind her, then tiptoed to the side of the gate, pressing her ear against the wall, listening.
Praying her brother wouldn’t throw Qing-he out for corrupting his little sister.
“Qing-he,” she heard Yun-shan say, his voice gentler now, almost weary. “Your wounds reopened and you were bleeding again last night.”
“I’m fine. I hate sitting still.” Even through the wall, she could hear the frustration in Qing-he’s voice.
Yun-shan exhaled sharply. “And I hate watching you hurt yourself.”
“I’m not fragile!”
“No,” her brother’s voice grew quiet. “But you’re not invincible either.”
For a long moment the silence stretched.
“...I’ll rest.” Qing-he’s voice was softer than Yun-si had ever heard it. “Please. Don’t be angry.”
Yun-si covered her mouth with both hands to keep from gasping aloud. Her brother—
She rose on unsteady legs and crept away.
“Third Sister!”
Yun-si started, nearly jumping out of her skin.
“Did you just come from Big brother’s residence? I’m taking this little fox to him to see if he can help it. It’s injured.” Yun-hai gently stroked the fox in his arms.
Yun-si forced a smile. “Come, Yun-shan. Big brother is busy. I’ll take a look at the little fox.”
She did not wait for his protest but gently steered him away from Clear Mountain Lodge.
The fox in Yun-hai’s arms was red with a white-tipped tail.
A silver-white patch of fur in the shape of a crescent moon marked its forehead, as if it had been marked by the moon itself.
It was all sharp bones beneath its pelt, one leg bent wrong, a half-healed gash along its side.
Yet its golden eyes burned bright, tracking Yun-si with unsettling awareness.
“Where did you find it?” asked Yun-si.
“I heard her call last night. So I grabbed my sword and went into the woods to find her. Two big foxes had her cornered, but I fought them off.” He tried to mime the sword slashes one-handed for emphasis, then caught himself and dropped the hand quickly back to cradle the fox before it slipped.
Yun-si let the part about him charging alone into the woods at night pass without comment—there was no point.
Yun-hai had been racing toward danger since before he could properly walk, and scolding him about it accomplished nothing beyond making him more determined to do it again unsupervised next time.
“You heard it,” she said instead, slowly. “From inside the house. At night.”
“Mm-hm.”
“The woods are nearly half a li from your window.”
“I know.” He said this without any apparent awareness that it should be strange, already absorbed in resettling his grip on the fox. “I almost thought I dreamed it. But I knew it was real, so I went.”
Yun-si stared at him. You knew it was real. As if that settled the matter entirely—no surprise that he’d heard a single fox’s cry through walls and across half a li of forest in his sleep, only the calm certainty that having heard it, he was obligated to act.
Wu. Eldest sister had said the Wu blood runs in Yun-hai too.
“Let’s give it some bone broth in the kitchen first,” she said carefully. “Before we bother Big brother.”
Yun-hai lit up, already turning toward the kitchens. Over his shoulder, the fox’s gaze flicked to hers before turning away, nose tucking into his elbow.